ARE YOU MY WIFE?
BY THE AUTHOR OF “PARIS BEFORE THE WAR,” “NUMBER THIRTEEN,” “PIUS VI.,” ETC.
CHAPTER IX.
And now a new life began for Franceline.
“You must fly from idleness as from sin,” Father Henwick said; “you must never let a regret settle on your mind for an instant. It will often be hard work to resist them; but we are here to fight. You must shut the door in the face of idle thoughts by activity and usefulness. I will help you in this. You must set to work amongst the poor; not so as to fatigue yourself, or interfere with your duties and occupations at home, but enough to keep you busy and interested. At first it will be irksome enough, I dare say; but never mind that. By and by the effort will bring its own reward, and be a pleasure as well as a duty.”
He sat down and wrote out a time-table for her which filled up every hour of the day, and left not one moment for brooding. There were visits to the cottages and a class for children in the morning; the afternoon hours were to be devoted to helping her father, writing and copying for him, sometimes copying MSS. for Father Henwick, with no other purpose than to keep her mind and her fingers occupied.
But when the excitement caused by this change in her daily routine subsided, something of the first heart-sinking returned. Do what she would, thought would not be dumb. The external activity could not silence the busy tongues of her brain or deafen her to their ceaseless whisperings. It was weary work staggering on under her load, while memory tugged at her heart-strings and dragged its longings the other way. It was hard not to yield to the temptation now and then of sitting down by the wayside to rest and look back towards the Egypt that was for ever out of sight. But Franceline very seldom yielded to the treacherous allurement. When she caught herself lapsing into dreams, she would rise up with a resolute effort, and shake off the torpor, and set to work at something. When the torpor changed to a sting of anguish, she would steep her soul in prayer—that unfailing opiate of the suffering spirit, its chloroform in pain.
One day, about three weeks after Father Henwick’s return, she was coming home through the wood after her morning’s round amongst the cottages. She was very tired in mind and body. It was dull work dinning the multiplication-table into Bessy Bing’s thick skull, and teaching her unnimble fingers to turn the heel of a stocking; to listen to the widow’s endless lamentations over “the dear departed” and the good old times when they killed a pig every year, and always had a bit of bacon on the rack. Franceline came to the old spot where she used to sit and listen to the concert of the grove. The songsters were nearly all silent now, for the green was turning gold; but the felled tree was lying in the same place, and tempted her to rest a moment and watch the sun shooting his golden shafts through the wilderness of stems all round. Another moment, and she was in dreamland; but the spell had scarcely fallen on her when it was broken by the sound of footfalls crushing the yellow leaves that made a carpet on every path. She started to her feet, and walked on. A few steps brought her face to face with Father Henwick. He greeted her with a joyous exclamation.
“Here comes my little missionary! What has she been doing to-day?”
“She has achieved a great conquest; she has arrived at making Bessy Bing apprehend the problem that seven times nine and nine times seven produce one and the same total,” replied Franceline with mock gravity.
Father Henwick laughed; but the tired expression of her face did not escape him.
“I am afraid you will be growing too conceited if this sort of thing goes on,” he said. “But you must not overdo it, my dear child; it won’t do to wear yourself out in gaining arithmetical triumphs.”
“Better wear out than rust out.” And Franceline shrugged her shoulders; she had learned the expressive French trick from her father.
The priest bent his clear eyes on her for a second without speaking. She read, disappointment, and perhaps mild reproach, in them.
“I am sorry I said that, father; I did not mean to complain.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because it was cowardly and ungrateful.”
“To whom?”
“To you, who are so kind and so patient with me!”
“And who bids me be kind? Who teaches me to be patient with you?—poor little bruised lamb!”
“I know it, father; I feel it in the bottom of my heart; but one can’t always be remembering.” There was the slightest touch of impatience in her tone.
“How if God were some day to grow tired of remembering us, and bearing with us, and forgiving us?”
“I know. But I am not rebelling; only sickening and suffering. You have told me there was no sin in that?” The words came tremulous, as if through rising tears; but Franceline raised her head with a defiant movement, and forced the briny drops down. “I cannot help it!” she continued impetuously; “I have tried my best, and I cannot help it!”
Father Henwick heaved an almost inaudible sigh before he said: “What cannot you help, Franceline? Suffering?”
“No! I don’t care about that! Remembering I cannot forget.”
“My poor child! would to God I could help you! I would suffer willingly in your place!” The words came like a gush from his inmost heart. They broke down the sufferer’s proud resistance and let the tears have vent. He turned to walk back with her. For some time neither spoke; only the soft sobs that came unchecked from Franceline broke the temple-like stillness of the wood. Suddenly she cried out in a tone of passionate desperation: “O father! it is dreadful. It will kill me if it lasts much longer! The humiliation is more than I can bear! To feel that I am harboring a feeling that my whole soul rebels against, that is revolting in the eyes of God and of my conscience! And I cannot master it!”
“You will never master it by pride, Franceline; that very pride is your greatest hindrance in setting your heart free. Try and think more of God and less of yourself. There is no sin, as you say, in the suffering, any more than, if you strayed to the edge of a precipice in the dark, and fell over and were killed, you would be guilty of suicide. The sinfulness now is in your rebellion against the suffering simply because it wounds your pride.”
“It is not all pride, father,” she said meekly. Presently she turned and looked up at him through wet lashes. “Father, I must tell you something,” she said, speaking with a sort of timidity that was unusual with her towards him—“a thought that came to me this morning that never came to me before.…”
“What was it?”
“If his wife should die … he would be free?”
A dark shadow fell now on Father Henwick’s large, smooth brow. Franceline read his answer in the frown and the averted gaze; but he spoke soon, though he did not look at her.
“That was a sinful thought! You should have cast it behind you with contempt. Has it come to that with you, that you could look forward to the death of any one as a thing to be longed for?”
“I did not long for it. The thought came to me.”
“You should have hunted it out of your mind like an evil spirit, as it was. You must never let it near you again. He should be to you as if he were already dead. Whether his wife dies or not should not, and does not, concern you. Besides, how do you know whether she is not as young as yourself, and stronger? My child, such a thought as that would lead you to the brink of an abyss, if you listened to it.”
“I never will again, father,” she answered promptly. “I hardly know now whether I listened to it or not; only I could not help telling you.”
“You were right to tell me; and now banish it, and never let it approach you again.”
After a pause he resumed:
“You are sure that silence is best with M. de la Bourbonais?”
“Oh! yes. How can you ask me, father?” And Franceline looked up in surprise.
“Yet it cannot remain a secret from him for ever; he is almost certain to hear of it sooner or later, and it might save him a severe shock if he heard it from you. It would set his mind at rest about you?”
“It is quite at rest at present on that score. He has no idea that the discovery would be likely to affect me.”
“You are better able to judge of that, of course, than I am. But it grieves me to see you have a secret from your father; I wish it could be avoided.”
“But it cannot; indeed it cannot!” she repeated emphatically. “You may trust me to speak, if I thought it could be done without injury to both of us. It is much better to wait; perhaps by the time it comes to his ears I may be able to hear him speak of it without betraying myself and paining him.”
Father Henwick acquiesced, but reluctantly. He hoped she was right in supposing M. de la Bourbonais quite blind to what had been so palpable to a casual observer. But, making even the fullest allowance for the absent-minded habits of the studious man, this seemed scarcely probable. Franceline had affirmed it herself more confidently, perhaps, than was warranted. She had, however, succeeded in lulling her father into forgetfulness of his former conjectures and impressions; she was certain of this. It had been done at a terrible price of endurance and self-control; but she had succeeded, and it would be doubly cruel now to revive his suspicions and let him know the truth.
“I will trust you,” said Father Henwick; “it is indeed a mercy that he is not called upon to bear such a trial while he is yet so unprepared.”
There was an earnestness about him as he said this that would have caused Franceline a deeper emotion than curiosity if her mind were not fixed wide of the mark. She replied after a moment’s reflection: “If anything should occur to make it necessary to tell him, will you break it to him, father?”
“I will,” said the priest simply.
Franceline had not the least fear of Father Henwick. The severity of his passionless brow did not frighten her; it never checked the outflow of the thoughts and emotions that came surging up from her own perturbed heart. He seemed too far removed from strife himself to be affected by it, except as a pitying angel might, looking down from his calm heaven on poor mortals struggling and striving in the smoke and din of their earthly battle-field.
“Father,” said Franceline suddenly, “I wish I cared more for the poor! I wish I could love them and pity them as you do; but I don’t. I’m so shy of going amongst them. I’m sure I don’t do them any good, and they don’t do me any good, they’re so prosy and egotistical—most of them, at least.”
He turned an amused, indulgent smile on her.
“There was a time when I thought so too; but persevere, and the love will come after a little while. All that is worth having is bought with sacrifice. Oh! if we could only understand the blessedness of sacrifice! Then we should find the peace passing all understanding that comes of passion overcome, of sorrow generously accepted!”
He held out his hand to say good-by. Franceline laid hers in it; but did not remove it at once. “Father,” she said, with her eyes lifted in childlike fearlessness to his, “one would think, to hear you speak of passion overcome and sorrow accepted, that you knew something about them! I sometimes wish you did. It would make it easier to me to believe in the possibility of overcoming and accepting.”
A change came over Father Henwick’s face for one moment; it was not a cloud nor a tremor, but the shadow of some deep emotion that must pass away before he could answer. Then the words came with grave simplicity, and low, as if they were a prayer:
“Believe, then, my child, and take courage; I have gone through it all!”
He turned and walked back into the wood. Franceline stood looking after him through gathering tear-drops. Never had he seemed so far above her, so removed from human weakness, as at this moment, when he so humbly acknowledged kindred with it.
A pleasant surprise met Franceline on her return home. Sir Simon was at The Lilies, and loudly expressing his indignation at not finding her there to greet him. She arrived, however, before he had quite divested himself of a cargo of small boxes which he had carried down himself in order to have the delight of witnessing her curiosity and pleasure in their contents. There was hardly any event which could have given her so much pleasure in her present frame of mind as the sight of her kind old friend; and she satisfied him to the full by her affectionate welcome and her delight in all his presents. He had not forgotten her favorite friandise—chocolate bonbons—and she set to nibbling them at once, in spite of Angélique’s protest against such a proceeding close on dinner-time.
“Va, petite gourmande!” exclaimed the bonne, tramping off to her kitchen, in high glee to see Franceline’s gayety and innocent greediness over the dainty.
Sir Simon was, if possible, in brighter spirits than ever; like Job’s friends, he was “full of discourse,” so that there was nothing to do but listen and laugh as the current rippled on. He had a deal to tell about his rambles in the Pyrenees, and a whole budget of adventures to retail, and anecdotes about odd people he had come across in all sorts of out-of-the-way places. Nothing checked the pleasant flow until M. de la Bourbonais had the unlucky inspiration to inquire for Lady Rebecca’s health; whereupon the baronet raised his right hand and let it fall again with an emphatic gesture, shook his head, and compressed his lips in ominous silence. Raymond, who held the key of the pantomime, gathered therefrom that Lady Rebecca had for the six-and-thirtieth time rallied from the jaws of death, and plunged her long-suffering heir once more into dejection and disappointment. He knew what was in store for his private ear, and heaved a sigh. “But the present hour shall be a respite,” Sir Simon seemed to say; and he quitted the subject abruptly, and proceeded to catechise Franceline on her behavior since his departure. He was surprised and annoyed to find that she had been to no parties; that nothing more exciting than that short visit to Rydal had come of his deep-laid scheme with the dowager; and that there had been no rivalry of gallant suitors attacking the citadel of The Lilies. He had been rather nervous before meeting her; for, though it had been made quite clear to him by Raymond’s letters that he had received no crushing blow of any description, Sir Simon had a lurking fear that recent events might have left a deeper shadow on his daughter’s existence than he was conscious of. Her aspect, however, set him at ease on this score. He could hardly have lighted on a more favorable moment for the confirmation of his sanguine hopes regarding Franceline’s heart-wholeness. True, she had been crying, only half an hour ago, bitter, burning tears enough; but her face retained no trace of them, and it still held the glow of inward triumph that Father Henwick’s last words had called up into her eyes, and her cheeks had got a faint color from the rapid walking. Sir Simon breathed freely as he took note of these outward signs; he could indulge in a little chaffing without remorse or arrière-pensée. He wanted to know, merely as a matter of curiosity, how many hearts she had broken in his absence—how many unfortunates had been mortally struck as they passed within reach of her arrows on the wayside. Franceline protested that she carried no quiver, and had not inflicted a scratch on any one. Humph! Sir Simon invited her to convey that answer to the marines.
“And how about Ponsonby Anwyll? Has he been here lately?”
“No; he called twice, but papa and I were out.”
“Poor devil! so much the better for him! But he won’t have the sense to keep out of harm’s way; he’ll be at it again before long.”
Franceline gave one of her merry laughs—she was in a mood to enjoy the absurdity of the joke—and went to take off her things; for Angélique put in her head to say that dinner was ready.
Things fell quickly into their old course at the Court. There was a procession of morning callers every day, and pleasant friendly dinners, and a few men down in relays to shoot. Sir Simon insisted on M. de la Bourbonais coming to join them frequently, and bringing Franceline; he had established a precedent, and he was not going to let it drop. Franceline, on the whole, was glad of the excitement; she was determined to use everything that could help her good resolutions; and the necessity for seeming to enjoy soon led to her doing so in reality. After the stillness of her little home-life, filled as it was with restless voices audible to no ear but hers, the gay stir of the Court was welcome. It was a pleasurable sensation, too, to feel herself the object of admiring attentions from a number of agreeable gentlemen, to be deferred to and made much of, as if she were a little queen amongst them all. Sir Simon was more indulgent than ever, and spoiled her to his heart’s content. Father Henwick, who was kept au courant of what was going on, could not find it in his heart to oppose what seemed to be an innocent diversion of her thoughts.
It was, therefore, anything but a welcome break when Lady Anwyll came down one morning, accompanied by Sir Simon, to announce her intention of carrying off her friend the next day to Rydal. Franceline fought off while she could, but Sir Simon pooh-poohed her excuses about not liking to leave her father, and so forth; he was there now to look after him, and she must go. So she went. Rydal had a dreadful association in her mind, and she shrank from going there as from revisiting the scene of some horrible tragedy. She shrank, too, from leaving her father. Of late they had been more bound up in their daily life than ever; she had coaxed him into accepting her services as an amanuensis, and he had quickly grown so used to them that he was sure to miss her greatly at his work.
There was nothing, moreover, in the inmates of Rydal to compensate her for the sacrifice; they were not the least interesting. It was always the same good-natured petting from Lady Anwyll, as if she were a kitten or a baby. She knew exactly what the conversation would be—gossip about local trifles, about the family, especially Ponce, his boots, his eccentricities, his pet dishes, his pranks in the regiment; the old tune played over and over again on the same string. As to Ponce himself, Franceline knew the big hussar already by heart; he would do his best to be entertaining, and would only be awkward and commonplace. Nothing at Rydal, in fact, rose above the dead-level of Dullerton.
The dowager had some few young people in for a carpet-dance, in which Franceline had to take her part, and did without any repugnance. Dancing brought back certain memories that pierced her like steel blades; but her heart was proof against the thrusts, and she defied them to wound her. Lord Roxham was invited, and showed himself cordial and friendly, but nothing more. He said he had been called away to London soon after they last met, or else he would have profited by M. de la Bourbonais’ permission to call at The Lilies; he hoped that the authorization might still hold good.
“Oh! yes; do come. I shall be so glad to see you,” was the frank and unaffected reply.
Lady Anwyll had meantime felt rather aggrieved at Lord Roxham’s behavior. Her little scheme had gone off so swimmingly at first she could not understand why it had suddenly collapsed in its prosperous course, and come to a dead halt. At any rate, she would give him one more chance. The young legislator seemed in no violent hurry to improve it. He danced a couple of times with Franceline, and once with two other young girls, and then subsided to dummy whist with the rector of Rydal and his wife, leaving Franceline to the combined fascinations of Mr. Charlton and Ponce, who usurped her between them. The latter bestowed such an unequal share of a host’s courtesy on the young French girl, indeed, that his mother felt it incumbent on her to explain to the other young ladies that Mlle. de la Bourbonais was a foreigner; therefore Ponce, being so good-natured, paid her particular attention. And he certainly did—not only on that occasion, but while she remained. He was continually hovering about her like a huge overshadowing bird whose wings were always in the way of its movements. He tripped over footstools in attempting to place them under her feet; but then he was always so thankful that it was himself, not her, he nearly upset! He spilt several cups of tea in handing them to her, and was nearly overcome with gratitude when he saw the carpet had got the contents, and that her pretty muslin frock was safe! He would hold an umbrella open over her because it looked so uncommonly like rain; and it was such a mercy to have only spoiled her bonnet and made a hole in her veil, when he might so easily have run the point into her eye. Ponce, like many wiser men, had endless satisfaction in the contemplation of the blunders he might have committed and did not. Yet, with all his boyish awkwardness, Franceline was growing very fond of him. He was so thoroughly kind-hearted, and so free from the taint of conceit; and then there was an undeniable enjoyment in the sense of being cared for, and thought of, and watched over; and it was all done in a naïve, boyish way, and with a brotherly absence of compliment or constraint that left her free to accept it without any sense of undue obligation, or the fear of being called upon to repay it except by being pleased and grateful. When he followed her into the conservatory with a shawl and wrapped it round her unceremoniously, she looked up at his fresh, honest face, and said, almost as if he had been a woman: “I wish I had you for a brother, Captain Anwyll!” He got very red, and was fumbling somewhere in his mind for an answer, when his mother called to him for the watering-pot; Ponce seized it, and, dashing out a sudden shower-bath upon the dowager’s dress, narrowly escaped drenching Franceline’s. But it did escape. What a lucky dog he was!
How pleasant it was riding home in the fresh afternoon! Lady Anwyll came in the carriage, while Franceline and Capt. Anwyll cantered on before. Nothing was likely to have happened at The Lilies during her absence; but as they drew near she grew impatient and rode at a pace, as if she expected wonderful tidings at the ride’s end. The air was so clear that Dullerton, yet a mile off, sent its hum of life towards the riders with sharp distinctness. The panting of the train, as it moved out of the station, sounded close by; every street cry and tinkling cart-bell rang out like a chime. Soon the soft cooing of the doves came wafted above the distant voice of the town; and when the travellers came within sight of The Lilies, the flock flew to greet Franceline, wheeling round high up in the air several times before alighting on her shoulders and outstretched wrist. Then came her father’s delighted exclamation, as he hurried down the little garden-walk, and Angélique’s affectionate embrace. And once more the small, still home-life, that was so sweet and so rich in a restored joy, recommenced. Franceline devoted hours every day now to working with her father, and soon she became almost as much absorbed in the work as he was. Sometimes, indeed, she hindered rather than helped, stopping him in the midst of his dictation to demand an explanation; but Raymond never chided her or grudged the delay. Her fresh young eyesight and diligent, nimble hand were invaluable to him, and he wondered how he had got on so long without them.
Lord Roxham redeemed his promise of calling at The Lilies. He talked a good deal to Raymond about politics and current events, saying very little to Franceline, who sat by, stitching away at some bit of plain sewing. This was just what she liked. Her father was entertained and interested. A breeze from the outer world always refreshed him, though he was hardly conscious of it, still less of needing any such reviving incident in his quiet, monotonous existence; but Franceline always hailed it with thankfulness for him, and was well content to remain in the shade now while the visitor devoted himself to amusing her father. Was it fancy, or did she, on glancing up suddenly from her needle-work, detect an expression, half compassionate, half searching, in Lord Roxham’s face, as he looked fixedly at her? Whether it was fancy or not, her eyes fell at once, and the blood mantled her cheek; she did not venture to let her gaze light on him again, and it was with a sense of shyness that she shook hands with him at parting.
Ponsonby Anwyll was now a frequent visitor at The Lilies, sometimes coming alone, sometimes with Sir Simon; and it was a curious coincidence, if quite accidental, that he generally made his appearance as Franceline was on the point of starting for her ride; and as he was always on horseback, there was no conceivable reason why he should not join the party. The burly hussar was a safer companion in the saddle than in the drawing-room; he rode with the masterly ease of a cavalryman, and, the road being free from the disturbing influence of tea-trays and chairs, he spilt nothing and upset nobody, and Franceline was always glad of his company. She was too inexperienced and too much absorbed in other thoughts to forecast any possible results from this state of things. Ponsonby continued the same familiar, kind, brother-like manner to her; was mightily concerned in keeping her out of the bad bits of road, and out of the way of the cattle that might be tramping to market and prove offensive to her mettlesome pony. He never aimed at making himself agreeable, only useful. But the eyes of Dullerton looked on at all this brotherly attention, and drew its own conclusion. The Langrove young ladies, of whom somehow she had of late seen less than ever, grew excited to the highest pitch about it, and were already discussing how many of them would be bridemaids at the wedding, if bridemaids there were. Most likely Sir Simon would settle that and probably give the dresses. Even discreet Miss Merrywig could not forbear shaking her finger and her barrel curls at Franceline one day when the latter hurried off to get ready for her ride, with the excuse that Sir Simon and Capt. Anwyll were due at three o’clock. But Franceline knew by this time what Dullerton was, and what it could achieve in the way of gossip; spinning a yarn a mile long out of a thread the length of your finger. She only laughed, and mentally remarked how little people knew. They would be marrying her to Sir Simon next, when Ponsonby rejoined his regiment and was seen no more at her saddle-bow.
The three had set out for a ride one afternoon, when, as they were dashing along at full tilt, Sir Simon pulled up with a strong formula of exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” cried Sir Ponsonby, plunging back heavily, while Franceline reined in Rosebud, and turned in some alarm to see what had occurred.
“If I have not actually forgotten all about Simpson, who comes down from London by appointment this afternoon! I dare say he’s waiting for me by this, and he must return by the 5:20. I must leave you, and post home as quick as Nero will carry me.” And with a “by-by” to Franceline and a nod to Capt. Anwyll, coupled with an injunction not to let her ride too fast and to keep her out of mischief, the baronet turned his horse’s head and galloped away, desiring the groom to follow on with the others.
They went on at a good pace until they reached the foot of a gentle ascent, when both of one accord fell into a walk. For the first time in their intercourse Franceline was conscious of a certain vague awkwardness with Capt. Anwyll; of casting about for something to say, and not finding anything. The place was perfectly solitary, the woods on one side, the fields sloping down to the river on the other. The groom lagged respectfully a long way behind, quite out of ear-shot, often out of sight; for the road curved and wheeled abruptly every now and then, and hid the foremost riders from his view. Ponsonby broke the silence:
“Miss Franceline”—he would call her Miss Franceline, because it was easier and shorter—“I have something on my mind that I want badly to say to you. I’ve been wanting to say it for some time. I hope it won’t make you angry?”
“I can’t say till I hear it; but if you are in doubt about it, perhaps it would be safer not to say it,” remarked Franceline, beginning to tremble ominously.
“I wouldn’t vex you for anything in the world! ’Pon my honor I wouldn’t!” protested Ponce warmly. “But, you see, I don’t know whether what I’m going to say will vex you or not.”
“Then don’t say it; you are sure not to vex me then,” was the encouraging advice, and she devoutly hoped he would take it. But he was not so minded.
“That’s true,” he assented; “but then, you see, it might please you. I’m half afraid it won’t, though, only I can’t be sure till I try.” After musing a moment, in obvious perplexity, he resumed, speaking rapidly, as if he had made up his mind to bolt it all out and take the consequences. “I’m not a puppy—my worst enemy won’t accuse me of that; but I’m not a bad fellow either, as my mother and all the fellows in the Tenth will tell you; and the fact is, I’ve grown very fond of you, Miss Franceline, and if you’ll take me as I am I’ll do my best to be a good husband to you and to make you happy.”
He said it quickly, as if he were reciting a lesson got by heart, and then came to a dead halt and “paused for a reply.” He might have paused long enough, if he had not at last turned round and read his fate in Franceline’s scared, white face and undisguised agitation.
“Oh! now, don’t say no before you think it over!” entreated the young man. “I know you’re ten times too good for me; but, for that matter, you’re too good for the best fellow that ever lived. I said so myself to Sir Simon only this morning. But I do love you with all my heart, Franceline; and if only you could care for me ever so little to begin with, I’d be satisfied, and you’d make me the happiest man alive!”
Franceline had now recovered her self-possession, and was able to speak, though she still trembled.
“I am so sorry!” she exclaimed. “I never dreamed of this; indeed I did not! I dare say I have been very selfish, very thoughtless; but it was not wilful. I am very unhappy to have given you pain!”
“Oh! don’t say that. You’ll make me miserable if you say that!” pleaded Ponsonby. “Of course you never thought of it. It’s great impudence of me to think of it, I have so little to offer you! But if you don’t quite hate the sight of me, I’m sure I could make you a devoted husband, and love you better than many a cleverer fellow. I’ve been fond of you from the first, and so has my mother.”
“You are both very good to me; I am very, very grateful!” The tears rose to her eyes, and with a frank, impulsive movement she held out her hand to him. Ponsonby bent from the saddle and raised it to his lips, although it was gloved. If he had not been over-sanguine at heart and a trifle stupid, poor fellow, he would have felt that it was all over with him. The little hand lay with cold, sisterly kindness in his grasp, and Franceline looked at him with eyes that were too kind and pitying to promise anything more than sisterly pity and gratitude.
“I cannot, I cannot. You must never think of it any more. Do you not see that it is impossible? I am a Catholic!”
“Pshaw! as if that mattered a whit! I mean as if it need make any difference between us! I don’t mind it a pin—’pon my honor I don’t! I said so to the count. We’ve settled all that, in fact, and if he’s satisfied to trust me why will not you?”
“Then you have spoken to my father?”
“Oh! yes; that was the right thing, Sir Simon told me, as he was a Frenchman.”
“And what did he say to you?”
“He said that if you said yes, he was quite willing to give you to me. I wanted to come to settlements at once—I only wish I was ten times better off!—but he would not hear a word about that until I had consulted you. Only, he said he would be glad to receive me as his son; he did indeed, Franceline!” She was looking straight before her, her eyes dilated, her whole face aglow with some strong emotion that his words seemed to have stirred in her.
“You remember,” continued Ponsonby, “that you said to me once you would like to have me for a brother? Well, it will be nearly the same thing. You would get used to me as a husband after a while; you would, Franceline!”
“Never, never, never!” she repeated, not passionately, but with a calm emphasis that made Ponsonby’s heart die within him. He could not find a word to oppose to the strong, quiet protest.
“No, it is all a mistake,” said Franceline. “I don’t know who is to blame—I suppose I am. I should not have let you come so often; but you were so kind, and I have so few people to care for me; and when one is sad at heart, kindness is so welcome! But I should have thought of you; I have been selfish!”
“No, no, you have not been selfish at all; it’s all my doing and my fault,” affirmed the young man. “I wish I had held my tongue a little longer. My mother will come and see you to-morrow; she will explain it all, and how it sha’n’t make any trouble to you, my being a Protestant.”
“She must not come,” said Franceline with decision; “there is nothing to explain. I am sincerely grateful to her and to you; but I have only gratitude to give you. I hope with all my heart that you may soon forget me and any pain I am causing you, and that you may meet with a wife who will make you happier than I could have done.”
Ponsonby was silent for a few moments, and then he said, speaking with a certain hesitation and diffidence:
“I could be satisfied to wait and to go on hoping, if I were sure of one thing:… that you did not care for anybody else. Do you?”
She flashed a glance of indignant pride at him.
“What right have you to put such a question to me? I tell you I do not care for you, and that I will never marry you! You have no right to ask me any more.”
Ponsonby recoiled as if a flash of lightning had forked out of the cold, gray sky. “Good heavens! I did not mean to offend you. I declare solemnly I did not!”
But he had touched a vibrating chord unawares, and set every fibre in her heart thrilling and every pulse throbbing; and the disturbance was not to be laid by any words that he could utter. Franceline turned homewards, and they did not exchange a word until they reached The Lilies and Ponsonby was assisting her to alight.
“Say you forgive me!” he said, speaking very low and penitently.
She had already forgiven him but not herself.
“I do, and I am sorry for being so impetuous. Good-by!”
“And my mother may come and see you to-morrow?”
“No, no! It is no use; it is no use! I say again I wish you were my brother, Sir Ponsonby, but, as you care to remain my friend, never speak to me again of this.”
He pressed the hand she held out to him; the groom backed up to take the reins of her horse, and Ponsonby rode away with a thorn in his honest heart.
Miss Merrywig was within, chatting and laughing away with the count. Franceline was not in a mood to meet the garrulous old lady or anybody; so she went straight to her room, and only came down when the visitor was gone.
“Father,” she said, going up behind him and laying a hand on each shoulder, “what is this Sir Ponsonby tells me? That you are tired of your clair-de-lune, and want to get rid of her?”
M. de la Bourbonais drew down the two trembling hands, and clasped them on his breast, and lifted his head as if he would look at her.
“It would not be losing her, but gaining a son, who would take care of her when I am gone! She has not thought of that!”
“No; and she does not wish to think of it! I will live with you while I live. I don’t care to look beyond that; nor must you, petit père. But I am very sorry for Sir Ponsonby. You must write and tell him so, and that he must not come any more—until he has forgotten me; that you cannot give me up.”
“My cherished one! Let us talk about this matter; it is very serious. We must not do anything rashly.” He tried to unclasp her hands and draw her to his side; but she locked them tighter, and laid her cheek on his head.
“Petit père, there is nothing to talk about; I will never marry him or anybody!”
“My child, thou speakest without reflection. Captain Anwyll is a good, honorable man, and he loves thee, and it would be a great comfort to me to see thee married to him, and not to leave thee friendless and almost penniless whenever God calls me away. I understand it has taken thee by surprise, and that thou canst not accept the idea without some delay and getting used to it; but we must not decide so important a matter hastily. Come, sit down, and let us discuss it.”
“No, father,” she answered in a tone of determination that was quite foreign to her now, and reminded him of the wilful child of long ago; “there is no use in discussing what is already decided. I will never marry Ponsonby—or anybody. Why, petit père, do you forget that he is a Protestant?”
“Nay, I have forgotten nothing; that has been all arranged. He is most liberal about it; consents to leave you to … to have everything your own way in that respect, and assures me that it shall make no difference whatever to you, his not being of your religion.”
“No difference, father! No difference to a wife that her husband should be a heretic! You cannot be in earnest. What blessing could there be on such a marriage?”
“But you would soon convert him, my little one; you would make a good Catholic of him before the year was out,” said M. de la Bourbonais. “Think of that!”
“And suppose it were the other way, and that he made a good Protestant of me? It is no more than I should deserve for my presumption. You know what happens to those who seek the danger.…”
“Oh! that is a different thing; that warning applies to those who seek it rashly, from vain or selfish motives,” protested Raymond, moving his spectacles, as he always did instinctively when his argument was weak; and he knew right well that now it was slipping into sophistry.
“I cannot see anything but a selfish motive in marrying against the express prohibition of the church and without any affection for the person, but simply because he could give you a position and the good things of this life,” said Franceline.
“The prohibition is conditional,” persisted Raymond, “and those conditions would be scrupulously fulfilled; and as to there not being the necessary affection, there is enough on his side for both, and his love would soon beget thine.”
“Father, it is no use. I am grieved to contradict you; but I cannot, cannot do this to please you. You must write and say so to Capt. Anwyll; you must indeed.”
Raymond heaved a sigh. He felt as powerless as an infant before this new wilfulness of his clair-de-lune; it was foolish as well as imprudent to yield, but he did not know how to deal with it. There was honest truth on her side; no subterfuges could baffle the instinctive logic of her childlike faith.
“We will let things remain as they are for a few days, and then, if thou dost still insist, I will write and refuse the offer,” he said, seeking a last chance in temporizing.
“No, petit père; if you love me, write at once. It is only fair to Sir Ponsonby, and it will set my mind at rest. Here, let me find you a pen!” She chose one out of a number of inky goose-quills on the little Japan tray, and thrust it playfully between his fingers.
The letter was written, and Angélique was forthwith despatched with it to the pillar at the park gate.
During the remainder of the afternoon Franceline worked away diligently at the Causes of the French Revolution, and spent the evening reading aloud. But M. de la Bourbonais could not so lightly dismiss the day’s incident from his thoughts. He had experienced a moment of pure joy and unutterable thankfulness when Ponsonby had come in and stammered out his honest confession of love, and pleaded so humbly with the father to “take his part with Miss Franceline.” The pleasure was all the greater for being a complete surprise. Sir Simon had cautiously resolved to have no hand in negotiating between the parties; he had let things take their course from the first, determined not to interfere, but clearly foreseeing the issue. Raymond was bewildered by Franceline’s rejection of the proposed marriage. He did not try much to explain it to himself; it was a puzzle that did not come within the rule and compass of his philosophy—a young girl refusing to be married when an eligible husband presented himself for her father’s acceptance. He heaved many a deep sigh over it, as his anxious gaze rested on the golden-haired young head bent over the desk. But he did not ask any questions.
Sir Simon came down next morning in high displeasure. He was angry, disappointed, aggrieved. Here he had been at considerable pains of ingenuity and forethought to provide a model husband for Franceline, a young fellow whom any girl ought to jump at—high-principled, unencumbered rent-roll, good-looking, good-tempered—and the little minx turns up her nose at him, and sends him to the right-about! Such perverseness and folly were not to be tolerated. What did she mean by it? What did she see amiss in Anwyll? Sir Simon was for having her up for a round lecture. But Raymond would not allow this. He might groan in his inmost heart over Franceline’s refusal, but he was not going to let her be bullied by anybody; not even by Sir Simon. He stood up for his child, and defended her as if he had fully approved of her conduct.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Bourbonais, you’re just as great a fool as she is; only she is a child, and knows nothing of life, and can’t see the madness of what she is doing. But you ought to know better. I have no patience with you. When one thinks of what this marriage would do for both of you—lifting you out of penury, restoring your daughter to her proper position in the world, and securing her future, so that, if you were called away to-morrow, you need have no care or anxiety about her! And to think of your backing her up in rejecting it all!”
“I did not back her up in it. I deplore her having done so,” replied Raymond. “But I will not coerce her; her happiness is dearer to me than her interest or my own.”
“What tomfoolery! As if her interest and her happiness were not identical in this case! A man who is fond of her, and rich enough to give her everything in life a girl could wish for! What does she want besides?” demanded Sir Simon angrily.
“I believe she wants nothing, except to be left with her old father. She does not care for Capt. Anwyll,” said Raymond; but his French mind felt this was very weak argument.
“The devil she doesn’t! Who does she care for?” retorted the baronet. But he had no sooner uttered the words than he regretted them; they seemed to recoil on him like a stone flung too near. He seized his hat, and, muttering impatiently something about the nonsense of giving into childish fancies, etc., strode out of the cottage, and did not show himself there for several days.
He was pursued by that question of his own, “Who did Franceline care for?” and made uncomfortable by the persistency with which it kept dinning in his ears. He had made up his mind long ago that the failure of his first matrimonial plot had had no serious effect on her heart or spirits. She was looking very delicate when he came back, but that was the dulness of the life she had been leading during his absence. She had picked up considerably since then. It was plain to everybody she had; her spirits were better. There was certainly nothing wrong in that direction. How could there be when he, Sir Simon, so thoroughly desired the contrary, and did so much to cheer up the child—and himself into the bargain—and make her forget any impression that unlucky Clide might have made? Still, no matter how emphatically he answered it, the tiresome question kept sounding in his ears day after day. He could stand it no longer. He must go and see them at The Lilies—see Franceline, and read on her innocent young face that all was peace within, and cheer up his own depressed spirits by a talk with Raymond. Nobody listened to him and sympathized with him as Raymond did. He had no worries of his own to distract him, for one thing; and if he had, he was such a philosophical being he would carry them to the moon and leave them there. Sir Simon was blessed with no such happy faculty. He could forget his troubles for a while under the stimulating balm of cheerful society and generous wine; but as soon as he was alone they were down on him like an army of ants, stinging and goading him. Things were very gloomy just now, and he could less than ever dispense with the opiate of sympathetic companionship. Lady Rebecca had taken a fresh start, and was less likely to depart than she had been for the last ten years. The duns, who watched her ladyship’s fluctuations between life and death with almost as sincere and breathless an interest as her heir, had got wind of this, and were up and at him again, hunting him like a hare—the low, grasping, insolent hounds! His revived money annoyances made him the more irascible with Franceline for throwing away her chance of being for ever saved and protected from the like. But he would harp no more on that string.
He had been into Dullerton on horseback, and, overtaking the postman on his way home, he stopped to take his letters, and then asked if there were any for The Lilies. He was going there, and would save the postman the walk that far.
“Thank you, sir! There is one for the count.” And the man held up a large blue envelope, like a lawyer’s letter, which Sir Simon thrust into his pocket. He left his horse at the Court, and walked on through the park, reading his letters as he went. Their contents were not of the most agreeable, to judge by the peevish and angry ejaculations that the reader emitted in the course of their perusal. He had not done when he reached the cottage.
“Here’s a letter for you, Bourbonais; I’ll finish mine while you’re reading it.” He handed the blue envelope to his friend, and, flinging himself into a chair, became again absorbed and ejaculatory.
M. de la Bourbonais, meanwhile, proceeded to open his official-looking communication. He surveyed it with uplifted eyebrows, examined well the large red seal, and scrutinized the handwriting of the address, before he tore it open. His eye ran quickly over the page. A nervous twitch contracted his features; his hand shook as if a string at his elbow had been rudely pulled; but he controlled all further sign of emotion, and, after reading the contents twice over, silently folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. Sir Simon had seen nothing; he was deep in suppressed denunciations of some rascally dun.
“Hang me if I know what’s to be the end of it, or the end of me—an ounce of lead in my skull, most likely!” he burst out, ramming the bundle of offending documents into his coat-pocket. “The brutes are in league to drive me mad!”
“Has anything new happened?” inquired the count anxiously. “I hoped things had arranged themselves of late?”
“Not they! How can they when these vampires are sucking the blood of one? It’s pretty much like sucking a corpse!” he laughed sardonically. “The fools! If they would but have sense to see that it is their own interest not to drive me to desperation! But they will goad me to do something that will make an end of their chance of ever being paid!”
M. de la Bourbonais ought to have been hardened to this sort of thing; but he was not. The vague threats and dark innuendoes always alarmed him. He never knew but that each crisis which called them out might be the supreme one that would bring about their fulfilment. At such moments he had not the heart to rebuke Sir Simon and add the bitterness of self-reproach to his excited feelings. His look of keen distress struck Sir Simon with compunction.
“Oh! it will blow off, as it has done so often before, I suppose,” he said, tossing his head. “Here’s a letter from L—— to say he is coming down next week with a whole houseful of men to shoot. I’ve not seen L—— for an age. He’s a delightful fellow; he’ll cheer one up.” And the baronet heaved a sigh from the very depths of his afflicted spirit.
“Mon cher, is it wise to be asking down crowds of people in this way?” asked Raymond dubiously.
“I did not ask them! Don’t I tell you they have written to invite themselves?”
It was true; but Sir Simon forgot how often he had besought his friends to do just what they were now doing—to write and say when they could come, and to bring as many as they liked with them. That had always been the way at the Court; and he was not the man to belie its old traditions. But Raymond, who had also his class of noble traditions, could not see it.
“Why not write frankly, and, without explaining the precise motive, say that you cannot at present receive any one?”
Sir Simon gave an impatient pshaw!
“Nonsense, my dear Bourbonais, nonsense! As if a few fellows more or less signified that”—snapping his fingers—“at the end of the year! Besides, what the deuce is the good of having a place at all, if one can’t have one’s friends about one in it? Better shut up at once. It’s the only compensation a man has; the only thing that pulls him through. And then the pheasants are there, and must be shot. I can’t shoot them all. But it’s no use trying to make you take an Englishman’s view of the case. You simply can’t do it.”
M. de la Bourbonais agreed, and inwardly hoped he never might come to see the case as his friend did. But, notwithstanding this, Sir Simon went on discussing his own misfortunes, denouncing the rascality and rapacity of the modern tradesman, and bemoaning the good old times when the world was a fit place for a gentleman to live in. When he had sufficiently relieved his mind on the subject, and drew breath, M. de la Bourbonais poured what oil of comfort he could on his friend’s wounds. He spoke confidently of the ultimate demise of Lady Rebecca, and expressed equal trust in the powers of Mr. Simpson to perform once again the meteorological feat known to Sir Simon as “raising the wind.” Under the influence of these soothing abstractions the baronet cheered up, and before long Richard was himself again. He overhauled Raymond’s latest work; read aloud some notes on Mirabeau which Franceline had taken down at his dictation the previous evening, and worked himself into a frenzy of indignation at the historian’s partiality for that thundering demagogue. Raymond waxed warm in defence of his hero; maintained that at heart Mirabeau had wished to save the king; and almost lost his philosophical self-control when Sir Simon called him the master-knave of the Revolution, a traitor and a bully, and other hard names to the same effect.
“I wash my hands of you, if you are going to play panegyrist to that pock-marked ruffian!” was the baronet’s concluding remark; and he flung out his hands, as if he were shaking the contamination from his fingers. Suddenly his eye fell upon the great blue letter, and, abruptly dismissing Mirabeau, he said: “By the way, what a formidable document that is that I brought you just now! Has it anything to do with the Revolution?”
Raymond shook his head and smothered a rising sigh.
“It has been as good as a revolution to me, at any rate.”
“My dear Bourbonais, what is it? Nothing seriously amiss, I hope?” exclaimed Sir Simon, full of alarmed interest.
The count took up the letter and handed it to him.
“Good heavens! Bankrupt! Can pay nothing! How much had you in it?”
“Nearly two hundred—the savings of the last fourteen years,” replied M. de la Bourbonais calmly.
“My dear fellow, I’m heartily sorry!” exclaimed his friend in an accent of sincere distress; “with all my heart I’m sorry! And to think of you having read this and said nothing, and I raving away about my own troubles like a selfish dog as I am! Why did you not tell me at once?”
“What good would it have done?” Raymond shrugged his shoulders, and with another involuntary sigh threw the letter on the table. “It’s hard, though. I was so little prepared for it; the house bore such a good name.…”
“I should have said it was the safest bank in the country. So it was, very likely; only one did not reckon with the dishonesty of this scheming villain of a partner—if it be true that he is the cause of it.”
“No doubt it is; why should they tell lies about it? The whole affair will be in the papers one of these days, I suppose.”
“And you can stand there and not curse the villain!”
“What good would cursing him do? It would not bring back my poor scrapings.” Raymond laughed gently. “I dare say his own conscience will curse him before long—the unhappy man! But who knows what terrible temptation may have driven him to the deed? Perhaps he got into some difficulty that nothing else could extricate him from, and he may have had a wife and children pulling at his conscience by his heart-strings! Libera nos a malo, Domine!” And looking upwards, Raymond sighed again.
“What a strange being you are, Raymond!” exclaimed Sir Simon, eyeing him curiously. “Verily, I believe your philosophy is worth something after all.”
M. de la Bourbonais laughed outright. “Well, it’s worth nearly the money to have brought you to that!”
“To see you stand there coolly and philosophize about the motives that may possibly have led an unprincipled scoundrel to rob you of every penny you possessed! Many a man has got a fit from less.”
“Many a fool, perhaps; but it would be a poor sort of man that such a blow would send into a fit!” returned the count with mild contempt. “But I must not be forgetful of the difference of conditions,” he added quickly. “It all depends on what the money is worth to one, and what its loss involves. I don’t want it at present. It was a little hoard for the rainy day; and—qui sait?—the rainy day may never come!”
“No; Franceline may marry a rich man,” suggested the baronet, not with any intent to wound.
“Just so! I may never want the money, and so never be the poorer for losing it.”
“And supposing there was at this moment some pressing necessity for it—that your child was in absolute need of it for some reason or other—what then?” queried Sir Simon.
Raymond winced and started imperceptibly, as if a pain went through him.
“Thank heaven there is no necessity to answer that,” he said. “We were taught to pray to be delivered from temptation; let us be thankful when we are, and not set imaginary traps for ourselves.”
“Some men are, I believe, born proof against temptation; I should say you are one of them, Bourbonais,” said his friend, looking steadily at him.
“You are mistaken,” replied Raymond quietly. “I don’t know whether any human being may be born with that sort of fire-proof covering; but I know for certain that I was not.”
“Can you, then, conceive yourself under a pressure of temptation so strong as that your principles, your conscience, would give way? Can you imagine yourself telling a deliberate lie, for instance, or doing a deliberate wrong to some one, in order to save yourself—or, better, your child—from some grievous harm?”
Raymond thought for a moment, as if he were poising a balance in his mind before he answered; then he said, speaking with slow emphasis, as if every word was being weighed in the scales: “Yes, I can fancy myself giving way, if, at such a crisis as you describe, I were left to myself, with only my own strength to lean on; but I hope I should not be left to it. I hope I should ask to be delivered from it.”
The humility of the avowal went further to deepen Sir Simon’s faith in his friend’s integrity and in the strength of his principles than the boldest self-assertion could have done. It informed him, too, of the existence of a certain ingredient in Raymond’s philosophy which the careless and light-hearted man of the world had not till then suspected.
“One thing I know,” he said, taking up his hat, and extending a hand to M. de la Bourbonais: “if your conscience were ever to play you false, it would make an end of my faith in all mankind—and in something more.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
QUESTIONS CONCERNING THE SYLLABUS.
DOCTRINAL AUTHORITY OF THE SYLLABUS.
FROM LES ETUDES RELIGIEUSES, ETC.
We enter on a work whose practical usefulness no one, we suspect, will dispute, since it concerns perhaps the most memorable act of the reign of Pius IX.—the Syllabus. There has been a great deal of discussion about the Syllabus—much has been written on it in the way both of attack and defence—but it is remarkable that it has scarcely been studied at all. The remark was made by one of the editors of this review, Father Marquigny, in the General Congress of Catholic Committees at Paris; and, so true was it felt to be, that it provoked the approving laughter of the whole assembly. But to pass by those who busy themselves about this document without having read it, how many are there, even among Catholics, who, after having read it, have only the most vague and confused notions about it—how many who, if they were asked, “What does the Syllabus teach you; what does it make obligatory on you?” would not know what to answer! Thus is man constituted. He skims willingly over the surface of things; but he has no fancy for stopping awhile and digging underneath. If he is pleased with looking at a great many things, he does not equally concern himself to gain knowledge; because there is no true science without labor, and labor is troublesome. Yet nothing could be more desirable for him than to come by this luminous entrance from the knowledge to the possession of truth. Christian faith, when it is living and active, necessarily experiences the desire of it; for, according to the beautiful saying of S. Anselm, it is, by its very nature, a seeker of science—of knowing: Fides quærens intellectum.
But, not to delay ourselves by these considerations, is it possible to exaggerate the importance of the study of the Syllabus in the critical circumstances in which we are placed? The uncertainty of the future; the impossibility of discovering a satisfactory course in the midst of the shadows which surround us; the need of knowing what to seize a firm hold of in the formidable problems whose obscurity agitates, in these days, the strongest minds; above all, the furious assaults of the enemies of the church, and the authority belonging to a solemn admonition coming to us from the chair of truth—all these things teach us plainly enough how culpable it must be for us to remain indifferent and to neglect the illumination offered to us. The teachings of the Vicar of Jesus Christ deserve to be meditated on at leisure. It is this which inspires us with a hope that our work will be favorably received. Truth, moreover, claims the services of all, even of the feeblest, and we must not desert her cause for fear our ability may not suffice for her defence.
Certainly, no one will expect us, here, to give an analytical exposition of the eighty propositions condemned by Pius IX. Several numbers of the Etudes would scarcely suffice for that. General questions dominate all others; it is to the careful solution of these that we shall devote ourselves. They have always appeared to us to need clear and decisive explanation. Often they are incorrectly proposed, oftener still they are ill-defined. The object of our efforts will be to point out with precision the limits within which they must be restrained, the sense in which they must be accepted, and their necessary import; then, to give them, as clearly as we are able, a solution the most sure and the most conformable to first principles. If it should be objected that in this we are entering on a wide theological field, we shall not deny it. Proudhon, who desired anarchy in things, in principles—everywhere, in fact, except in reasoning—averred that rigorous syllogism lands us inevitably at theology. How, then, would it be possible not to find it in the Syllabus? They, on the other hand, who are unceasing in their violent attacks on this pontifical act, are they not the first to provoke theological discussions? We are compelled to take their ground. As Mgr. Dupanloup judiciously observed, in his pamphlet on the Encyclical of the 8th December: “It is needful to recur to first principles in a time when thousands of men, and of women even, in France talk theology from morning to night without knowing much about it.”
The first and fundamental question to be determined is: What is the precise weight to be ascribed to the Syllabus, or, rather, what is its doctrinal authority? On the manner in which we reply to this depends the solution of numerous practical difficulties which interest consciences, and which have more than once been the subject of the polemic of the journals themselves. For example, are the decisions of the Syllabus unchangeable; is it not possible that they should be modified some day; is it certain they will never be withdrawn; are Catholics obliged to accept them as an absolute rule of their beliefs, or may they content themselves with doing nothing exteriorly in opposition to them? It is understood, in fact, that if we are in presence of an act wherein the successor of S. Peter exercises his sovereign and infallible authority, the doctrine is irrevocably, eternally, fixed without possible recall; and, by an inevitable corollary, the most complete submission, not of the heart only, but also of the intelligence, becomes an obligation binding on the conscience of the Catholic which admits of no reserve or subterfuge. If, on the contrary, the step taken by the Pope is merely an act of good administration or discipline, the door remains open for hopes of future changes, the constraint imposed on the minds of men in the interior forum is much less rigorous; a caviller would remain in Catholic unity provided that, with the respectful silence so dear to the Jansenists, he should also practise proper obedience. Now, the question, in the terms in which we have stated it, although treated of at various times by writers of merit, has not always been handled in a complete manner. Writers have been too often contented with generalities, with approaching only the question, and nothing has been precisely determined.
Some have asserted, with much energy, the necessity of this submission, but they have not sufficiently defined its extent and nature. Others have dwelt upon the deference and profound respect with which every word of the Holy Father should be received, but, not having given any further explanation, they have left us without the necessary means for ascertaining what precisely they intended. Others have ventured to insinuate that the Syllabus was perhaps merely an admonition, a paternal advice benevolently given to some rash children, to which such as are docile are happy to conform, without feeling themselves under the absolute necessity of adopting it. Others, more adventurous still, have been unwilling to see more in it than a mere piece of information, an indication. According to these, Pius IX., wishing to notify to all the bishops of Christendom his principal authoritative acts since the commencement of his pontificate, had caused a list of them to be drawn out, and to be forwarded to them. The Syllabus was this illustrious catalogue, neither more nor less.
Is there any excuse to be found for this indecision on one hand, presumption on the other? We do not think so; but they do, we must confess, admit of a plausible explanation. And here, let it be observed, we come to the very marrow of the difficulty. The Syllabus was drawn out in an unusual form. It resembles no pontifical documents hitherto published. When, in other times, the sovereign pontiffs wished to stigmatize erroneous propositions, they did not content themselves with reproducing the terms of them, in order to mark them out for the reprobation of the people. They were always careful to explain the motives of the judgment they delivered, and above all to formulate with clearness and precision the judgment itself. Invariably, the texts they singled out for condemnation were preceded by grave and weighty words, wherein were explained the reasons for and the nature of the condemnation. In the Syllabus, there is nothing of the kind. The propositions, stated without commentary, are classified and distributed under general titles; at the end of each of them we read the indication of the Encyclical Letter, or pontifical Allocution, in which it had been previously rebuked. For the rest, there is no preamble, no conclusion, no discourse revealing the mind or intention of the pontiff, unless it be the following words, inscribed at the head of the document, and which we here give both in the Latin and in English: Syllabus complectens præcipuos nostræ ætatis errores, qui notantur in Allocutionibus consistorialibus, in Encyclicis, aliisque Apostolicis Litteris sanctissimi Domini Papæ Pii IX.—Table, or synopsis, containing the principal errors of our epoch, noted in the consistorial Allocutions, the Encyclicals, and other Apostolic Letters of our most Holy Father, Pope Pius IX.
We may add, that nowhere does the Pope formally express an intention of connecting the Syllabus with the bull Quanta cura, although he issued them both on the same day, at the same hour, under the same circumstances, and upon the same subjects. He left it to the public common sense and to the faith of Christians to decide whether these two acts are to be taken together, or whether they are to be considered as isolated acts having no common tie between them.
Such are the facts. Minds, either troubled or prejudiced, or, may be, too astute, have drawn from them consequences which, if we lay aside accessory details of not much importance here, we may reduce to two principal ones.
It has been stated—and they who hold this language form, as it were, the extreme group of opposers—that the Apostolic Letters mentioned in the Syllabus are the only documents which have authoritative force; that the latter, on the contrary, has no proper weight of its own—absolutely none, whether as a dogmatic definition, or as a disciplinary measure, or even as a moral and intellectual direction. To these assertions, not a little hazardous, have been added others whose rashness would fain be hidden under the veil of rhetorical artifices. We will lift the veil, and expose the naked assertions. The meaning of the Syllabus, it is stated, must not be looked for in the Syllabus, but in the pontifical letters whence it is drawn. The study of the letters may be useful; not only is that of the Syllabus not so, but it is dangerous, because it often leads to lamentable exaggerations. To know the true doctrines of Rome, we must search the letters for them, not the Syllabus. In fact, to sum up all in a few words, as a condemnation of error and a manifestation of truth, the letters are all, the Syllabus nothing.
The other group, which we may describe as the moderates, knows how to guard itself against excess. It does not diminish the authority of the Syllabus to the extent of annihilation. Very far from it—it recognizes it and proclaims it aloud; but, struck with the peculiar form given to the act, it asserts that it is impossible to discover in it the marks of a dogmatic definition, and, to borrow a stock expression, of a definition ex cathedra. The Syllabus, it is said, is undoubtedly something by itself—to deny it would be ridiculous and absurd. It has a weight of its own; who would venture to dispute it? It may be termed, if you please, an universal law of the church, so only that its pretensions be not carried further, and that it does not claim to be considered an infallible decision of the Vicar of Jesus Christ.
What, then, have we to do but to demonstrate that the Syllabus is by itself, and independently of the pontifical acts which supply the matter of it, a veritable teaching; that this teaching obliges consciences because it issues from the infallible authority of the head of the church? We shall not have omitted, it seems to us, any of the considerations calculated to throw light on this important subject if, after having thus followed it through all its windings and discussed all its difficulties, we succeed in illustrating the triple character of the pontifical act—its doctrinal character, its obligatory character, and its character of infallibility.
To assert that Pius IX., when he denounced with so much firmness to the Christian world the errors of our time, did not propose to teach us anything, that he had no intention of instructing us, was, even at the time of the appearance of the Syllabus, to advance a sufficiently hardy paradox; but to state it, to maintain it, at this time of day, when we are the fortunate witnesses of the effects produced by that immortal act, is to speak against evidence. Undoubtedly—we stated it at the commencement—the Syllabus is not sufficiently known nor sufficiently studied. Little known as it may be, however, it cannot be denied that it has already set right many ideas, and corrected and enlightened many minds. Thanks to it, not learned men only and those who are close observers of events, but Catholics generally, perceive more clearly the dangers with which certain doctrines threaten their faith. They have been warned, they keep themselves on their guard, they see more distinctly the course they must follow and the shoals they must avoid. Pius IX. has lighted a torch and placed it in their hands.
That being the case, what is the use of playing with words, as if vain subtleties could destroy the striking evidence of this fact? Let them say, as often as they please, “The Syllabus is only a list, a catalogue, a table of contents, a memorial of previously condemned propositions”—what good will they have done? What matter these denominations, more or less disrespectful, if it be otherwise demonstrated that this list, catalogue, or table of contents explains to us exactly what we must believe or reject, and is imposed upon us as a rule to which we owe subjection. The imprudent persons who speak thus would seem never to have studied the monuments of our beliefs. Had they considered their nature more attentively, would they have allowed themselves to indulge in such intemperance of language? If they would more closely examine them, their illusions would soon be dissipated. Are not all the series of propositions condemned by the Popes, veritable lists? Did not Martin V. and the Council of Constance, Leo X. and S. Pius V., when they smote with their anathemas the errors of Wycliffe, John Huss, Luther, Baïus, draw out catalogues? Are not the canons of our councils tables in which are inscribed an abridgment, summary, or epitome of the impious doctrines of heretics? Is not every solemn definition, every symbol of the faith, a memorial designed to remind the Christian what he is obliged to believe? It is, then, useless to shelter one’s self behind words of doubtful meaning, and which can only perplex the mind without enlightening it. It is to assume gratuitously the air of men who wish to deceive others and to deceive themselves. What is the use of it?
They are much mistaken who imagine themselves to be proposing a serious difficulty when they demand how the Syllabus, which, before its publication, existed already in the letters of the Holy Father, can possibly teach us anything new? Let us, for the sake of argument, since they ask it, reduce it to the humble rôle of echo or reverberator, if we may be pardoned such expressions. Let us suppose that its whole action consists in repeating what has been already said. We ask if an echo does not often convey to the ear a sound which, without it, would not have been heard—if it does not sometimes send back the sound stronger, more resounding, and even more distinct than the original voice? It is not a new voice it brings to us. Be it so. But it does bring it to us in fact, and is able to give it to us again fuller and more sonorous.
Comparison, it is true, is not reason. We will therefore abandon the redundancy of figurative language, and reply directly to the question put to us. What is wanted is to know what the Syllabus is in itself, independently of the pontifical letters which are its original sources. It is as follows:
It is, at least, a new promulgation, more universal, more authentic, and therefore more efficacious, of previous condemnations. Now, it is well known, it is a maxim of law, that a second promulgation powerfully confirms and, in case of need, supersedes the first. The history of human legislation is full of instances of this. When, by reason of the negligence of men, of the difficulty of the times, of the inconstancy or waywardness of peoples, a law has fallen into partial neglect and oblivion, they in whom the sovereign power resides re-establish its failing authority by promulgating it anew. It revives thus, and if it has been defunct it receives a second life. What can the greater number of Christians know of so many scattered condemnations, buried, one may say, in the voluminous collection of pontifical encyclicals, if the Syllabus had not revealed them? How could they respect them, how obey them? It was necessary that they should hear them resound, in a manner, a second time, in the utterance of the great Pontiff, in order to be able to submit anew to their authority, and to resume a yoke of which many of them did not know the very existence. The salvation of the church required this.
The Syllabus is, however, not only a new promulgation, it is often a luminous interpretation of the original documents to which it relates; an interpretation at times so necessary that, should it disappear, from that moment the meaning of those documents would become, on many points, obscure or at least doubtful. It is worthy of remark that in order to deny the doctrinal value of the Syllabus the following fact is relied on—that it is unaccompanied with any explanation, with any reflections. “It is a dry nomenclature,” it has been said, “of which we cannot determine either the character or the end.” Now, it happens to be exactly here that brevity has brought forth light. The eighty-four propositions, in fact, isolated from their context, appear to us more exact, in stronger relief, more decidedly drawn. One may perceive that in the bulls their forms were, as yet, slightly indistinct; here they detach themselves vividly, and with remarkable vigor. And we wish that all our readers were able to judge of this for themselves. They would better understand, possibly, wherefore certain men insist with so much energy on our abandoning the Syllabus and applying ourselves exclusively to the sources—an excellent mode of preventing certain questions from becoming too clear.
We will cite a few examples in illustration of our argument.
The second paragraph of the Syllabus has for its object the condemnation of moderate rationalism. Some of the seven propositions contained in it reproduce the doctrine of a man little known in France, but much thought of in Germany—a kind of independent Catholic, who, before he opposed himself to the church, from which he is now, we believe, quite separated, having transferred his allegiance to the pastoral staff of the aged Reinkens, wrote some works destined to sow among the students of the university of Munich the damaged grain of infidel science. We allude to M. Froschammer, a canon who has lost his hood, professor of misty philosophy, as befits a doctor on the other side of the Rhine. Pius IX. rebuked his errors in a letter addressed to the Archbishop of Munich the 12th December, 1862. We will lay aside the Syllabus, and take merely the letter. We shall find in it only the condemnation of M. Froschammer and his works; nothing whatever else. But who, in this our country, France, has ever opened the works of M. Froschammer? The Catholic Frenchman who might read the letter of Pius IX. knowing nothing of the condemned works, would say to himself: “This Munich professor has doubtless written according to his own fancy; he must have been rash, as every good German is bound to be who loses himself in the shadowy mazes of metaphysics. After all, there is nothing to show that he has written exactly my opinions. Why should I trouble myself about the letter of Pius IX.? It does not concern me.”
Another example. In Paragraph X. we find the same principle of modern liberalism enunciated in the following manner: “In this our age, it is no longer expedient that the Catholic religion should be considered as the only religion of the state, to the exclusion of all others.” “Ætate hac nostra, non amplius expedit religionem Catholicam haberi, tanquam unicam status religionem, cæteris quibuscumque cultibus exclusis.” The document to which we refer is a consistorial Allocution pronounced the 26th July, 1855, and it commences with these words, Nemo vestrum. What is this Allocution? A solemn protest against the criminality of the Spanish government, which, in contempt of its word and oath, of the rights of the church and the eternal laws of justice, had dared to perjure itself by abrogating, of its own single authority, the first and second articles of the concordat. Pius IX., full of grief, speaks in these terms: “You know, venerable brethren, how, in this convention, amongst all the decisions relative to the interests of the Catholic religion, we have, above all, established that this holy religion should continue to be the only religion of the Spanish nation, to the exclusion of every other worship.” The proposition of the Syllabus is not expressed in any other way in the Allocution. A man of great ability, or a scientific man, taking into account the facts, and weighing carefully the expressions of the Pontiff, might perhaps detect it therein. But how many others would it wholly escape! How many would not perceive it, or, if they should chance to catch sight of it, would remain in suspense, uncertain which was rebuked, the application of the doctrine or the doctrine itself! How many, in short, would be unwilling to recognize, in these words, aught but the sorrowful complaint of the Vicar of Jesus Christ outraged in his dearest rights! Return, however, to the Syllabus, and that which was obscure comes to light and manifests itself clearly. The two propositions we have cited do not appear, in it, confused or uncertain. Detached, on the contrary, from the particular circumstances which were calculated to weaken their meaning, and clad in a form more lofty, more universal, more abstract, they receive an unspeakable signification. No hesitation is possible. It is no longer the doctrine of M. Froschammer, nor the sacrilegious usurpations of the Spanish government, which are rebuked; it is but the doctrine considered in itself and in its substance. And since the Roman Pontiff, after having isolated it, fixes on it a mark of reprobation by declaring it erroneous, he denounces it to all ages and all people as deserving the everlasting censure of the church.
It is for this reason, as far as ourselves, at least, are concerned, we shall never accept without restriction a phrase which we find, under one form or other, in all directions, even from the pen of writers for whom we entertain, in other respects, the highest esteem: “The Syllabus has only a relative value, a value subordinate to that of the pontifical documents of which it is the epitome.” No! We are unable to admit an appreciation of it, in our opinion, so full of danger. We must not allow ourselves to weaken truth if we would maintain its salutary dominion over souls. They talk of the value of the Syllabus. What is meant by this? Its authority? It derives that most undoubtedly from itself, and from the sovereign power of him who published it. It is as much an act of that supreme authority as the letters or encyclicals to which it alludes. The meaning of the propositions it contains? Doubtless many of these, if we thus refer to their origin, will receive from it a certain illustration. Others, and they are not the fewest, will either lose there their precision, or will rather shed more light upon it than they receive from it. Between the two assertions—The pontifical letters explain the Syllabus, and, The Syllabus explains the pontifical letters—the second is, with a few exceptions, the most rigorously true. A very simple argument demonstrates it. Suppose that, by accident or an unforeseen catastrophe, one or other of these documents were to perish and not leave any trace of its existence, which is the one whose preservation we should most have desired, in order that the mind of Pius IX. and the judgment of the church concerning the errors of our age might be transmitted more surely to future generations?
Most fertile in subtleties is the mind of man when he wishes to escape from a duty that molests him. We must not, consequently, be astonished if many opponents of the Syllabus have lighted on ingenious distinctions which allow of their almost admitting, in theory, the doctrines we have just explained, whilst contriving to elude their practical consequences. For that, what have they done? They have acknowledged the real authority of this grand act in so far as it is a doctrinal declaration, or, if it is preferred, a manifestation of doctrine; adding, nevertheless, that the Pope has not imposed it on us in the way of obligation, but only in the way of guidance. The expression, only in the way of guidance, would have been a happy enough invention, had it been possible, in matter so important, and in an act so solemn, to imagine a guidance truly efficacious—such, for instance, as the Pope could not but wish it to be—which would not be an obligation. But we ourselves must avoid reasoning with too much subtlety, and content ourselves with opposing a difficulty more specious than solid with a few positive proofs.
We interpose, in the first place, the very title of the Syllabus: “Table, or abridgment, of the principal errors of our time, pointed out in consistorial Allocutions,” etc. To which we add the titles of various paragraphs: “Errors in relation to the church”; “Errors in relation to civil society”; “Errors concerning natural and Christian morals,” etc. For the Pope, the guardian and protector of truth, obliged by the duty of his office to hinder the church from suffering any decline or any alteration, to denounce to the Christian world a doctrine by inflicting on it the brand of error, is evidently to forbid the employment of it, and to command all the faithful to eschew it. What communion is there between light and darkness, between life and death? There can be no question about guidance or counsel when the supreme interest is at stake. The duty speaks for itself. It is imposed by the nature of things. When Pius IX. placed at the head of his Syllabus the word “error,” and intensified it by adding words even more significant, when he expressed himself thus, “Principal errors of this our age,” he as good as said, “Here is death! Avoid it.” And if, in order still to escape from the consequences, a distinction is attempted to be drawn between an obligation created by the force of circumstances and an obligation imposed by the legislator, we would wish it to be remembered that the same Pius IX. uttered, in reference to the Syllabus, the following memorable sentence: “When the Pope speaks in a solemn act, it is to be taken literally; what he has said, he intended to say.” For our part, we would say, “What the Pope has done, he intended to do.”
But what need is there of so much discussion? The proof of what we have urged is written in express terms in the letter accompanying the Syllabus—a letter signed by his eminence Cardinal Antonelli, secretary of state, and intended to make known to the bishops the will of His Holiness. It is sufficient to quote this decisive document, which we do in full, on account of its importance:
“Most Reverend Excellency:
“Our Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., profoundly solicitous for the safety of souls and of holy doctrine, has never ceased, since the commencement of his pontificate, to proscribe and to condemn by his encyclicals, his consistorial Allocutions, and other apostolic letters already published, the most important errors and false doctrines, above all, those of our unhappy times. But since it may come to pass that all the political acts reach not every one of the ordinaries, it has seemed good to the same sovereign Pontiff that a Syllabus should be drawn out of these same errors, to be sent to all the bishops of the Catholic world, in order that these same bishops may have before their eyes all the errors and pernicious doctrines which have been reproved and condemned by him. He has therefore commanded me to see that this printed Syllabus be sent to your most reverend excellency, on this occasion, and at this time. When the same sovereign Pontiff, in consequence of his great solicitude for the safety and well-being of the Catholic Church, and of the whole flock which has been divinely committed to him by the Lord, has thought it expedient to write another encyclical letter to all the Catholic bishops, thus executing, as is my duty, with all befitting zeal and respect, the orders of the same Pontiff, I hasten to send to your excellency this Syllabus with this letter.”
This Syllabus, placed by the order of the Holy Father “before the eyes of all the bishops,” what else is it, we ask, than the text of the law brought under the observation of the judges charged with the duty of causing it to be executed? What is it except a rule to which they owe allegiance, and from which they must not swerve? They must not lose sight of it. Wherefore? Because it is their duty to be careful to promulgate its doctrine in their own teaching, because it is their duty to repress every rash opinion which should dare to raise itself against and contradict it. It is thus that all have understood the commandment given to them. The fidelity and unconquerable courage of their obedience prove it. What has taken place in France? In the midst of the universal emotion produced by the appearance of the Syllabus, the government, abusing its power, had the sad audacity to constitute itself judge of it. Through the instrumentality of the keeper of the seals, minister of justice and of public worship, it forbade the publication of the pontifical document in any pastoral instruction, alleging that “it contained propositions contrary to the principles on which the constitution of the empire rests.” What was the unanimous voice of the episcopate? Eighty-four letters of bishops are in existence to bear witness to it. All, united in the same mind, opposed to the ministerial letter the invincible word of the apostles, Non possumus. All declared that they must obey God rather then man; and two amongst them, ascending courageously their cathedral thrones, braved the menaces of a susceptible government by reading before the assembled people that which they had been forbidden to print. Could they have acted all alike with this power truly episcopal, if they had not been inspired by the conviction that they were fulfilling a duty, and putting into practice the adage of the Christian knights, “I do my duty, happen what may”?
We will insist no further on this point. We approach, lastly, the question which might well supersede all the others. Let us enquire whether the Syllabus is an infallible decision of the Vicar of Jesus Christ.
It appears to us that, in reality, we have already settled this question. Can a definition ex cathedra be anything else than an instruction concerning faith and morals addressed to, and imposed on, the whole church by her visible head upon earth? How can we recognize it except by this mark, and is not that the idea given to us of it by the Council of the Vatican? Read over the words, so weighty and selected with so much care by the fathers of that august assembly, and you will find that nothing could express more accurately the exact and precise notion of it. After that, all doubts ought to disappear. The Syllabus emanates from him who is the master and sovereign doctor of Catholic truth. It belongs exclusively to faith and morals by the nature of the subjects of which it treats. It has received from the circumstances which have accompanied its publication the manifest character of an universal law of the church. What is wanting to it to be an irreformable decision, an act without appeal, of the infallible authority of Peter?
We know the objection with which we shall be met. Peter may speak, it will be urged, and not wish to exert the plenitude of his doctrinal power. Yes; but when he restrains thus within voluntary limits the exercise of his authority, he gives us to understand it clearly. He is careful, in order not to overtax our weakness, to apprise us that, notwithstanding the obligation with which he binds consciences, it is not in his mind, as yet, to deliver a definitive sentence upon the doctrine. Frankly, does the Syllabus offer to us an indication, however faint, of any such reserve? What more definitive than a judgment formulated in these terms: “This is error, that is truth”? Is any revision possible of such a judgment? Is it possible to be revoked or abrogated? Does it not settle us necessarily in an absolute conclusion which excludes all possibility of diminution or of change? In a word, can the assertion be ever permissible—“Error in these days, truth in others”? It may be added that, by the admission of all, friends and enemies—an admission confirmed by the declaration of the cardinal secretary of state, the Syllabus is an appendix to, and as it were a continuation of, the bull Quanta cura, to which no one can reasonably refuse the character of a definitive and irreformable decree; and it will be understood how unreasonable it would be to despise the evidence of facts, in order to cling to an objection without consistency, and which falls of itself for want of a solid foundation.
For the rest, the mind of the Holy Father is not concealed, as has been at times suggested, under impenetrable veils. It appears the moment we look for it; and we find it, for example, in the preparation of the Syllabus. It should be known that the Syllabus was not the work of a day. Pius IX. has often asserted this. He had early resolved to strike a signal blow, and to destroy from top to bottom the monstrous edifice of revolutionary doctrines. To this end, immediately after the proclamation of the dogma of the Immaculate Conception, he transformed the congregation of cardinals and theologians who had aided him in the accomplishment of that work into a congregation charged with the duty of singling out for the Apostolic See the new errors which, for a century, had been ravaging the church of God. Ten years passed away; encyclicals were published, allocutions pronounced; the theologians multiplied their labors. At length, on the 8th of December, 1864, the moment of action appearing to have arrived, Pius IX. addressed to the world that utterance whose prolonged echoes we all have heard. The bull Quanta cura and the Syllabus were promulgated. It is obvious that an act so long prepared, and with so much anxiety, cannot be likened to an ordinary act. The object of the Pontiff was not simply to check the evil—it was to uproot it. The object of such efforts could not have been to determine nothing. Who is there, then, who will venture to assert that the whole thought of an entire reign, and of such a reign as that of Pius IX., should miserably collapse in a measure without authority and without effectiveness? To believe it would be an outrage; to affirm it would be an insult to the wisdom and prudence of the most glorious of pontiffs.
But what need is there for searching for proofs? A single reflection banishes every difficulty. We have in the church two means for ascertaining whether a pontifical act is, or is not, a sovereign definition, an infallible decision. We have to enquire of the pontiff who is the author of it, or the people who subordinate themselves to his teaching. Neither one nor the other can deceive us in the answer they give. The divine promise continues equally assured in both: in the former, when he teaches; in the latter, when they listen and obey. It is what the theologians call active and passive infallibility. Admit that Pius IX. had left us in ignorance; that he published the Syllabus, but did not tell us what amount of assent he required of us. Well, none of us are in any doubt as to that. How many times has not this people said, how many times has it not repeated with an enthusiasm inspired by love, that this Syllabus, despised, insulted by the enemies of the church, they accept as the rule of their beliefs, as the very word of Peter, as the word of life come down from heaven to save us. Is it not thus that have spoken, one after the other, bishops, theologians, the learned and the ignorant, the mighty and the humble? Who amongst us has not heard this language? A celebrated doctor, Tanner, has said that in order to distinguish amongst the teachings of the church those which belong to its infallible authority, we must listen to the judgment of wise men, and above all consult the universal sentiment of Christians. If we adhere to this decision, it reveals to us our duties in regard to the sovereign act by which Pius IX. has withdrawn the world from the shadow in which it was losing its way, and has prepared for it a future of better destinies.
We have the more reason for acting thus as hell, by its furious hatred, gives us, for its part, a similar warning, and proclaims, after its fashion, the imperishable grandeur of the Syllabus. Neither has it, nor have those who serve it, ever been under any illusion in this respect. They have often revealed their mind both by act and word. What implacable indignation! what torrents of insults! what clamor without truce or mercy! And when importunate conciliators interfered to tell them they were mistaken, that the Syllabus was nothing or next to nothing, and need not provoke so much anger, how well they knew how to reply to them and to bury them under the weight of their contempt! At the end of 1864, at the moment when the struggle occasioned by the promulgation of the Encyclical and Syllabus was the most furious, an agency of Parisian publicity, the agency Bullier, could insert the following notice: “The Encyclical is not a dogmatic bull, but only a doctrinal letter. It is observable that the Syllabus does not bear the signature of the Pope. This Syllabus has besides been published in a manner to allow us to believe that the Holy Father did not intend to assign to it a great importance. One may conclude, therefore, that the propositions which do not attack either the dogma or morals of Catholics, and do not at all impeach faith, are not condemned, but merely blamed.” To these words, poor in sense, but crafty and treacherous in expression, the journal Le Siècle replied as follows:
“There are now people who tell us that the Encyclical is not a dogmatic bull, but a doctrinal letter; that the eighty propositions are not condemned, because they do not figure in the Encyclical, but only in the Syllabus; that this Syllabus does not bear the signature of the Pope; that it has been composed only by a commission of theologians, etc. These people would do better to be silent. Encyclical or Syllabus, the fact is that the theocracy has just hurled as haughty a defiance against modern ideas as it was possible for it to do. We shall soon see what will be the result.”
We will leave them to settle their quarrels between themselves. For ourselves, listening to these voices of heaven and of hell, of the church and of the world, which coincide in exalting the work eternally blessed by Pius IX., we repeat with profounder conviction than ever: “Yes, the Syllabus is the infallible word of Peter; and if our modern society is within the reach of cure, it is by the Syllabus that it is to be saved!”
SIR THOMAS MORE.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.
I.
In a sumptuous apartment, whose magnificent furniture and costly adornings announced it as the abode of kings, in a large Gothic arm-chair—whose massive sides were decorated with carvings in ebony and ivory of exquisite delicacy, and which was in itself, altogether, a model of the most skilful workmanship—there reclined the form of a stately and elegant woman.
Her small feet, but half-concealed beneath the heavy folds of a rich blue velvet robe, rested on a footstool covered with crimson brocade, embroidered with golden stars. Bands of pearls adorned her beautiful neck, contrasted with its dazzling whiteness, and were profusely twined amid the raven tresses of her luxuriant hair. An expression of profound melancholy was imprinted upon her noble features; her eyes were cast down, and the long, drooping lashes were heavy with tears which she seemed vainly endeavoring to repress, as she sat absorbed in thought, and nervously entwining her snowy fingers with the silk and jewelled cord which, according to the fashion of that day, she wore fastened at her girdle and hanging to her feet. This royal personage was Catherine of Aragon, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, wife of Henry VIII., and queen of England.
The king himself was hurriedly pacing to and fro in the apartment, with contracted brow, a deeply troubled expression gleaming from his dark eyes and obscuring, with a shade of gloomy fierceness, the naturally fine features of his face. The ordinary grace of his carriage had disappeared; his step was hurried and irregular; and every movement denoted a man laboring under some violent excitement. From time to time he approached the window, and gazed abstractedly into the distance; then, returning to Catherine, he would address her abruptly, with a sharp expression or hurried interrogation, neither waiting for nor seeming to desire a reply.
While this strange scene was being enacted within the palace at Greenwich, one of an entirely different nature was occurring in the courtyard. From the road leading from Greenwich a cavalcade approached, headed by a personage invested with the Roman purple, and apparently entitled to and surrounded by all the “pomp and circumstance” of royalty. He was mounted on a richly caparisoned mule with silver-plated harness, adorned with silver bells and tufted with knots of crimson silk. This distinguished personage was no other than the Archbishop of York, the potent minister, who united in his person all the dignities both of church and state—the Cardinal Legate, the king’s acknowledged favorite, Wolsey. To increase his already princely possessions, to extend his influence and authority, had been this man’s constant endeavor, and the sole aim of his life. And so complete had been his success that he was now regarded by all as an object of admiration and envy. But how greatly mistaken was the world in its opinion!
In his heart, Wolsey suffered the constant agony of a profound humiliation. Compelled to yield in all things, and bow with servile submission to the haughty will of his exacting and imperious master—who by a word, and in a moment, could deprive him of his dignities and temporalities—he lived in a state of constant dread, fearing to lose the patronage and favor to secure which he had sacrificed both his honor and his conscience.
He was accompanied on this journey by a numerous retinue, composed of gentlemen attached to his household and young pages carrying his standard, all of whom were eagerly pressing upon him the most obsequious attentions. They assisted him to dismount, and as he approached the palace the guards saluted and received him with the utmost military deference and respect; and with an air of grave dignity Wolsey passed on, and disappeared beneath the arch of the grand stairway.
Let us again return to the royal apartments. The king, seeing Wolsey arrive, immediately turned from the window and, confronting Catherine, abruptly exclaimed:
“Come, madam, I wish you to retire; the affairs of my kingdom demand instantly all my time and attention.” And hastily turning to the window, he looked eagerly into the courtyard.
Catherine arose without uttering a word, and approaching the centre of the apartment she took from the table a small silver bell, and rang it twice.
On this table was a magnificent cloth cover that she had embroidered with her own hands. The design represented a tournament, in which Henry, who was devoted to chivalrous amusements, had borne off the prize over all his competitors. In those days her husband received such presents with grateful affection and sincere appreciation, and, as the souvenir recalled to her mind the joy and happiness of the past, tears of bitterness flowed afresh from the eyes of the unhappy princess.
In answer to her signal, the door soon opened, the queen’s ladies in waiting appeared, and, arranging themselves on either side, stood in readiness to follow their royal mistress. She passed out, and was slowly walking in silence through the vast gallery leading to the king’s apartments, when Wolsey appeared, advancing from the opposite end of the gallery, followed by his brilliant retinue.
Catherine, then, instantly understood why the king had so abruptly commanded her to retire. Suddenly pausing, she stood transfixed and immovable, her soul overwhelmed with anguish; but, with a countenance calm and impassible, she awaited the approach of the cardinal, who advanced to salute her. In spite of all her efforts, however, she could no longer control her feelings.
“My lord cardinal,” she exclaimed in a low voice, trembling with emotion, “go, the king waits for you!” And as she uttered these words, the unhappy woman fell senseless to the floor.
The hardened soul of the ambitious Wolsey was moved to its very depths with compassion as he silently gazed on the noble woman before him, who possessed the unbounded love and grateful esteem of all her household, not only as their sovereign, but also as their beneficent mother.
The cloud of ambition that forever surrounded him, darkening his soul and obscuring his perceptions, was for the moment illuminated, and for the first time he realized the enormity of Henry’s proceedings against the queen.
As this sudden light flashed on him, he felt remorse for having encouraged the divorce, and resolved that henceforward all his influence should be used to dissuade his sovereign from it.
At the approach of the royal favorite the ushers hastily made their salutations (although the queen had been permitted to pass them with scarcely the slightest mark of respect), and seemed to consider the most humble and servile attitude they could assume before him as only sufficiently respectful. They hastened to throw open the doors before him as he advanced, and Wolsey soon found himself in the presence of the king, who awaited his arrival in a state of almost angry impatience.
“Well! what do you come to tell me?” he cried. “Do you bring me good news?”
Wolsey, whose opinions had so recently undergone a very great change, for a moment hesitated. “Sire,” he at length replied, “Campeggio, the cardinal legate, has arrived.”
“Has he indeed?” said Henry, with an ironical smile. “After so many unsuccessful applications, we have then, at last, obtained this favor. Well, I hope now this affair will proceed more rapidly; and, Wolsey, remember that it is your business so entirely to compromise and surround this man, that he shall not be able even to think without my consent and sanction. And, above all, beware of the intrigues of the queen. Catherine is a Spaniard, with an artful, unyielding nature and fierce, indomitable will. She will, without doubt, make the most determined and desperate effort to enlist the legate in favor of her cause.”
“Is the decision of your majesty irrevocable on the subject of this divorce?” replied Wolsey, in a hesitating and embarrassed manner. “The farther we advance, the more formidable the accumulating difficulties become. I must acknowledge, sire, I begin myself to doubt of success. Campeggio has already declared that, if the queen appeals to Rome, he will not refuse to present her petition, and defend her cause; that he himself will decide nothing, and will yield to nothing he cannot conscientiously approve.”
On hearing Wolsey express these sentiments, Henry’s face flushed with rage, and a menacing scowl contracted his brow.
“Can it be possible,” he cried, “that you dare address me in this manner? I will castigate the Pope himself if he refuses his sanction. He shall measure his power with mine! He trembles because Charles V. is already on his frontier. I will make him tremble now, in my turn! I will marry Anne Boleyn—yes, I will marry her before the eyes of the whole world!”
“What do you say, sire? Anne Boleyn!” cried Wolsey.
“Yes, Anne Boleyn!” replied the king, regarding Wolsey with his usual haughty and contemptuous expression. “You know her well. She is attached to the service of Catherine.”
“Lady Anne Boleyn!” again cried Wolsey after a moment’s silence, for astonishment had almost for the time rendered him speechless and breathless. “Lady Anne Boleyn! The King of England, the great Henry, wishes, then, to marry Anne Boleyn! Why, if contemplating such a marriage as that, did you send me to seek the alliance of France, and to offer the hand of your daughter in marriage to the Duke of Orleans? And why did you instruct me to declare to Francis I. that your desire was to place on the throne of England a princess of his blood? It was only by these representations and promises that I succeeded in inducing him to sign the treaty which deprived Catherine of all assistance. You have assured me of your entire approval of these negotiations. This alliance with France was the only means by which to secure for yourself any real defence against the Pope and the Emperor. Do you suppose that Charles V. will quietly permit you to deprive his aunt of her position and title as queen of England?” Here Wolsey paused, wholly transported with indignation.
“Charles!” replied the king, “Charles? I can easily manage and pacify him by fine promises and long negotiations. As to our Holy Father, I will stir up strife enough to fill his hands so full that he will not be able to attend to anything else. The quarrels of Austria and France always end by recoiling on his head, and I imagine he will not soon forget the sacking Rome and his former imprisonment.”
“Yes, but you forget,” said Wolsey, “that the King of France will accuse you of flagrant bad faith: and will you bring on yourself their abhorrence in order to espouse Anne Boleyn?”
The minister pronounced these last words with an expression and in a tone of such contemptuous scorn as to arouse in a fearful degree the indignation of the king, accustomed only to the flattery and servile adulation of his courtiers. At the same time, he was compelled to feel the force of the cardinal’s reasoning, although the truth only served still more to irritate and enrage him.
“Cease, Wolsey!” cried Henry, fixing his flashing eyes fiercely upon him; “I am not here to listen to your complaints. I shall marry whom I please; and your head shall answer for the fidelity with which you assist me in executing my will.”
“My head, sire,” replied Wolsey courageously, “has long belonged to you; my entire life has been devoted to your service; and yet I shall most probably, in the end, have bitter cause to repent having always made myself subservient to your wishes. But your majesty will surely reflect more seriously on the dishonor you will necessarily incur by such a choice as this. The queen’s party will grow stronger and stronger, and I tell you frankly, I fear lest the legate be inflexible.”
“Wolsey,” cried Henry, elevating his voice in a threatening manner, “I have already declared my intentions—is that not sufficient? As to the legate, I repeat, he must be gained over to my cause. Gold and flattery will soon secure to us that tender conscience whose scruples you now so sorely apprehend. Bring him to me to-morrow.”
“He is suffering too much, sire. The cardinal is aged and very infirm; I have no idea he will be in a condition to see your majesty for several days yet.”
“Too long, entirely too long to wait!” replied the king. “I must see him this very day; he shall be compelled to make his appearance. I wish you to be present also, as we shall discuss affairs of importance, and then I shall depart.”
With these words Henry withdrew and went to look for a casket, of which he alone carried the key, and in which he usually kept his most valuable and important papers.
During his absence, Wolsey remained leaning on the table, before which he was seated, absorbed in deep and painful reflections. He feared Henry too much to oppose him long in any of his designs; besides, he saw no possible means to induce him to change his resolution. He had felt, as we have seen, a momentary compassion for the misfortunes of the queen, but that impression had been speedily effaced by considerations of far greater moment to himself.
As a shrewd diplomatist, he regretted the alliance with France; besides, he was really too much interested in the welfare of the king not to deplore his determination to contract such a marriage.
But the cause of his deepest anxiety was the knowledge he possessed of Anne’s great dislike for him, and the consciousness that her family and counsellors were his rivals and enemies; in consequence of which he clearly foresaw they would induce her to use all the influence she possessed with the king in order to deprive him of Henry’s favor and patronage. He was suffering this mental conflict when the king reappeared, bearing a bronze casket carved with rare perfection. Placing it on the table, he unlocked it. Among a great many papers which it contained was a very handsome book, the printing beautifully executed, and every page ornamented with arabesques exquisitely tinted and shaded. The cover, formed of two metal plates, represented in bass-relief the figures of Faith, Hope, and Charity as young virgins, bearing in their hands and on their foreheads the allegorical emblems of those sublime Christian virtues. Emeralds of immense value, surrounded by heavy gold settings, adorned the massive gold clasps, and also served to hold them firmly in their places.
On the back of this book, deeply engraven in the metal, were the following words: The Seven Sacraments. Henry had written this work in defence of the ancient dogmas of the Catholic Church, when first attacked by the violent doctrines of a monk named Luther. Whether the king had really composed it himself, or whether he had caused it to be secretly done by another, and wished to enjoy the reputation of being the author, he certainly attached great importance to the work. Not only had he distributed it throughout his own kingdom, but had sent it to the Pope and to all the German princes, through the Dean of Windsor, whom he instructed to say that he was ready to defend the faith, not only with his pen but, if need be, with his sword also. It was at that time that he asked and obtained from the court of Rome the title of “Defender of the Faith.”
Now he was constantly busy with a manuscript, which he took from the mysterious casket, containing a Treatise on Divorce, and to which he every day devoted several hours. Greatly pleased with a number of arguments he had just found, he came to communicate them to Wolsey. The latter, after urging several objections, at length reminded him of the fraudulent and persistent means that had been employed to extract from the University of Oxford an opinion favorable to divorce. “And yet,” added the cardinal, “it has been found impossible to prevent them from increasing the number of most important restrictions, and thus rendering your case exceedingly difficult, if not entirely hopeless.”
“What!” said the king, “after the good example of the University of Cambridge, are we still to encounter scruples? Consider it well, cardinal, in order not to forget the recompense, and, above all, the punishment, for that is the true secret of success! You will also take care to write to the Elector Frederick, and say that I wait to receive the humble apologies of that man Luther, whom he has taken so entirely under his protection.”
“Sire,” replied the cardinal, “I have received frequent intelligence with regard to that matter which I have scarcely dared communicate to you.”
“And why not?” demanded the king. “Do you presume, my lord cardinal, that the abuse of an obscure and turbulent monk can affect me? And besides, to tell you the truth, I do not know but this man may, after all, be useful to me. He has attracted the attention of the court of Rome, and may yet have to crave my protection.”
“Well, sire, since you compel me to speak, I will tell you that, far from making humble apologies, his violence against you has redoubled. I have just received a tract he has recently published. In it I find many passages where, in speaking of you, he employs the most abusive epithets and expressions. For instance, he repeatedly declares that your majesty ‘is a fool, an ass, and a madman,’ that you are ‘coarser than a hog, and more stupid than a jackass.’ He speaks with equal scurrility of our Holy Father the Pope, addressing him, in terms of the most unparalleled effrontery, this pretended warning, which is of course intended simply as an insult: ‘My petit Paul, my petit Pope, my young ass, walk carefully—it is very slippery—you may fall and break your legs. You will surely hurt yourself, and then people will say, “What the devil does this mean? The petit Pope has hurt himself.”’ Further on, I find this ridiculous comparison, which could only emanate from a vile and shameless pen: ‘The ass knows that he is an ass, the stone knows that it is a stone, but these asses of popes are unable to recognize themselves as asses.’ He concludes at length with these words, which fill the measure of his impiety and degradation: ‘If I were ruler of an empire, I would make a bundle of the Pope and his cardinals, and throw them altogether into that little pond, the Tuscan Sea. I pledge my word that such a bath would restore their health, and I pledge Jesus Christ as my security!’”
“What fearful blasphemy!” cried Henry. “Could a Christian possibly be supposed to utter such absurd, blasphemous vulgarities? I trow not! This pretended ‘reformer’ of the ‘discipline and abuses of the church’ seems to possess any other than an evangelical character. No one can doubt his divine mission and his Christian charity! A man who employs arguments like these is too vile and too contemptible to be again mentioned in my presence. Let me hear no more of this intolerable apostate! Proceed now with business.”
“Sire,” then continued the cardinal, presenting a list to the king, “here are the names of several candidates I wish you to consider for the purpose of appointing a treasurer of the exchequer. Thomas More has already filled, most honorably, a number of offices of public trust, and is also a man of equal ability and integrity. I recommend him to your majesty for this office.”
“I approve your selection most unhesitatingly,” replied the king. “I am extremely fond of More, and perfectly satisfied with the manner in which he has performed his official duties heretofore. You will so inform him from me. What next?”
“I would also petition your majesty that Cromwell be confirmed as intendant-general of the monasteries latterly transformed into colleges.”
“Who is this Cromwell?” inquired Henry. “I have no recollection of him.”
“Sire,” replied Wolsey, “he is of obscure birth, the son of a fuller of this city. He served in the Italian wars in his youth; afterwards he applied himself to the study of law. His energies and abilities are such as to entitle him to the favorable consideration of your majesty.”
“Let him be confirmed as you desire,” replied the king very graciously, as he proceeded to sign the different commissions intended for the newly appointed officials.
“I wish,” he added, regarding Wolsey with a keen, searching glance, “that you would find some position for a young ecclesiastic called Cranmer, who has been strongly recommended to me for office.”
The brow of the cardinal contracted into a heavy frown as he heard the name of a man but too well known to him. He immediately divined that it was from Anne Boleyn alone the king had received this recommendation.
In the meantime, the queen had been carried to her apartments. The devoted efforts of the ladies of her household, who surrounded her with the tenderest ministrations, soon recalled her to the consciousness and full realization of her misery.
Now the night has come, and found Catherine still seated before the grate, absorbed in deep thought. Born under the soft skies of Spain, she had never become acclimated, nor accustomed to the humid, foggy atmosphere of England. Like a delicate plant torn from its native soil, she sighed unceasingly for the balmy air and the golden sunlight of her own genial southern clime. Such regrets, added to the sorrows she had experienced, had thrown her into a state of habitual melancholy, from which nothing could arouse her, and which the slightest occurrence sufficed to augment. For a long time her firmness of character had sustained her; but her health beginning to fail, and no longer able to arouse the energy and courage which had before raised her above misfortune, she sank beneath the burden and abandoned herself to hopeless sorrow.
As she sat all alone in her chamber, she held in her hand a letter but recently received from her native country. Reading it slowly, she mused, dreaming of the days of her happy childhood, when suddenly the door was opened, and a young girl, apparently ten or twelve years of age, ran in and threw her arms around the neck of the queen. The figure of the child was slight and graceful; around her waist was tied a broad sash of rose-colored ribbon, with long ends floating over her white muslin dress; her beautiful blonde hair was drawn back from her forehead and fastened with bows of ribbon, leaving exposed a lovely little face glowing with animation and spirit, and a frank, ingenuous expression, at once prepossessing and charming. This was the Princess Mary, the daughter of Henry, the future consort of a Spanish prince, to whom the shrewd diplomatist Wolsey had promised her hand, in order to deprive the unfortunate mother of this her only remaining consolation.
“Why is it, my dearest mamma,” she exclaimed, “that you are again in tears?” And, laughingly, she took the handkerchief from the queen and put it to her own eyes, pretending to weep.
“See now, this is the way I shall do when I am grown up, for it seems to me grown-up people are always weeping. Oh! I wish I could always remain a child, and then I should never be miserable! Listen, my dear mamma,” she continued, again twining her arms around her mother’s neck, “why is it that you are always weeping and so sad? It must surely do you harm. Everybody is not like you, constantly sighing and in tears, I do assure you. Only this morning, I was at St. James’ Park with Alice, and there I met Lady Anne Boleyn; she was laughing gaily as she promenaded with a number of her friends. I ran immediately to her to say good morning, for I was really very glad to see her. How is it, mamma—I thought you told me she had gone to Kent to visit her father?”
“My child,” replied the queen, her tears flowing afresh, “what I told you was true; but she has since returned without my being informed.”
“But, mamma, since this is your own house, why has she not yet presented herself? I am very sorry she has acted so, for I love her better than any of the other ladies. She told me all she saw in France when she travelled with my aunt, the Duchess of Suffolk. Oh! how I would love to see France. Lady Anne says it is a most beautiful country. She has described to me all the magnificent entertainments that King Louis XII. gave in honor of my aunt. Mamma, when I marry, I want the King of France to be my husband.”
“And you—you also love Anne Boleyn?” replied the queen.
“Oh! yes, mamma, very much, very much indeed!” innocently answered the child. “I am very sorry she is no longer to be here, she is so amiable, and when she plays with me she always amuses me so much!”
“Well, my dear child,” replied the queen, “I will tell you now why people weep when they are grown up, as you say: it is because they very often love persons who no longer return their affection.”
“And do you believe she no longer loves me?” replied the impulsive little Mary with a thoughtful expression. “And yet, mamma, I kissed her this morning and embraced her with all my heart. However, I now remember that she scarcely spoke a word to me; but I had not thought of it before. She seemed to be very much embarrassed. But why should she no longer love me when I still love her so dearly?”
As Mary uttered these words, a woman entered the room and, whispering a moment in the ear of the queen, placed a note in her hand.
Catherine arose and approached the light; after reading the note, she called the young princess and requested her to retire to her chamber, as she had something to write immediately that was very important.
Mary ran gaily to her mother, and, after kissing and embracing her fondly and tenderly again and again, she at last bade her good-night, and with a smiling face bounded from the room in the same light and buoyant manner that she had entered it.
“Leonora,” said the queen, “my dear child, you have left for my sake our beautiful Spain, and have ever served me with faithful devotion. Listen, now, to the request I shall make—go bring me immediately the dress and outer apparel belonging to one of the servant women.”
“Why so, my lady?”
“Ask no questions—I have use for them; you will accompany me; I must go to London this night.”
“Good heaven! my dear mistress, what are you saying?” cried Leonora in great alarm. “Go to London to-night? It is five miles; you will never be able to walk it, and you well know it would be impossible to attempt the journey in any other way—they would detect us.”
“Leonora,” answered the queen, “I am resolved to go. Faithful friends inform me that the legate has arrived. Henry will now redouble his vigilance. I have but one day—if I lose this opportunity, I shall never succeed. My last remaining hope rests upon this. If you refuse to accompany me, I shall go alone.”
“Alone!—oh! my beloved mistress,” cried Leonora, her hands clasped and her eyes streaming tears, “you can never do this! Think of what you are going to undertake! If you were recognized, the king would be at once informed, and we would both be lost.”
“Even so, Leonora; but what have I to lose? Is it possible for me to be made more wretched? Shall I abandon this, my last hope? No, no, Leonora; I am accountable to my children for the honor of their birth. Go now, my good girl! fly—there is not a moment to lose. Fear nothing; God will protect us!”
Leonora, shrewd and adroit like the women of her country, was very soon in possession of the desired habiliments. Her actions might have excited suspicion, perhaps; but entirely devoted to the queen as she was she felt no fear, and would, without hesitation, have exposed herself to even greater danger, had it been necessary, in the execution of her mistress’ wishes.
Catherine feigned to retire; and, after her attendants had been dismissed, she left the palace, closely enveloped in a long brown cloak, such as was habitually worn by the working-women of that period. The faithful Leonora tremblingly followed the footsteps of her mistress. They breathed more freely when they found themselves at last beyond the limits of the castle. Leonora, however, when they entered the road leading to London, anxiously reflected on the danger of meeting some one who would probably recognize them. Her excited imagination even began to conjure up vague apprehensions of the dead, to blend with her fears of the living. She also dreaded lest the strength of the queen should prove unequal to the journey—in fine, she feared everything. The sighing winds, the rustling leaves, the sound of her own footsteps as she walked over the stones, startled and filled her with apprehension. Very soon there was another cause for alarm. The wind suddenly arose with violence; dark clouds overspread the heavens; the moon disappeared; large drops of rain began to fall, and soon poured in torrents, deluging the earth and drenching their garments.
In vain they increased their speed; the storm raged with such fury they were compelled to take refuge under a tree by the roadside.
“My poor Leonora,” said the queen, supporting herself against the trunk of the tree, whose wide-spread branches were being lashed and bent by the fury of the storm, “I regret now having brought you with me. I am already sufficiently miserable without the additional pain of seeing my burdens laid upon others.”
“My beloved lady and mistress,” cried Leonora, “I am not half so unhappy at this moment as I was when I feared my brothers would prevent me from following you to England. It seems to me I can see the vessel now, with its white sails unfurled, bearing you away, whilst I, standing on the shore, with frantic cries, entreated them to let me rejoin you. That night, I remember, being unable to sleep, I went down into the orange-grove, the perfume of whose fruits and flowers embalmed the air of the palace gardens. Wiping away the sad tears, I fixed my eyes upon your windows, which the light of our beautiful skies rendered distinctly visible even at night. In Spain, at that hour, we can walk by the light of the stars; but in this land of mud and water, this horrid England, one has to be wrapped to the ears in furs all the year round, or shiver with cold from morning till night. This is doubtless the reason why the English are so dull and so tiresome to others. In what a condition is this light mantle that covers our heads!” said Leonora, shaking the coarse woollen cloak dripping with water, that enveloped Catherine. “These Englishwomen,” she resumed, “know no more about the sound of a guitar than they do about the rays of the sun; they are all just as melancholy as moles. There is not one of them, except the Princess Mary, who seems to have the slightest idea of our beautiful Spain.”
“Ah!” sighed the queen, “she is just as I was at her age. God forbid that her future should resemble that of her mother!”
In the meantime the storm had gradually abated; time pressed, and Catherine again resumed her journey with renewed courage and accelerated speed. In spite of the mud, in which she sank at every step, she redoubled her efforts. For what cannot the strong human will accomplish, when opposed to feeble, physical strength alone, or even when the obstacles interposed proceed from the elements themselves? She at length arrived at the gate of the palace of Lambeth, situated on the banks of the Thames, where the cardinal Campeggio, according to the intelligence conveyed to her, would hold his court.
The courtyards, the doors, the ante-chambers, were thronged with servants and attendants, eager and active in the performance of their duties, for Henry had ordered that the cardinal should be entertained in a style of princely munificence, and entirely free from personal expense. All these valets, being strangers to their new masters, and unaccustomed to their new employments, permitted the queen to pass without question or detention, not, however, without a stare of stupid curiosity at her muddy boots and draggled garments.
Catherine, being perfectly familiar with the interior of the palace, had no difficulty in finding the legate’s cabinet.
The venerable prelate was slightly lame, and in a feeble and precarious state of health. She found him seated before the fire in a large velvet arm-chair, engaged in reading his Breviary. His face was pale and emaciated; a few thin locks of snow-white hair hung about his temples. Hearing the door open, he rested the book on his knee, casting upon the queen, as she entered, a keen, penetrating glance.
Without hesitation, Catherine advanced towards him. “My lord cardinal,” she exclaimed, removing the hood from her face, “you see before you the queen of England, the legitimate spouse of Henry VIII.”
Hearing these words, Campeggio was unable to suppress an exclamation of surprise. He arose at once to his feet, and, perceiving the extraordinary costume in which Catherine was arrayed, he cast upon her a look of incredulous astonishment. He was about to speak when she, with great vehemence, interrupted him.
“Yes,” she cried, raising her hands towards heaven, “I call upon God to witness the truth of what I say—I am Queen Catherine! You are astonished to see me here at this hour, and in this disguise. Know, then, that I am a prisoner in my own palace; my cruel husband would have prevented me from coming to you. They tell me you are sent to sit in judgment on my case. Surely, then, you should be made acquainted with my bitter woes and grievances. Lend not your aid to the cause of injustice and wrong, but be the strength of the weak, the defence of the innocent. A stranger in this country, I have no friends; fear of the king drives them all from me. I cannot doubt it—no, you will not refuse to hear my appeal. You will defend the cause of an injured mother and her helpless children. What! would you be willing to condemn me without first hearing my cause—I, the daughter of kings? Have I been induced to marry Henry of Lancaster to enjoy the honors of royalty, when all such honors belong to me by my birthright? Catherine of Aragon has never been unfaithful to her husband; but to-day, misled by a criminal passion, he wishes to place upon the throne of England a shameless woman, to deny his own blood, and brand his own children with the stigma of illegitimacy! Yes, I solemnly declare to you that nothing can shake my resolution or divert me from my purpose! Strong in my innocence and in the justice of my cause, I will appeal to the whole world—aye, even to God himself!”
The cardinal stood motionless, regarding Catherine with reverence, as an expression of haughty indignation lighted up her noble features. He was struck with admiration at her courage and filled with compassion for her woes.
“No, madam,” he replied, “I am not to be your judge. I know that it is but too true that you are surrounded by enemies. But let me assure you that in me, at least, you will not find another. I shall esteem myself most happy if, by my counsel or influence, I may be of service to your cause, and it is from the depths of my heart that I beg you to rely upon this assurance.”
Catherine would have thanked him, but a noise was that moment heard of the ushers throwing the doors violently open and announcing, in a loud voice, “His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey!”
“Merciful heaven!” cried Catherine, “must this odious man pursue me for ever?” She hurriedly lowered her veil, and took her place at the left of the door, and the moment he entered passed out behind him. Wolsey glanced at her sharply, the appearance of a woman arousing instantly a suspicion in his mind, but, being compelled to respond with politeness to the legate’s salutations, he had no time to scrutinize, and Catherine escaped without being recognized.
Wolsey was passionately fond of pomp and pageant. The principal positions in his house were filled by barons and chevaliers. Among these attendants were numbered the sons of some of the most distinguished families, who, under his protection and by the aid of his all-powerful patronage and influence, aspired to civil or military preferment.
On this occasion, he considered it necessary to make an unusual display of luxurious magnificence. It was with great difficulty and trepidation that the queen threaded her way through the crowd of prelates, noblemen, and young gentlemen who awaited in the ante-chambers the honor of being presented by the king’s favorite to the cardinal-legate.
The courtyard was filled with their brilliant equipages, conspicuous among which were observed a great number of mules, richly caparisoned, and carrying on their backs immense chests, covered with crimson cloth, trimmed with fringe and embroidered with gold.
A crowd of idle valets were engaged in conversation at the foot of the stairs. The queen, in passing them, attracted their attention, exciting their ridicule and coarse gibes, and she heard them also indulge in the most insolent conjectures regarding her.
“Who is that woman?” said one. “See how dirty she is.” “She looks like a beggar, indeed,” cried another, addressing himself to one of the new-comers engaged to attend the legate. “Your master receives strange visitors; we, on the contrary, have nothing to do with people like that, except quickly to show them the door.”
“Ha! ha! you will have your hands full,” exclaimed the most insolent of the crowd, “if your master gives audience to such rabble as that.” Emboldened by these remarks, one of the porters approached the queen, and, rudely pushing her, exclaimed with an oath: “Well, beldame, what brought you here? Take yourself off quickly. My lord is rich, but his crowns were not made for such as you.” These words excited the loudest applause from the whole crowd, who clapped their hands and cheered vociferously. Catherine trembled with mortification.
“It is thus,” she mentally exclaimed, “that the poor are received in the palaces of the rich. And I myself have probably more than once, without knowing it, permitted them to sigh in vain at the gates of my own palace—mothers weeping for their children, or men, old and helpless, making a last appeal for assistance.”
The queen, entirely absorbed in these reflections, together with the impression made upon her by the appearance of the venerable legate, the sudden apparition of Wolsey, the snares that had been laid for her, and the temptations with which they had surrounded her, mechanically followed Leonora, to whom the fear that her mistress might be pursued and arrested seemed to have given wings.
“Leonora,” at length cried the queen, “I feel that I can go no farther. Stop, and let us rest for a moment; you walk too quickly.” Exhausted with fatigue, she seated herself on a rock by the roadside.
She had scarcely rested a moment when a magnificent carriage passed. The silken curtains were drawn back, and the flaming torches, carried by couriers, who surrounded the carriage, completely illuminated the interior. Seated in this princely equipage was a young girl, brilliant in her youthful beauty and the splendor of her elegant dress and jewelled adornings. At a glance, Catherine recognized Anne Boleyn, who was returning from a grand entertainment given her by the Lord Mayor of London.
She passed like the light; the carriage rapidly whirling through the mud and water, that flew from the wheels and covered anew the already soiled garments of the hapless queen.
Catherine, completely overcome by painful emotions, felt as though she were dying.
“Leonora, listen!” she said in a faint voice, scarcely audible—“Leonora, come near me—give me your hand; I feel that I am dying! You will carry to my daughter my last benediction!”
She sought in the darkness the hand of Leonora; the film of death seemed gathering over her eyes; she did not speak, her head sank on her shoulder, and poor Leonora thought the queen had ceased to breathe. She at first held her in her arms; but at length, overcome by fatigue, she sank upon the earth as she vainly endeavored to revive her by breathing into her mouth her own life-breath. But seeing all her efforts to restore animation useless, she came to the terrible conclusion that Catherine was indeed dead.
“My dear mistress,” she cried wildly, wringing her hands, “my good mistress is dead! What will become of me? It is my fault: I should have prevented her from going. Ah! how miserable I am!” And her tears and cries redoubled. At length she heard in the distance the sound of approaching footsteps, and was soon able to distinguish a litter, borne by a number of men. “Help!” she cried, her hopes reviving at the sight, and very soon they were near her—“help! come to my assistance; my mistress is dying!” Seeing two women, one lying on the ground supported in the arms of another, who appeared half-deranged, the person who occupied the litter commanded the men to stop immediately, and he quickly alighted. It was the king! He also was going to London to see the legate; to prevent his anxious haste from being known, and commented on, he had adopted this secret conveyance. When she saw him, Leonora was paralyzed with apprehension and alarm. The king instantly recognized the queen and the unhappy Leonora. In a furious voice, he demanded what she was doing there and where she had been. But in vain she endeavored to reply—her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth—she was unable to articulate a word. Transported with rage at her silence, and by what he suspected, he immediately had the queen placed in the litter, and ordering the men to walk slowly, he followed them on foot to the palace.
Catherine was carried to her own apartment, and soon restored to consciousness; but on opening her eyes she looked around, vainly hoping to behold her faithful Leonora. She never saw her again! She had been taken away, and the punishment that was meted out to her, or the fate that befel the unfortunate girl, was for ever involved in mystery.
While discord filled the royal palace with perplexity and sorrow a statesman, simple and peaceful, awaited, with happiness mingled with impatience, the arrival of a friend. In his house, all around him seemed possessed of redoubled activity. The family table was more elegantly spread, fresh flowers decorated all the apartments, the children ran to and fro in the very excess of their joy and delight, until at length, in every direction, the glad announcement was heard, “He has come! he has come!” The entire family eagerly descended to the court-yard to meet and welcome the visitor, and Sir Thomas, with feelings of inexpressible joy, folded in his embrace the Bishop of Rochester, the wise and virtuous Fisher, whom he loved with the purest and tenderest sentiments of friendship.
“At last you are here,” he exclaimed; “how happy I am to see you once more!”
While the good bishop was ascending the stairs, surrounded by a troop of Sir Thomas’ youngest children, Margaret, the eldest daughter, came forward and saluted him, accompanied by Lady More, her step-mother, and young William Roper, her affianced husband. They all entered the drawing-room together, and, after engaging a short time in general conversation, Sir Thomas bade the children retire, that he might converse with more freedom.
“My dear friend,” he exclaimed, taking the bishop’s hand again in his own, “I cannot express the joy I feel at your return. I have been so long deprived of your presence, and I have so many things to say to you. But my heart is too full at this moment to permit me to express all I feel or would say! But why have you not answered my letters?”
“Your letters!” replied the bishop. “Why, it has been more than a month since I received one from you.”
“How can that be possible unless they have been intercepted?” replied More. “The king every day becomes more and more suspicious. If this continues, it will soon be considered high treason for a man to think.”
“I cannot tell what has become of your letters. I only know I have not received them, and it has caused me a great deal of anxiety and apprehension. But my friend, since I find you full of life and health, I am quite satisfied and happy. Now, let me hear all that has happened at court; but let me begin by first telling you that the king has sent me, through Cardinal Wolsey, a document he has written on the subject of divorce, asking my opinion and advice. I have answered him with all frankness and candor, expressing myself strongly against his views. Certainly, there is nothing more absurd than the idea of the king’s wishing to repudiate, after so many years of marriage, a princess so virtuous and irreproachable, to whom he can find no other objection than that she was betrothed to his brother, Prince Arthur. Besides, a dispensation was obtained on that account at the time of his marriage, therefore it would seem his conscience ought to be perfectly satisfied.”
“Yes, yes, his conscience should be entirely at rest,” replied Sir Thomas. “And if he sincerely believes the marriage has been void until this time, why does he not make the effort to have it rendered legitimate, instead of endeavoring to annul it entirely? It is because he wishes to marry one of the queen’s ladies—the young Anne Boleyn!”
“Oh! horrible,” cried Fisher. “Are you sure, my friend, of what you say? Gracious heaven! If I had only suspected it! But I assure you I have had entire confidence in him. I have, therefore, examined the subject conscientiously and with the greatest possible diligence before giving him my reply. Had I suspected any such scheme as this, I should never have had the patience to consider the arguments he has presented with so much duplicity.”
“Well, my dear Fisher,” replied Sir Thomas, “such is the sad truth, and such are the ‘scruples’ that disturb the tender conscience of the king. To repudiate the queen and the Princess Mary, his daughter, is his sole aim, his only desire. I also have received an order to read and give my opinion on the divorce question; but I have asked to be excused, on the ground of my very limited knowledge of theological matters. Moreover, all these debates and hypocritical petitions for advice are entirely absurd and unnecessary. Cardinal Campeggio, the Pope’s legate, has already arrived from Rome, and the queen will appear before a court composed of the legate and Wolsey, together with several other cardinals.”
“The queen brought to trial!” cried the Bishop of Rochester. “The queen arraigned to hear her honor and her rank disputed? What a shame upon England! Who will speak for her? I would give my life to be called to defend her! But how is it that Wolsey—the all-powerful Wolsey—has not diverted the king from his unworthy purpose?”
“He is said to have tried; but he stands in awe of the king. You know an ambitious man never opposes him to whom he owes his power. Nevertheless,” added More, “I cannot believe he will dare to pronounce the Princess Mary illegitimate. For, all laws aside, supposing even that the marriage were annulled, the good faith in which it was contracted invests her birth with an inalienable right.”
“I hope it may be so,” said Fisher; “but what immense calamities this question will bring on our unhappy country!”
“I fear so, my friend,” replied More. “At present, the people are pledged to the queen’s cause; it could not be otherwise, she is so much beloved and esteemed; and they declare, if the king does succeed in repudiating Catherine, that he will find it impossible to deprive his daughter of her right to reign over them.”
“And Wolsey,” replied the bishop thoughtfully, “will be called to sit in judgment on his sovereign! He will be against her! And this Campeggio—what says he in the matter?”
“We believe,” replied More, “that he will sustain the queen; he seems to possess great firmness and integrity of character. His first interview with the king gave us great hopes. Henry has overwhelmed him with protestations of his entire submission, but all his artifices have been frustrated by the discernment and prudence of the Italian cardinal. His impenetrable silence on the subject of his own personal opinions has plunged the king into despair. Since that day he has honored him with incessant visits, has offered him the rich bishopric of Durham, and worked unceasingly to corrupt his integrity by promises and flattery.”
“How keenly the queen must suffer,” said Fisher—“she that I saw, at the time of her arrival in the kingdom, so young, so beautiful, and so idolized by Henry!”
“Alas! I think so,” said More. “For some time I have found it impossible to approach her. However, she appears in public as usual, always gracious and affable; there is no change in her appearance. The queen is truly a most admirable woman. During your absence, an epidemic made its appearance called the ‘sweating sickness,’ which made terrible ravages. Wolsey fled from his palace, several noblemen belonging to his household having died very suddenly of the disease. The king was greatly alarmed; he never left the queen for a moment, and united with her in constant prayers to God, firmly believing that her petitions would avail to stay the pestilence. He immediately despatched Anne Boleyn to her father, where she was attacked by the disease, and truly we would have felt no regret at her loss if the Lord in taking her had only deigned to show mercy to her soul. At one time we believed the king had entirely reformed, but, alas! the danger had scarcely passed when he recalled Anne Boleyn, and is again estranged from the queen.”
“Death gives us terrible lessons,” replied the Bishop of Rochester. “In his presence we judge of all things wisely. The illusions of time are dissipated, to give place to the realities of eternity!” As the bishop said these words, several persons who had called to see Sir Thomas entered the room. Conspicuous among them was Cromwell, the protégé of Wolsey. This man was both false and sinister, who made use of any means that led to the acquisition of fortune. He possessed the arts of intrigue and flattery. To a profound dissimulation he added an air of politeness and a knowledge of the world that, in general, caused him to be well received in society. A close scrutiny of his character, however, made it evident that there was something in the depths of this man’s soul rendering him unworthy of any confidence. To him, vice and virtue were words devoid of any meaning. When he found a man was no longer necessary to his designs, or that he could not in some manner use him, he made no further effort to conciliate or retain his friendship. He saluted Sir Thomas and the Bishop of Rochester with a quiet ease, and seated himself beside young Cranmer—“with whom I am very well acquainted,” he remarked. For Cromwell, like all other intriguers, assumed intimacy with all the world.
Scarcely had he uttered the words when a Mr. Williamson was ushered in, who had returned to London a few days before, after a long absence on the Continent.
“And so you are back, Mr. Williamson,” cried More, taking his hand. “You are just from Germany, I believe? Well, do tell us how matters stand in that country. It seems, from what we hear, everything is in commotion there.”
“Your supposition is quite correct, sir,” replied Williamson in a half-serious, half-jesting manner. “The emperor is furious against our king, and has sent ambassadors to Rome to oppose the divorce. But the empire is greatly disturbed by religious dissensions, therefore I doubt if he will be able to give the subject as much attention as he desires. New reformers are every day springing up. The foremost now is Bacer, a Dominican monk; then comes Zwingle, the curate of Zürich—where he endeavored to abolish the Mass, to the great scandal of the people—and there is still another, named Œcolampadius, who has joined Zwingle. But strangest of all is that these reformers, among themselves, agree in nothing. The one admits a dogma, the other rejects it; to-day they think this, to-morrow that. Every day some new doctrine is promulgated. Luther has a horror of Zwingle, and they mutually damn each other. The devil is no longer able to recognize himself. They occasionally try to patch up a reconciliation, and agree altogether to believe a certain doctrine, but the compact is scarcely drawn up before the whole affair is upset again.”
Cranmer, while listening to this discourse, moved uneasily in his chair, until at length, unable to restrain himself longer, he interrupted Williamson in a sharp, cutting manner that he endeavored to soften.
“In truth, sir, you speak very slightingly of these learned and distinguished men. And only, it seems, because they demand a reform in the morals of the clergy, and preach against and denounce the abuses of the church in the matter of indulgences.”
“Beautiful reformers!” cried Williamson. “They protest to-day against an abuse which they alone have felt as such, and that but for a very short time. And permit me to insist on your observing a fact, which it is by no means necessary or expedient to forget, that this quarrel originated in the displeasure felt by Luther because it was not to his own order, but to that of the Dominicans, to whom the distribution of indulgences was entrusted.”
“That may be possible, sir,” interrupted Cranmer, “but at least you will not deny that the immorality of the German clergy imperatively demanded a thorough reformation.”
“It is quite possible, my dear sir, that I may not be ready at once to agree with you in your opinions. But if the German church has become relaxed in morals, it is the fault of those only who before their elevation to the holy office had not, as they were bound to have, the true spirit of their vocation. But I pray you, on this point of morals, it will not do to boast of the severity of these new apostles. The disciples of Christ left their wives, when called to ‘go into all the world and preach the Gospel,’ but these men begin by taking wives. Luther has married a young and beautiful nun, an act that has almost driven his followers to despair, and scandalized and excited the ridicule of the whole city. As to Bucer, he is already married to his second wife!”
“What!” cried the bishop, “these men marry! Marry—in the face of the holy church! Do they forget the solemn vows of chastity they have made?—for they are all either priests or monks.”
“Their vows! Oh! they retract their vows, they say. These ‘vows’ are what they call abuses; and the priests of this so severely reformed church will hereafter enjoy the inestimable privilege of marrying.”
Whilst this conversation had been going on, Sir Thomas kept his eyes closely fixed on Cranmer, trying to discover, from the expression of his pale, meagre face, the impression made on him by the conversation. He was well convinced that latterly Cranmer, although he had already taken orders, maintained the new doctrines with all the influence he possessed. And the reason why he had so thoroughly espoused them was because of a violent passion conceived for the daughter of Osiander, one of the chief reformers.
Born of a poor and obscure family, he had embraced the ecclesiastical state entirely from motives of interest and ambition, and without the slightest vocation, his sole aim being to advance his own interests and fortunes by every possible means, and he had already succeeded in ingratiating himself with the Earl of Wiltshire, who, together with all the family of Anne Boleyn, were his devoted patrons and friends. It was by these means that he was afterwards elevated to the archiepiscopal see of Canterbury, where we will find him servilely devoting himself to the interests of Henry VIII., and at last dying the death of a traitor.
Influenced by such motives, Cranmer warmly defended the new doctrines, bringing forward every available argument, and ended by declaring he thought it infinitely better that the priests should be allowed to marry than be exposed to commit sin.
“Nothing obliges them to commit sin,” cried the Bishop of Rochester, who was no longer able to maintain silence. “On the contrary, sir, every law and regulation of the discipline and canons of the church tends to inspire and promote the most immaculate purity of morals. These rules may seem hard to those who have embraced the ecclesiastical state from motives of pride and an ambitious self-interest, and without having received from God the graces necessary for the performance of the duties of so exalted and holy a ministry. This is why we so often have to grieve over the misconduct of so many of the clergy. But if they complain of their condition now, what will it be when they have wives and families to increase their cares and add to their responsibilities? The priest!” continued the bishop, seeming to penetrate the very depths of Cranmer’s narrow, contracted soul, “have you ever reflected upon the sublimity of his vocation? The priest is the father of the orphan, the brother of the poor, the consoler of the dying, the spiritual support of the criminal on the scaffold, the merciful judge of the assassin in his dungeon. Say, do you not think the entire human race a family sufficiently large, its duties sufficiently extended, its responsibilities, wants, and cares sufficiently arduous and pressing? How could a priest do more, when his duty now requires him to devote, and give himself entirely to, each and every one of the human family? No; a priest is a man who has made a solemn vow to become an angel. If he does not intend to fulfil that vow, then let him never pronounce it!”
“O Rochester!” cried Sir Thomas More, greatly moved, “how I delight to hear you express yourself in this manner!”
And Sir Thomas spoke with all sincerity, for the bishop, without being conscious of it, had faithfully described his own life and character, and those who knew and loved him found no difficulty in recognizing the portrait.
As Sir Thomas spoke, the door again opened, and all arose respectfully on seeing the Duke of Norfolk appear—that valiant captain, to whom England was indebted for her victory gained on the field of Flodden. He was accompanied by the youngest and best-beloved of his sons, the young Henry, Earl of Surrey. Even at his very tender age, the artless simplicity and graceful manners of this beautiful child commanded the admiration of all, while his brilliant intellect and lively imagination announced him as the future favorite and cherished poet of the age.
Alas! how rapidly fled those golden years of peace and happiness. Later, and Norfolk, this proud father, so happy in being the parent of such a son, lived to behold the head of that noble boy fall upon the scaffold! The crime of which Henry VIII. will accuse him will be that of having united his arms with those of Edward the Confessor, whose royal blood mingled with that which flowed in his own veins.
Sir Thomas approached the duke and saluted him with great deference. The Bishop of Rochester insisted on resigning him his chair, but the duke declined, and seated himself in the midst of the company.
“I was not aware,” said he, turning graciously towards the bishop, “that Sir Thomas was enjoying such good company. I congratulate myself on the return of my Lord of Rochester. He will listen, I am sure, with lively interest to the recital I have come to make; for I must inform you, gentlemen, I am just from Blackfriars, where the king summoned me this morning in great haste, to assist, with some of the highest dignitaries of the kingdom, at the examination of the queen before the assembly of cardinals.”
He had scarcely uttered these words when an expression of profound amazement overspread the features of all present. More was by no means the least affected.
“The queen!” he cried. “Has she then appeared in person? And so unexpectedly and rudely summoned! They have done this in order that she might not be prepared with her defence!”
“I know not,” replied the duke; “but I shall never be able to forget the sad and imposing scene. When we entered, the cardinals and the two legates were seated on a platform covered with purple cloth; the king seated at their right. We were arranged behind his chair in perfect silence. Very soon the queen entered, dressed in the deepest mourning. She took her seat on the left of the platform, facing the king. When the king’s name was called he arose, and remained standing and in silence. But when the queen was in her turn summoned, she arose, and replied, with great dignity, that she boldly protested against her judges for three important reasons: first, because she was a stranger; secondly, because they were all in possession of royal benefices, which had been bestowed on them by her adversary; and, thirdly, that she had grave and all-important reasons for believing that she would not obtain justice from a tribunal so constituted. She added that she had already appealed to the Pope, and would not submit to the judgment of this court. Having said these words, she stood in silence, but when she heard them declare her appeal should not be submitted to the Pope, she passed before the cardinals, and, walking proudly across the entire hall, she threw herself at the feet of the king.
“It would be impossible,” continued Norfolk, “to describe the emotion excited by this movement.
“‘Sire,’ she cried, with a respectful but firm and decided tone, ‘I beg you to regard me with compassion. Pity me as a woman, as a stranger without friends on whom I can rely, without a single disinterested adviser to whom I can turn for counsel! I call upon God to witness,’ she continued, raising her expressive eyes towards heaven, ‘that I have always been to you a loyal, faithful wife, and have made it my constant duty to conform in all things to your will; that I have loved those whom you have loved, whether I knew them to be my enemies or my friends. For many years I have been your wife; I am the mother of your children. God knows, when I married you, I was an unsullied virgin, and since that time I have never brought reproach on the sanctity of my marriage vows. Your own conscience bears witness to the truth of what I say. If you can find a single fault with which to reproach me, then will I pledge you my word to bow my head in shame, and at once leave your presence; but, if not, I pray you in God’s holy name to render me justice.’
“While she was speaking, a low murmur of approbation was heard throughout the assembly, followed by a long, unbroken silence. The king grew deadly pale, but made no reply to the queen, who arose, and was leaving the hall, when Henry made a signal to the Duke of Suffolk to detain her. He followed her, and made every effort to induce her to return, but in vain. Turning haughtily round, she said, in a tone sufficiently distinct to be heard by the entire assembly:
“‘Go, tell the king, your master, that until this hour I have never disobeyed him, and that I regret being compelled to do so now.’
“Saying these words, she immediately turned and left the hall, followed by her ladies in waiting.
“Her refusal to remain longer in the presence of her judges, and the touching, unstudied eloquence of the appeal she had made, cast the tribunal into a state of great embarrassment, and the honorable judges seemed to wish most heartily they had some one else to decide for them; when suddenly the king arose, and, turning haughtily towards them, spoke:
“‘Sirs,’ he said, ‘most cheerfully and with perfect confidence do I present my testimony, bearing witness to the spotless virtue and unsullied integrity of the queen. Her character, her conduct, in every particular, has been above reproach. But it is impossible for me to live in the state of constant anxiety this union causes me to suffer. My conscience keeps me in continual dread because of having married this woman, who was the betrothed wife of my own brother. I will use no dissimulation, my lords; I know very well that many of you believe I have been persuaded by the Cardinal of York to make this appeal for a divorce. But I declare in your presence this day, this is an entirely false impression, and that, on the contrary, the cardinal has earnestly contended against the scruples which have disturbed my soul. But, I declare, against my own will, and in spite of all my regrets, his opinions have not been able to restore to me the tranquillity of a heart without reproach. I have, in consequence, found it necessary to confer again with the Bishop of Tarbes, who has, unhappily, only confirmed the fears I already entertain. I have consulted my confessor and many other prelates, who have all advised me to submit this question to the tribunal of our Holy Father, the Sovereign Pontiff. To this end, my lords, you have been invested by him with his own supreme authority and spiritual power. I will listen to you as I would listen to him—that is to say, with the most entire submission. I wish, however, to remind you again that my duty towards my subjects requires me to prevent whatever might have the effect in the future of disturbing their tranquillity; and, unfortunately, I have but too strong reasons for fearing that, at some future day, the legitimacy of the right of the Princess Mary to the throne may be disputed. It is with entire confidence that I await your solution of a question so important to the happiness of my subjects and the peace of my kingdom. I have no doubt that you will be able to remove all the obstacles placed in my way.’
“Saying these words, the king retired, and started instantly for his palace at Greenwich. The noblemen generally followed him, but I remained to witness the end of what proved to be a tumultuous and stormy debate. Nevertheless, after a long discussion, they decided to go on with the investigation, to hear the advocates of the queen, and continue the proceedings in spite of her protest.”
“Who is the queen’s advocate?” demanded the Bishop of Rochester.
“He has not yet been appointed,” replied Norfolk. “It seems to me it would only be just to let the queen select her own counsel.”
“But she will refuse, without a doubt,” replied Cromwell, “after the manner she has adopted to defend herself.”
They continued to converse for a long time on this subject, which filled with anxious apprehension the heart of Sir Thomas, as well as that of his faithful friend, the good Bishop of Rochester.
TO BE CONTINUED.