It was one of those exquisitely lovely mornings that we sometimes see

in early spring. The night had been frosty, and had hurried to meet the

dawn, leaving her moonlight mantle behind her, frozen to silver, on every

field or hill-side. The sky was of a heavenly blue--liquid turquoise,

swept with feathery dashes of pink, that set off the glistening landscape

like a velvet curtain spread for the purpose. The sun was shining through

a pearly mist that hung, a silver gauze veil, in the air and made

everything look dreamy and vision-like. The meadows were silvered with

frost; so were the hedges--every twig and thorn finished like a jewel.

The trees stood up like immense bouquets of filigree against the pink and

blue curtain. No wonder Franceline, who had been awake and watching the

sunrise from her window, stole a march on Angélique, and hastened out to

enjoy the beauty of the morning. It was impossible it could hurt her; it

was too lovely to be unkind. But besides this outward incentive, there

was another one that impelled her to the daring escapade. She felt an

irresistible longing to go to church this morning--one of those longings

that she called presentiments, and seldom rejected without having reason

to regret it. It was not that she was uneasy, or alarmed, or unhappy

about anything. Nothing had occurred to awake the dormant fires that

were still smouldering--though she thought them dead--and impel her to

seek for strength in a threatened renewal of the combat. Sir Simon’s

disappearance the morning after the dinner-party, some few days ago,

had not surprised her; that was his way, and this time she had been

prepared for it. It was true that ever since then her father had been

more preoccupied, more inseparable from his work. It was a perfect mania

with him for the last three or four days. He scarcely let the pen out of

his hand from morning till night. He seemed, moreover, to have got to a

point where he could no longer use her as an amanuensis, but must write

himself. Franceline was distressed at the change; it deprived her of

the pleasure of helping him and of their daily walk together, which had

of late become the principal enjoyment of her life. But he could not be

persuaded to go beyond the garden gate, and then only for ten minutes to

take a breath of air. He was in a hurry to get back to his study, as if

the minutes were so much gold wasted. Franceline was obliged to accept

this sudden alteration in his habits, with the assurance that it would

not be for long; that the great work was drawing to a close; and that,

when it was finished, he would be free to walk with her as much as she

liked, and in more beautiful places than Dullerton. This last she did

not believe. No place could ever be so beautiful as this familiar one,

because none would ever be hallowed by the same sweet early memories,

or sanctified by the same sufferings and regrets. There was a spirit

brooding over these quiet sylvan slopes that could never dwell, for her,

elsewhere. She looked around her at the leafless woods that lay white and

silent in the near distance, and at the river winding slowly towards them

like an azure arm encircling the silver fields, and she sighed at the

thought of ever leaving them. The sigh escaped from her lips in a little

column of sapphire smoke; for the air was as clear as crystal, but it was

cold too, and the bell was already ringing; so she drew her shawl closer

and hurried on. What was that fly doing before the presbytery door? Who

could have business with Father Henwick at such an unearthly hour as

seven A.M.? When people live in a small place where everybody’s life is a

routine as well known as their own to everybody else, the smallest trifle

out of the usual way is magnified into an event. Franceline was not

very curious by nature; she passed the mysterious fly with a momentary

glance of interest, and then dismissed it from her thoughts. The little

white-washed church was never full on week-days, its congregation being

mostly of the class who can only afford the luxury of going to church

on Sundays. A few kindly glances greeted her as she walked up to her

place near the sanctuary. Since her health had become delicate, it was a

rare occurrence to see her there during the week, so her presence was

looked on as of good omen. She answered the welcoming eyes with a sweet,

grateful smile, and then knelt down and soon forgot them.

We talk of magnetic atmospheres where instinct warns us of a presence

without any indication from our senses. I don’t know whether Franceline

believed in such influences; but her attitude of rapt devotion as she

knelt before the altar, seemingly unconscious of anything earthly near

her, her soul drawn upwards through her eyes and fixed on the Unseen,

did not suggest that there was any human presence within reach which had

power to move her. When Father Henwick had left the altar, she rose and

went to the sacristy door to ask if she could see him. She wanted to

speak to him about a poor woman in the village. It was not the clerk,

but Father Henwick himself, who came to answer her message. He did not

welcome his young penitent in his usual gracious, affectionate manner,

but asked sharply “who gave her leave to be out at that hour?”

“The morning was so sunny I thought it would do me no harm to come,”

replied the culprit, with a sudden sense of having done something very

wicked.

“You had no business to think about it at all; you should not have come

without your father’s permission. Go home as fast as you can.”

Franceline was turning away, when he called her back.

“Come this way; you can go out through the house.” Then he added in a

mollified tone: “You foolish child! I hope you are warmly clad? Keep your

chest well covered, and hold your muff up to your mouth. Be off, now, as

quick as you can, and let me have no more of these tricks!”

He shook hands with her, half-smiling, half-frowning, and, opening the

sacristy door that led into the presbytery, hurried her away. Franceline

was too much discomfited by the abrupt dismissal to conjecture why she

was hustled out through the house instead of being allowed to go back

through the church, the natural way, and quite as short. She could not

understand why Father Henwick should have shown such annoyance and

surprise at the sight of her. This was not the first time she had played

the trick on them at home of coming out to church on a sunny morning, and

it had never done her any harm. She was turning the riddle in her mind,

as she passed through the little sitting-room into the entry, when she

saw the front door standing wide open, and a gentleman outside speaking

to the fly-man. The moment he perceived Franceline he raised his hat and

remained uncovered while he spoke.

“Good-morning, mademoiselle! How is M. de la Bourbonais?”

“Thank you, my father is quite well.”

She and Clide looked at each other as they exchanged this commonplace

greeting; but they did not shake hands. Neither could probably have

explained what the feeling was that held them back. Franceline went on

her way, and Clide de Winton entered the presbytery, each bearing away

the sound of the other’s voice and the sweetness of that rapid glance

with a terrible sense of joy.

Franceline’s heart beat high within her as she walked on. What right had

it to do so? How dared it? Poor, fluttering heart! No bitter upbraidings

of indignant conscience, no taunts of womanly pride, could make it stop.

The more she tried to silence it, the louder it cried. She was close by

The Lilies, and it was crying out and throbbing wildly still. She could

not go in and face her father in this state; she must gain a few minutes

to collect and calm herself. The snow-drops grew in great profusion on

a bank in the park at the back of the cottage. Raymond was fond of wild

flowers; she would go and gather him some: this would account for her

delay. She laid her muff on the grass. It was wet with the hoar-frost

melting in the sun; but Franceline did not see this. She stooped down and

began to pluck the snow-drops. It was a congenial task in her present

frame of mind. Snow-drops had always been favorites with her. In her

childish days of innocent pantheism she used to fancy that flowers had

spirits, or some instinct that enabled them to enjoy and to suffer, to be

glad in the sunshine and unhappy in the cold and the rain. She fancied

that perfume was their language, and that they conversed in it as birds

do in songs and chirpings. She used to be sorry for the flowers that had

no perfume, and called them “the dumb ones,” connecting their fate in

some vague, pitying way with that of two deaf and dumb little children

in the village. But the snow-drops she pitied most of all. They came in

the winter-time, when everything was cold and dreary and there were no

kindred flowers to keep them company; no roses; no bees and butterflies

to make music for them; no nightingales to sing them to sleep in the

scented summer nights; no liquid, starry skies and sweet, warm dews

to kiss them as they slept; their pale, ascetic little slumbers were

attuned to none of these fragrant melodies, and Franceline loved them

all the more for their loveless, lonely life. But she was not pitying

them now, as, one by one, she plucked the drooping bells and the bright

green leaves under the silver hedge; she was envying them and listening

to them. Every flower and blade of grass has a message for us, if we

could but hear it; the woods and fields are all tablets on which the

primitive scriptures of creative love are written for us. “Your life

is to be like ours,” the snow-drops were whispering to Franceline. “We

dwell alone in cold and silence--so must you; we have no sister flowers

to make life joyous, no roses to gladden us with their perfume and

their beauty--neither shall you; roses are emblems of love, and love is

not for you. You must be content with us. We are the emblems of purity

and hope; take us to your heart. We are the heralds of the spring;

we bring the promise, but we do not wait for its fulfilment. You are

happier than we; you will not have the summer here, but you know that it

will come hereafter, and that the flowers and fruits will be only the

more beautiful for the waiting being prolonged. Look upwards, sister

snow-drop, and take courage.” Franceline listened to the mystic voice,

and, as she did so, large tears fell from her eyes on the white bells of

the messengers, as pure as the crystal dew that stood in frozen tears

upon their leaves.

M. de la Bourbonais had not heard her go out; and when she came in and

handed him her bouquet, fresh-gathered, he took for granted she had gone

out for the purpose, and did not chide her for the slight imprudence.

Angélique was not so lenient; she was full of wrath against the truant,

and threatened to go at once and inform on her, which Franceline remarked

she might have done an hour ago, if she had any such intention; and then,

with a kiss and two arms thrown around the old woman’s mahogany neck, it

was all made right between them.

Franceline did not venture out again that day. She was afraid of meeting

Clide. She strove hard to forget the morning’s incident, to stifle the

emotions it had given rise to, and to turn away her thoughts from even

conjecturing the possible cause of Mr. de Winton’s presence at Dullerton

and at Father Henwick’s. But strive as she might, the thoughts would

return, and her mind would dwell on them. She was horrified to see the

effect that Clide’s presence had had on her; to find how potent his

memory was with her still, how it had stirred the slumbering depths and

broken up the stagnant surface-calm of her heart, filling it once more

with wild hopes and ardent longings that she had fondly imagined crushed

and buried for ever. Was her hard-earned self-conquest a sham after all?

She could not help fearing it when she saw how persistently the idea

kept returning again and again to her, banish it as she would: “Had he

come to tell Father Henwick that he was free?” Then she wondered, if it

were so, what Father Henwick would do; whether he would come and see her

immediately, or let things take their course through Sir Simon and her

father. Then again she would discard this notion as impossible, and see

all sorts of evidence in the circumstances of the morning’s episode to

prove that it could not be. Why should Father Henwick have tried so hard

to prevent their meeting, if the one obstacle to it were removed? and why

should Clide have been so restrained and distant when she came upon him

suddenly? If only she could ask this one question and have it answered,

Franceline thought she could go back again to her state of stagnation,

and trample down her rebellious heart into submission once more.

She slept very little that night, and the next morning she determined

that she would go out at any risk. Sitting still all day in this state

of mind was unbearable; so about eleven o’clock, when the sun was high

and the frost melted, she put on her bonnet and said she was going for a

walk to see Miss Merrywig. As the day was fine and she had not taken cold

yesterday, Angélique made no difficulty. Franceline started off to the

wood, and was soon crushing the snow-drops and the budding lemon-colored

primroses as she threaded her way along the foot-paths.

For some mysterious reason which no one could fathom, but which the

oldest inhabitant of the place remembered always to have existed, you

were kept an hour waiting at Miss Merrywig’s before the door was opened.

You rang three times, waited an age between each ring, and then Keziah,

the antediluvian factotum of the establishment, came limping along the

passage, and, after another never-ending interval of unbarring and

unbolting, you were let in. It was not Keziah who opened the door for

Franceline this morning; it was Miss Merrywig herself, shawled and

bonneted, ready to go out.

“O my dear child! _is_ it you? I am _so_ delighted to see you! Do come

in! No, no, I am _not_ going out. That is to say, I _am_ going out. It’s

the luckiest thing that you did not come two minutes later, or you would

not have found me. I _am_ so glad! No, no, you are not putting me about

the least bit in the world. Come and sit down, and I’ll explain all about

it. I _cannot_ imagine what is keeping Keziah, and she knows I am waiting

to be off, and that the negus will be getting cold, though it was boiling

mad, and I _have_ only this moment put it into the flask. But what can

be keeping her? It didn’t so much matter; in fact, it didn’t matter at

all, only I _have_ promised little Jemmy Torrens--you know Mary Torrens’

boy on the green?--well, I _promised_ him I would make the negus for

him myself and _take_ it to him myself. He won’t take anything except

from me, poor little fellow! You see he’s known me since I was a baby--I

mean since _he_ was--and that’s why, I suppose; and Keziah knows it, and

why she dallies so long I _cannot_ conceive! She knows I can’t leave

the house unprotected and go off before she comes in--there are so many

tramps about, you see, my dear. It _is_ provoking of Keziah!”

“Let me take the negus to Jemmy,” said Franceline, when there was a break

in the stream and she was able to edge in a word. “I will explain why you

could not go.”

“Oh! that’s _just_ like you to be _so_ kind, my dear; but I _promised_,

you see, and I really _must_ go myself. What can Keziah be about?”

“Then go, and I will wait and keep the house until either of you comes

back,” suggested Franceline.

“Oh! that _is_ a bright idea. That is as witty as it is kind. Well, then,

I will just run off. I shall find you here when I return. I won’t be

twenty minutes away, and you can amuse yourself looking over _Robinson

Crusoe_ till I come back; here it is!” And the old lady rooted out a

book from under a pile of all sorts of odds and ends on the table, and

handed it to Franceline. “Sit down, now, and read that; there’s nothing I

enjoyed like that book when I was your age, and, indeed, I make a point

of reading it at least once every year regularly.”

With this she took up her wine-flask, well wrapped in flannel to protect

her from the scalding-hot contents, and bustled away.

“If any one rings, am I to let them in?” inquired Franceline, running

into the hall after her.

“Oh! no, certainly not, unless it happens to be Mr. Langrove; you would

not mind opening the door to _him_, would you?”

“Not the least; but how shall I know it is he?”

“You will be sure to hear the footsteps first and the click of the gate

outside, and then run out and peep through _this_,” pointing to the

narrow latticed window in the entry; “but you must be quick, or else they

will be close to the door and see you.”

Franceline promised to keep a sharp lookout for the warning steps,

closed the door on Miss Merrywig, and went back to _Robinson Crusoe_;

but she was not in a mood to enjoy Friday’s philosophy, so she sat down

and began to look about her in the queer little apartment. It was much

more like a lumber-room than a sitting-room; the large round table in

the middle was littered with every description of rubbish--the letters

of two generations of Miss Merrywig’s correspondents, old pamphlets,

odds and ends of ribbon and lace, little boxes, bags of stale biscuits

that were kept for the pet dogs of her friends when they came to visit

her, quantities of china cats and worsted monkeys, samplers made for her

by great-grandnieces, newspapers of the year one, tracts and books of

hymns, all huddled pell-mell together. Fifty years’ smoke and lamp-light

had painted the ceiling all over in dense black clouds, and the cobwebs

of innumerable defunct spiders festooned the cornices. The carpet had

half a century ago been bright with poppies and bluebells and ferns; but

these vanities, like the memory of the unrighteous man, had been blotted

out, and had left no trace behind them. Franceline was considering how

singular it was that anything so bright and simple and happy as Miss

Merrywig should be the presiding genius of this abode of incongruous

rubbish, and wishing she could make a clean sweep of it all, and tidy the

place a little, when her attention was roused by a sound of footsteps.

She ran out at once to look through the lattice; but she had waited too

long. There was only time to shrink behind the door when the visitors

had come up and the bell was sounding through the cottage. There were

two persons, if not more; she knew this by the footsteps. Presently some

one spoke; it was Mr. Charlton. He was continuing, in a low voice, a

conversation already begun. Then another voice answered, speaking in a

still lower key; but every word was distinctly audible through the open

casement, which was so covered by an outer iron bar and the straggling

stem of a japonica that no one from the outside would see that it was

open, unless they looked very close. The words Franceline overheard

had nothing in them to make her turn pale; but the voice was Clide de

Winton’s. What fatality was this that brought them so near again, and

yet kept them apart, and condemned her to hide and listen to him like an

eavesdropper? There was a pause after the first ring. Mr. Charlton knew

the ways of the house; he said something laughingly, and rang again.

Then they reverted to the conversation that had been interrupted. Good

God! did Franceline’s ears deceive her, or what were these words she

heard coupled with her father’s name? She put her hand to her lips with

a sudden movement to stifle the cry that leaped up from her heart of

hearts. She heard Clide giving an emphatic denial: “I don’t believe it. I

tell you it is some mistake--one of those unaccountable mistakes that we

can’t explain or understand, but which we _know_ must be mistakes.”

She could not catch what Mr. Charlton said; but he was evidently

dissenting from Clide, and muttered something about “being convicted on

his own showing,” which the other answered with an impatient exclamation

the drift of which Franceline could not seize; neither could she make

sense out of the short comments that followed. They referred to some

facts or circumstances that were clear to the speakers, but only

bewildered her more and more.

“It strikes me the old lady does not mean to let us in at all this time,”

said Mr. Charlton; and he gave another violent pull to the bell.

“There can’t be any one in the house,” said Clide, after a pause that

exhausted the patience of both. “We may as well come away. I will call

later. I must see her before.…”

The rest of the sentence was lost, as the two speakers walked down the

gravel-walk, conversing in the same low tones.

Franceline did not move even when the sound of their steps had long died

away. She seemed turned to stone, and did not stir from the spot until

Keziah came back. She gave her a message for Miss Merrywig, left the

cottage, and went home.

She found her father just as she had left him--busy at his desk, with

books and papers strewn on the table beside him. She saw this through the

window, but did not go in to him. She could not go at once and speak to

him as if nothing had happened in the interval. She went to her room, and

remained there until dinner-time, and then came down, half-dreading to

see some alteration in him corresponding with what had taken place in her

own mind. But he was gentle and serene as usual. No mental disturbance

was visible on his features; at least, she did not see it. Looking at

him, nevertheless, with perceptions quickened by what she had heard since

they parted, it struck her that his eyes were sunk and dim, as if from

overwork and want of sleep combined; but there was no cloud of shame or

humiliation on his brow. Never had that dear head seemed so venerable,

never had such a halo of nobleness and goodness encircled it, in his

daughter’s eyes, as at this moment.

She did not tease him to come out to walk with her, but asked him to read

aloud to her for an hour while she worked. It was a long time--more than

a week--since they had had any reading aloud. Raymond complied with the

request, but soon returned to his work.

Franceline expected that Father Henwick would call, and kept nervously

looking out of the window from time to time; but the day wore on, and

the evening, and he did not come. She did not know whether to be glad

or sorry. She was in that frame of feeling when the gentlest touch of

sympathy would have stung her like the bite of a snake. It was not

sympathy she wanted, but a voice to join with her in passionate contempt

for the liars who had dared to slander her father, and in indignant

denunciation of the lie. She wanted to fling it in the teeth of those

who had uttered it. If Father Henwick would help her to do this, let him

come; if not, let him leave her alone. Let no one come near her with

words of pity; pity for her now meant contempt for her father. She would

resent it as a lioness might resent the food that was thrown to her in

place of the cubs she had been robbed of. No love--no, not the best and

noblest she had ever dreamed of--would compensate her for the absence of

reverence and respect for her father.

But Clide did not suspect him. She had heard him indignantly spurn the

idea. “He no more stole it than you did,” he had said. Stolen what? Would

no one come to tell her what it all meant? Would not Clide come? Was he

still at Dullerton? Was there any fear--or hope?--of her meeting him

again if she went out? She might have gone with impunity. Clide was far

enough away, on a very different errand from that which had brought him

yesterday across her path.

* * * * *

On coming back to the Court from his abortive attempt to see Miss

Merrywig, Clide found Stanton in great excitement with a telegram that

had arrived for his master that instant. It was from Sir Simon, summoning

him back by the first train that started. Some important news awaited

him. He did not wait to see Miss Merrywig, but took the next train to

London, and arrived there in the early afternoon. The news that awaited

him was startling enough to justify Sir Simon’s peremptory summons. One

of the detectives, whose sagacity and coolness fitted him for delicate

missions of the kind, had been despatched to gather information in the

principal lunatic asylums of England and Scotland. He had come that

morning to tell Sir Simon Harness that he thought he had found Mrs. de

Winton in one of them. Sir Simon went straight to the place, and, after

an interview with the superintendent, telegraphed for Clide, as we have

seen.

It was an old-fashioned Elizabethan manor-house in the suburbs of London,

situated in the midst of grounds almost large enough to be called a park.

There was nothing in the outward aspect of the place to suggest its real

character. Everything was bright and peaceful and well ordered as in the

abode of a wealthy private family. The gardens were beautifully kept; the

shrubbery was trim and neat; summer-houses with pretty climbing plants

rose in shady places, inviting the inmates of the fine old mansion to sit

out of doors and enjoy the sunshine unmolested; for there was sunshine in

this early spring-time, and here in this sheltered spot some bits of red

and gold and blue were peeping through the tips of closed flower-cups.

Nothing externally hinted at the discord and disorder that reigned in so

many human lives within the walls. The sight of the place was soothing

to Clide. He had so often pictured to himself another sort of dwelling

for his unhappy Isabel that it was a great relief to him to see this

well-ordered, calm abode, and to think of her being a resident there. A

lady-like matron received him, and conversed with him kindly and sensibly

while they were waiting for the doctor to come in. The latter accosted

him with the same reassuring frankness of manner.

“I hope,” he said, “that your informant has not exaggerated matters, as

that class of people are so apt to do, and that you are _expecting_ to

see the right person. All I dare say to you is that you may hope; the

points of coincidence are striking enough to warrant hope, but by no

means such as to establish a certainty.”

“I am too much taken by surprise to have arrived at any conclusion,”

replied Clide; “and I have been too often disappointed to do so in a

hurry. Until I see and speak to the patient I can say nothing.”

“You can see her at once. As to speaking to her, that is not so easy. The

sun is clouding over. That is unlucky at this moment.”

His visitor looked surprised.

“Oh! I forgot that I had not explained to you the nature of the delusion

which this lady is suffering from,” continued the medical man. “It is

one of the most poetic fancies that madness ever engendered in a human

brain. She is enamored of the sun, and fancies herself beloved of him;

she believes him to be a benign deity whose love she has been privileged

to win, and which she passionately responds to. But there is more

suffering than joy in this belief. She fancies that when the sun shines

he is pleased with her, and that when he ceases to shine he is angry;

the sunbeams are his smiles and the warmth his kisses. At such times she

will deck herself out with flowers and gay colors, and sit and sing to

her lover by the hour, pretending to turn away her face and hide from

him, and going through all the pretty coyness of love. Then suddenly,

when the sun draws behind a cloud, she will burst into tears, fling aside

her wreath, and give way to every expression of grief and despair. It is

at such moments, when they are prolonged, that the crisis is liable to

become dangerous. She flings herself on the ground, and cries out to her

lover to forgive her and look on her kindly again, or she will die. Very

often she cries herself to sleep in this way. I fear you have come at an

unfortunate moment, for the sun seems quite clouded; however, he may come

out again, and then you will get a glimpse of the patient at her best.”

He rose and led the way upstairs along a softly-carpeted corridor with

doors opening on either side. Pointing to one, he motioned Clide to

advance. One of the panels was perforated so as to admit of the keeper’s

seeing what went on inside when it was necessary to watch the patient,

without irritating her by seeming to do so or remaining in the room. At

first the occupant was standing up at the window, her hands clasped,

while she conversed with herself or some invisible companion in low tones

of entreaty. Then, uttering a feeble cry, she turned mournfully away,

laid aside the flowers that decked her long black hair, and, taking a

large black cloak, drew it over her dress, and sat down in a dark corner

of the room, with her face to the wall, crying to herself like a child.

Clide watched her go through all this with growing emotion. He had not

yet been able to catch a glimpse of her face, but the small, light

figure, the wayward movements, the streaming black hair, all reminded him

strikingly of Isabel. The voice was too inarticulate, so far, for him to

pronounce on its resemblance with any certainty; but the low, plaintive

tones fell on his ear like the broken bars of an unforgotten melody. He

strained every nerve to see the features. But, stay! She is moving. She

has drawn away her hands from her face, and has turned it towards him.

The movement did not, however, dispel his doubts; it increased them.

It was almost impossible to discover any trace of beauty in that worn,

haggard face, with its sharp features, its eyes faded and sunk, and from

which the tears streamed in torrents, as if they were melting away in

brine. The skin was shrivelled like an old woman’s--one, at least, double

the age that Isabel would be now. Was it possible that this wreck could

be the bright, beautiful girl of ten years ago?

“Are _you_ my wife?” was Clide’s mental exclamation, as he looked at the

sad spectacle, and then, with a shudder, turned away.

“I see you are unable to arrive at any conclusion,” said the doctor when

they were out of ear-shot in an adjoining room.

“I will say nothing till I have spoken to her,” replied the young man

evasively. “When can I do this?”

“I cannot possibly fix a time. She is not in a mood to be approached

now; any violent shock in her present state might have a fatal result.

It would, in all probability, quench for ever the feeble spark of light

that still remains, and might bring on a crisis which no skill could

alleviate. On the other hand, if we could apply the test at the right

moment, the effect might be unexpectedly beneficial. I say unexpectedly,

because, for my own part, I have not the slightest hope of any such

result.”

“Has her memory quite gone, or does she recall any passages of her past

life accurately?”

“Not accurately, I fancy; she seems to have some very vivid impressions

of the past, but whether they be clear or not I cannot say. The balance

of the mind is, I believe, too deeply shaken for clearness, even on

isolated points, to survive in any of the faculties. She talks frequently

of going over a great waterfall with her nurse, and describes scenery in

a way that rather gave me a hope once. I spoke to her guardian, however,

and he said she had never been near a waterfall in her life; that it was

some picture which had apparently dwelt in her imagination.”

“He might have his own reasons for deceiving you in that respect,”

observed Clide. “His name, you say, is Par…?

“Percival--Mr. Percival.”

“Humph! When people change their names, they sometimes find it convenient

to retain the initial,” remarked Clide.

He went home and desired Stanton to look out for a lodging as near as

possible to the asylum. A tolerably habitable one was found without

delay, and he and his valet installed themselves there at once. The very

next day he received a letter from Sir Simon Harness, informing him

that Lady Rebecca seemed this time in earnest about betaking herself

to a better world, and had desired him, Sir Simon, to be sent for

immediately. The French _dame de compagnie_ who wrote to him said they

hardly expected her to get through the week.

* * * * *

M. de la Bourbonais had never been a social man since he lived at

Dullerton. He said he did not care for society, and in one sense this

was true. He did not care for it unless it was composed of sympathetic

individuals; otherwise he preferred being without it. He did not want

to meet and talk with his fellow-creatures simply because they were his

fellow-creatures; there must be some common bond of interest or sympathy

between them and him, or else he did not want to see them. When, in the

early days at The Lilies, Sir Simon used to remonstrate with him on being

so “sauvage,” and wonder how he could bear the dulness, Raymond would

reply that no dulness oppressed him like uncongenial company. He had no

sympathies in common with the people about the neighborhood, and so he

would have no pleasure in associating with them. There was truth in this;

but Sir Simon knew that the count’s susceptible pride had influenced him

also. He did not want rich people to see his poverty, if they were not

refined and intelligent enough to respect it and value what went along

with it. He had studiously avoided cultivating any intimacies beyond

the few we know, and had so persistently kept aloof from the big houses

round about that they had accepted his determination not to go beyond

mere acquaintanceship, and never stopped to speak when they met him out

walking, but bowed and passed on. But of late Raymond began to feel quite

differently about all this. He longed to see these distant acquaintances

as if they had been so many near friends; to meet their glance of

kindly, if not cordial, recognition; to receive the homage of their

passing salutation. It was the dread of seeing these hitherto valueless

greetings refused that prevented him stirring beyond his own gate. He

marvelled himself at the void that the absence of them was making in

his life. He did not dream they had filled such a space in it; that the

reflection of his own self-respect in the respect of others had been

such a strength and such a need to him. Up to this time Franceline had

more than satisfied all his need of society at home, with the pleasant

periodical addition of Sir Simon’s presence, while his work had amply

supplied his intellectual wants; but suddenly he was made aware of a new

need--something undefined, but that he hungered for with a downright

physical hunger.

Franceline’s spirit and heart were too closely bound up in her father’s

not to feel the counter-pang of this mental hunger. She could not help

watching him, though she strove not to do it, and, above all, not to let

him see that she was watching him. She might as well have tried not to

draw her breath or to stop the pulsations of her heart. Her eyes would

fasten on him when he was not looking, and she could not but see that

the expression of his face was changed. A hard, resolved look had come

over it; his eyebrows were always protruded now, and his lips drawn

tight together under the gray fringe of his mustache. She knew every

turn of his features, and saw that what had once been a passing freak

under some sudden thought or puzzling speculation in his work had now

become a settled habit. She longed to speak; to invite him to speak. It

would have been so much easier for both; it would lighten the burden to

them so much if they could bear it together, instead of toiling under it

apart. But Raymond was silent. It never crossed his mind for a moment

that Franceline knew his secret. If he _had_ known it, would he have

spoken? Sometimes the poor child felt the silence was unbearable; that

at any cost she must break it and know the truth of the story which

had reached her in so monstrous a form. But the idea that her father

knew possibly nothing of it kept her back. But supposing he was silent

only to spare her? Perhaps he was debating in his own mind what the

effect of the revelation would be on her; wondering if she, too, would

join with his accusers, or, even if she did not do this, whether she

might not be ashamed of a father who was branded as a thief. When these

thoughts coursed through her mind, Franceline felt an almost irresistible

impulse to rush and fling her arms around his neck and tell him how

she venerated him, and how she scorned with all her might and main the

envious, malignant fools who dared to so misjudge him. But she never

yielded to the impulse; the inward conflict of lodgings and shrinkings

and passionate, tender cries of her heart to his made no outward sign.

Raymond sat writing away at his desk, and Franceline sat by the fire

or at the window reading and working, day after day. The idea occurred

to her more than once that she would write to Sir Simon; but she never

did. She did not dare open her heart to Father Henwick. How could she

bring herself to tell him that her father was accused of theft? It was

most probable--she hoped certain--that the abominable suspicion had not

travelled to his ears; and if so, she could not speak of it. This was

not her secret; it was no breach of confidence towards her spiritual

father to be silent, and the selfish longing to pour out her filial anger

and outraged love into a sympathizing ear should not hurry her into a

betrayal of what was, even in its falsity, humiliating to Raymond. It

was hard to refrain from speech when speech would have been a solace;

but Franceline knew that the sacrifice of the cup of cold water has its

reward, just as the bestowal has. Peace comes to us on surer and swifter

wing when we go straight to God for it, without putting the sympathy of

creatures between us and his touch.

Mr. Langrove had never been a frequent visitor at The Lilies; but

Franceline never remembered him to have been so long absent as now,

and she could not but see a striking coincidence in the fact. She knew

he had been one of the party at Dullerton that night; and if, as she

felt certain, that had been the occasion of the extraordinary mistake

she had heard of, the vicar, of course, knew all about it. He believed

her father had committed a theft, and was keeping aloof from him. Did

everybody at Dullerton know this? Mr. Langrove was not a man to spread

evil reports in any shape. Franceline knew him well enough to be sure

of that; but her father’s reputation was evidently at the mercy of less

charitable tongues. She did not know that the six witnesses had promised

Sir Simon to keep silence for his sake; but if she had known it, it would

not have much reassured her. A secret that is known to six people can

scarcely be considered safe. The six may mean to guard it, and may only

speak of it among themselves and in whispers; but it is astonishing how

far a whisper will travel sometimes, especially when it is malignant. A

vague impression had in some inexplicable way got abroad that the count

had done something which threw him under a cloud. The gentlemen of the

neighborhood were very discreet about it, and had said nothing positively

to be taken hold of, but it had leaked out that there was a screw loose

in that direction. Young Charlton had laughed at the notion of his friend

Anwyll thinking of Mlle. de la Bourbonais _now_; and the emphasis and

smile which accompanied the assurance expressed pretty clearly that there

was something amiss which had not been amiss a little while ago.

Franceline had gone out for her usual mid-day walk in the park. It was

the most secluded spot where she could take it, as well as warm and

sheltered. She was walking near the pond; the milk-white swans were

sailing towards her in the sunlight, expecting the bits of bread she

had taken a fancy to bring them every day at this hour, when she saw

Mr. Langrove emerge from behind a large rockery and step out into the

avenue. She trembled as if the familiar form of her old friend had been

a wild animal creeping out of the jungle to pounce upon her. What would

he do? Would he pass her by, or stop and just say a few cold words of

politeness? The vicar did not keep her long in suspense.

“Well! here, you are enjoying the sunshine, I see. And how are you?” he

said, extending his hand in the mild, affectionate way that Franceline

was accustomed to, but had never thought so sweet before. “Is the cough

quite gone?”

“Not quite; but I am better, thank you. Angélique says I am, and she

knows more about it than I do,” replied the invalid playfully. “How is

everybody at the vicarage?”

“So-so. Arabella has one of her bad colds, and Godiva is suffering from a

toothache. It’s the spring weather, no doubt; we will all be brisker by

and by. Are you going my way?”

“Any way; I only came for a walk.”

They walked on together.

“And how is M. de la Bourbonais?” said the vicar presently. “I’ve not met

him for a long time; we used to come across each other pretty often on

the road to Dullerton. He’s not poorly, I hope?”

“No, only busy--so dreadfully busy! He hardly lets the pen out of his

hand now; but he promises me there will soon be an end of it, and that

the book will soon be finished.”

“Bravo! And you have been such a capital little secretary to him!” said

Mr. Langrove. “The next thing will be that we shall have you writing a

book on your own account.”

Franceline laughed merrily at this conceit; her fears were, if not

banished by his cordial manner, sufficiently allayed to rid her of her

momentary awkwardness. They were soon chatting away about village gossip

as if nothing were amiss with either.

“Angélique brought home news from the market a few days ago that Mr.

Tobes was going to marry Miss Bulpit; is it true?” inquired the young

girl.

“Far too good to be true!” said the vicar, shaking his head. “The report

has been spread so often that this time I very nearly believed in it.

However, I saw Miss Bulpit, and she dispelled the illusion at once, and,

I fear, for ever.”

“But would it have been such a good thing if they got married?”

“It would be a very desirable event in some ways,” said Mr. Langrove,

with a peculiar smile; “it would give her something to do and some one to

look after her.”

“And it would have been a good thing for Mr. Tobes, too, would it not? He

is so poor!”

“That’s just why she won’t have him, poor fellow! When he proposed--she

told me the story herself, and I find she is telling it right and left,

so there is no breach of confidence in repeating it--when he proposed,

Miss Bulpit asked him point-blank how much money he had; ‘because,’ she

said, ‘I have only just enough for one!’”

“Oh! but that was a shame. She has plenty for two; and, besides, it was

unfeeling. Don’t you think it was?” inquired Franceline, looking up at

the vicar. But he evidently did not share either her indignation against

Miss Bulpit or her pity for the discarded lover. He was laughing quietly,

as if he enjoyed the joke.

They reached the gate going out on the high-road while thus pleasantly

chatting.

“Now I suppose we must say good-by,” said Mr. Langrove. “This is my way;

I am going to pay a sick visit down in the valley.”

They shook hands, and Franceline turned back.

“Mind you give my compliments to the count!” said the vicar, calling

after her. “Tell him I don’t dare go near him, as he is so busy; but if

he likes me to drop in of an evening, let him send me word by you, and

I’ll be delighted. By-by.”

He nodded to her and closed the gate behind him.

“He did not dare because he is so busy!” repeated Franceline as she

walked on. “How did he know papa was busy? It was I who told him so a few

minutes ago. That was an excuse.”

She gave the message, nevertheless, on coming home, scarcely daring to

look at her father while she did so.

“May I tell him to come in one of these evenings, petit père?”

“No; I cannot be disturbed at present,” was the peremptory answer, and

Franceline’s heart sank again.

She told him the gossip about Miss Bulpit and Mr. Tobes, thinking it

would amuse him; he used to listen complacently to the little bits of

gossip she brought in about their neighbors. Raymond had the charming

faculty, common to great men and learned men, of being easily and

innocently amused; but he seemed to have lost it of late. He listened to

Franceline’s chatter to-day with an absent air, as if he hardly took it

in; and before she had done, he made some irrelevant remark that proved

he had not been attending to what she was saying. Then he had got into

a way of repeating himself--of saying the same thing two or three times

over at an interval of an hour or so, sometimes even less. Franceline

attributed these things to the concentration of his thoughts on his work,

and to his being so entirely absorbed in it as not to pay attention to

anything that did not directly concern it. She was too inexperienced to

see therein symptoms of a more alarming nature.

M. de la Bourbonais had all his life complained of being a bad

sleeper; but Angélique, who suffered from the same infirmity, always

declared that he only imagined he did not sleep; that she was tossing

on her pillow, listening to him snoring, when he said he had been wide

awake. The count, on his side, was sceptical about Angélique’s “white

nights,” and privately confided to Franceline that he knew for a fact

she was fast asleep often when she fancied in the morning she had been

awake. Some people are very touchy at being doubted when they say they

have not “closed an eye all night.” Angélique resented a doubt on her

“white nights” bitterly, and Franceline, who from childhood had been

the confidant of both parties, found an early exercise for tact and

discretion in keeping the peace between them. The discrepancies in the

two accounts of their respective vigils often gave rise to little tiffs

between herself and Angélique, who would insist upon knowing what M.

le Comte had said about _her_ night; so that Franceline was compelled

to aggravate her whether she would or not. She “knew her place” better

than to have words with M. le Comte, but she had it out with Franceline.

“Monsieur says he didn’t get to sleep till past two o’clock this morning,

does he? Humph! I only wish I had slept half as well, I know. Pauvre,

cher homme! He drops off the minute his head is on the pillow, and then

dreams that he’s wide awake. That’s how it is. Why, this morning I was up

and lighted my candle at ten minutes to two, and he was sleeping as sound

as a wooden shoe! I heard him.” Franceline would soothe her by saying she

quite believed her; but as she said the same thing to M. le Comte, and

as Angélique generally overheard her saying so, this seeming credulity

only aggravated her the more. Laterly Raymond had taken up a small

celestial globe to his room, for the purpose, he said, of utilizing his

long vigils by studying the face of the heavens during the clear, starry

nights; and he would give the result of his nocturnal contemplations

to Franceline at breakfast next morning--Angélique being either in the

room pouring out the hot milk for her master’s coffee, or in the kitchen

with the door ajar, so that she had the benefit of the conversation.

The pantomimes that were performed at these times were a severe trial

to Franceline’s gravity: Angélique would stand behind Raymond’s chair,

holding up her hands aghast or stuffing her apron into her mouth, so as

not to explode in disrespectful laughter. Sometimes she would shake her

flaps at him with an air of despondency too deep for words, and then walk

out of the room.

“I heard M. le Comte telling mam’selle that he saw the Three Kings (the

popular name for Orion’s belt in French) shining so bright this morning

at three o’clock. I believe you; he saw them in his sleep! I was up and

walking about my room at that hour, and it so happened that I opened my

door to let in the air _just_ as the clock in the _salon_ was striking

three!”

As ill-luck would have it, Raymond overheard this confidential comment

which Angélique was making to Franceline under the porch, not seeing that

the sitting-room window was open.

“My good Angélique,” said the count, putting his head out of the window,

“you must have opened the door two seconds too late; it was striking

five, most likely, and you only heard the last three strokes. I suspect

you were sound asleep at the hour I was looking at the Three Kings.”

“La! as if I were an infant not to know when I wake and when I sleep!”

said Angélique with a shrug. “It was M. le Comte that was asleep and

dreaming that he saw the Three Kings.”

“Nay, but I lighted my candle; it was pitch-dark when I got up to set the

globe,” argued M. de la Bourbonais.

“When M. le Comte _dreamt_ that he got up and lighted his candle,”

corrected the incorrigible sceptic. Raymond laughed and gave it up. But

it was true, notwithstanding Angélique’s obstinate incredulity, that he

did pass many white nights now, and the wakefulness was insensibly and

imperceptibly telling on his health. It was a curious fact, too, that

the more the want of sleep was injuring him, the less he was conscious

of suffering from it. He had been passionately fond of astronomy in his

youth, and he had resumed the long-neglected study with something of

youthful zest, enjoying the observation of the starry constellations in

the bright midnight silence with a sense of repose and communion with

those brilliant, far-off worlds that surprised and delighted himself.

Perhaps the feeling that he was now cut off from possible communion with

his fellow-men threw him more on nature for companionship, urging him to

seek on her glorious brow for the smiles that human faces denied him, and

to accept her loving fellowship in lieu of the sympathy that his brothers

refused him.

But rich and inexhaustible as the treasures of the great mother are,

they are at best but a compensation; nothing but human love and human

intercourse can satisfy the cravings of a human heart. Raymond was

beginning to realize this. His forced isolation was becoming poignantly

oppressive to him. He longed to see Sir Simon, to hear his voice, to

feel the warm clasp of his hand; he longed, above all, to get back his

old feeling of gratitude to him. Raymond little suspected what a moral

benefactor his light-hearted, worldly-minded friend had been to him all

those years when he was perpetually offering services that were so seldom

accepted. Sir Simon was all the time feeding his heart with the milk of

human kindness, making a bond between the proud, poor brother and the

rest of the rich and happy brotherhood who were strangers to him. Raymond

loved them all for the sake of this one. Nothing nourishes our hearts

like gratitude. It widens our space for love, and enlarges our capacity

for kindness; it creates a want in us to send the same happy thrills

through other hearts that are stirring our own. We overflow with love

to all in thankfulness for the love of one. This is often our only way

of giving thanks, and the good it does us is sometimes a more abiding

gain than the service that has called it forth. It was all this that

Raymond missed in Sir Simon. In losing his loving sense of gratefulness

he seemed to have lost some vital warmth in his own life. Now that the

source which had fed this gratitude was dried up, all that was tender and

kind and good in him seemed to be running dry or turning to bitterness.

The estrangement of one had estranged him from all; he was at war with

all humanity. Would any sacrifice of pride be too great to win back

the old sweet life, with its trust, and ready sympathy, and indulgent

kindness? Why should he not write to Sir Simon? He had asked himself

this many times, and had written many letters in imagination, and some

even in reality; but Angélique had found them torn up in the waste-paper

basket next morning, and had been surprised to see the fresh sheets of

note-paper, which she recognized as her master’s, wasted in that manner

and thrown away. He knew what he was doing, probably; it was not for her

to lecture him on such matters, but she could not help setting down the

unnatural extravagance as a part of the general something that was amiss

with her master.

One morning, however, after one of those white nights that gave rise to

so much discussion in the family, Raymond came down with his mind made

up to write a letter and send it. He could stand it no longer; he must

go to his friend and lay bare his heart to him, so that they might come

together again. If Sir Simon’s silence was an offence, Raymond’s was not

free from blame. He sat down and wrote. It was a long letter--several

sheets closely filled. When it was finished, and Raymond was folding it

and putting it into the envelope, he remembered that he did not know

where the baronet was. If he sent it to the Court, the servants would

recognize the handwriting and think it odd his addressing a letter there

in their master’s absence. He thought of forwarding it to Sir Simon’s

bankers; but then, again, how did matters stand at present between him

and them? He might have gone abroad and not left them his address, and

the letter might remain there indefinitely. While Raymond was debating

what he should do he closed up and stamped the blank envelope, making it

ready to be addressed; then he laid it on the top of his writing desk,

and wrote a few lines to the bankers, requesting them to forward Sir

Simon’s address, if they had it or could inform him how a letter would

reach him.

He seemed relieved when this was done, and, for the first time for nearly

a month, called Franceline to come and write for him. She did so for a

couple of hours, and noticed with thankfulness that her father was in

very good, almost in high, spirits, laughing and talking a great deal, as

if elated by some inward purpose. Her glad surprise was increased when he

said abruptly:

“Now, my little one, run and put on thy bonnet, and we will go for a walk

in the park together.”

The day was cold, and there was a sharp wind blowing; but the sun was

very bright, and the park looked green and fresh and beautiful as they

entered it, she leaning on him with a fond little movement from time to

time and an exclamation of pleasure. He smiled on her very tenderly,

and chatted about all sorts of things as in the old days of a month ago

before the strange cloud had drawn a curtain between their lives. He

talked with great animation of his work, and the excitement it would be

to them both when it was published.

“We shall go to Paris for the publication, and then I will show thee the

wonderful sights of the great city: the Louvre, and the Museum of Cluny,

and many antiquities that will interest thee mightily; and we will go to

some fine _modiste_ and get thee a smart French bonnet, and thou wilt be

quite a little _élégante_!”

“Oh! how nice it will be, petit père,” cried Franceline, squeezing his

arm in childish glee; “and many learned men will be coming to see you,

will they not, and writing articles in praise of your great work?”

“Ha! Praise! I know not if it will all be praise,” said the author, with

a dubious smile. “Some will not approve of my views on certain historical

pets. I have torn the masks off many _soi-disant_ heroes, and replaced

others in the position that bigotry or ignorance has hitherto denied

them. I wonder what Simon will say to it all?”

Raymond smiled complacently as he said this. It was the first time he had

mentioned the baronet. Franceline felt as if a load were lifted off her,

and that all the mists were clearing away.

“He is sure to be delighted with it!” she exclaimed. “He always is,

even when he quarrels with you, petit père. I think he quarrels for the

pleasure of it; and then he is so proud of you!”

They walked as far as the house, and then Raymond said it was time to

turn back; it was too cold for Franceline to stay out more than half an

hour.

An event had taken place at The Lilies in their absence. The postman had

been there and had brought a letter. Raymond started when Angélique met

him at the door with this announcement, adding that she had left it on

the chimney-piece.

He went straight in and opened it. It was from Sir Simon. After

explaining in two lines how Clide de Winton had arrived in time to save

him at the last hour, the writer turned at once to Raymond’s troubles.

Nothing could be gentler than the way he approached the delicate

subject. “Why should we be estranged from one another, Raymond? Do you

suppose I suspect you? And what if I did? I defy even that to part us.

The friendship that can change was never genuine; ours can know no

change. I have tried in every possible way to account satisfactorily

for your strange, your suicidal behavior on that night, and I have

not succeeded. I can only conclude that you were beside yourself with

anxiety, and over-excited, and incapable of measuring the effect of your

refusal and your conduct altogether. But admitting, for argument’s sake,

that you did take it; what then? There is such a thing as momentary

insanity from despair, as the delirium of a sick and fevered heart.

At such moments the noblest men have been driven to commit acts that

would be criminal if they were not mad. It would ill become _me_ to

cast a stone at _you_--I, who have been no better than a swindler these

twenty years past! Raymond, there can be no true friendship without

full confidence. We may give our confidence sometimes without our love

following; but when we give our love, our confidence must of necessity

follow. When we have once given the key of our heart to a friend, we have

given him the right to enter into it at all times, to read its secrets,

to open every door, even that, and above that, behind which the skeleton

stands concealed. You and I gave each other this right when we were boys,

Raymond; we have used it loyally one towards the other ever since, and I

have done nothing to forfeit the privilege now. All things are arranged

by an overruling Providence, and God is wise as he is merciful; yet I

cannot forbear asking how it is that I should have been saved from

myself, and that you should not have been delivered from temptation--you,

whose life has been one long triumph of virtue over adversity! It will be

all made square one day; meantime, I bless God that the weaker brother

has been mercifully dealt with and permitted to rescue the nobler and the

worthier one. The moment I hear from you I will come to Dullerton, and

you and Franceline must come away with me to the south. I will explain

when we meet why this letter has been so long delayed.” Then came a

postscript quite at the bottom of the page: “Send that wretched bauble

to me in a box, addressed to my bankers. Rest assured of one thing: you

shall be cleared before men as you already are before a higher and a more

merciful tribunal.”

Many changes passed over Raymond’s countenance as he read this letter;

but when his eye fell on the postscript, the smile that had hovered

between sadness, tenderness, and scorn subsided into one of almost

saturnine bitterness, and a light gathered in his eyes that was not

goodly to see. But the feelings which these signs betrayed found no other

outward vent. M. de la Bourbonais quietly and deliberately tore up the

letter into very small pieces, and then, instead of throwing them into

the waste-paper basket, he dropped them into the grate. The fire was low;

he took the poker and stirred it to make a blaze, and then watched the

flame catching the bits one by one and consuming them.

“It is fortunate I did not send mine!” was his mental congratulation as

he turned to his desk, intending to feed the dying flame with two more

offerings. But where were they? Raymond pushed about his papers, but

could not find either of the letters. Angélique was called. Had she seen

them?

“Oh! yes; I gave them both to the postman,” she explained, with a nod of

her flaps that implied mystery.

“How both? There was only one to go. The other had no address on it,”

said Raymond.

“I saw it, M. le Comte.” Another mysterious nod.

“And yet you gave it to the postman?”

“Yes. I am a discreet woman, as M. le Comte knows, and he might have

trusted me to keep a quiet tongue in my head; but monsieur knows his own

affairs best,” added Angélique in an aggrieved tone.

“My good Angélique, explain yourself a little more lucidly,” said M. de

la Bourbonais with slight impatience. “What could induce you to give the

postman a letter that had neither name nor address on it?”

“Bless me! I thought M. le Comte did not wish me to know who he was

writing to!”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Raymond, too annoyed to notice the absurdity

of the reply. “But how could the postman take it when he saw it was a

blank envelope?”

“I did not let him see it; I slipped the two with my own hands into the

bag,” said Angélique.

M. de la Bourbonais moved his spectacles, and shrugged his shoulders in

a way that was expressive of anything but gratitude for this zeal. He

hesitated a moment or two, debating what he should do. The only way to

ensure getting back his letter immediately was to go off himself to the

post-office, and claim it before it was taken out to be stamped with

the postmark, when it would be opened in order to be returned to the

writer. There might be no harm in its being opened; the postmaster was

not a French scholar that Raymond knew of, but he might have a friend at

hand who was, and who would be glad to gratify his curiosity, as well as

exhibit his learning, by reading the count’s letter.

Raymond set off at once, so as to prevent this. It was the first time

for some weeks that he had shown himself in or near the town; and if his

mind had not been so full of his errand, he would have been painfully

conscious and shy at finding himself abroad in open daylight in his old

haunts and within the observation of many eyes that knew him. But he did

not give this a thought; he was calculating the chances for and against

his arriving at the post-office before the postman had come back from

his rounds and handed in the out-going letters to be marked, and his

imagination was running on to the wildest conclusions in the event of his

being too late. He walked as if for a wager; not running, but as near to

it as possible. The pace and his intense look of preoccupation attracted

many glances that he would have escaped had he walked on quietly at his

ordinary pace. He was not a minute too soon, however, just coming up

as the postman appeared with his replenished bag. M. de la Bourbonais

hastened to describe the shape and color of his blank envelope, and

to explain how it had come to be where it was, and was most emphatic

in protesting that he did not mean the letter to go, and that he was

prepared to take any steps to prevent its going. There was no need to be

so earnest, about it. The postmaster assured him at once that the letter

would be forthcoming in a moment, and that his word would be quite enough

to identify it and ensure its being returned to him. It seemed an age to

Raymond while the letters were being turned out and sorted, but at last

the man held up the blank envelope, with its queen’s head in the corner,

and exclaimed jubilantly: “Here it is!”

The count seized it with avidity, and hurried away, leaving the

postmaster half-amused, half-mystified, at his excited volubility and

warm expressions of thanks. There was no necessity to rush home at

the same pace that he had rushed out, but Raymond felt like a machine

wound up to a pitch of velocity that must be kept up until the wheel

stopped of its own accord. His hat was drawn over his eyes, and his head

bent like a person walking on mechanically, neither seeing nor hearing

what might be going on around him. He was soon beyond the streets and

shop-windows, and back amidst the fields and hedges. There was a clatter

of horses coming down the road. M. de la Bourbonais saw two gentlemen

on horseback approaching. He recognized them, even in the distance, at

a glance: Sir Ponsonby Anwyll and Mr. Charlton. Raymond’s heart leaped

up to his throat. What would they do? Stop and speak, or cut him dead?

A few seconds would decide. They were close on him now, but showed no

sign of reining in to speak. Ponsonby Anwyll raised his hat in a formal

salutation; Mr. Charlton looked straight before him and rode on. All the

blood in his body seemed to rush at the instant to Raymond’s face. He

put his hand to his forehead and stood to steady himself; then he walked

home, never looking to the right or the left until he reached The Lilies.

Angélique called out from the kitchen window to know if he had made

it right about the letter; but he took no heed of her, only walked in

and went straight up to his room. She heard him close the door. There

certainly was something queer come to him of late. What did he want,

going to shut himself in his bedroom this time of day, and then passing

her without answering?

Franceline was in the study, busy arranging some primroses and wild

violets that she had been gathering under the hedge while her father

was out. A noise as of a body falling heavily to the ground in the room

overhead made her drop the flowers and fly up the stairs. Angélique had

hastened from the kitchen to ask what was the matter; but a loud shriek

rang through the house in answer to her question.

“Angélique, come! O my God! Father! father!”

Raymond was lying prostrate on the floor, insensible, while Franceline

lifted his head in her arms, and kissed him and called to him. “Oh! What

has happened to him? Father! father! speak to me. O my God! is he dead?”

she cried, raising her pale, agonized face to the old servant with a

despairing appeal.

“No! no! Calm thyself! He has but fainted; he is not dead,” said

Angélique, feeling her master’s pulse and heart. “See, put thy hand here

and feel! If he were dead, it would not beat.”

Franceline laid her finger on the pulse. She felt the feeble beat; it

was scarcely perceptible, but she could feel it.

“We must lift him on to the bed,” said Angélique, and she grasped the

slight form of her master with those long, brown arms of hers, and laid

it gently on the bed, Franceline assisting as she might.

“Now, my petite, thou wilt be brave,” said the faithful creature,

forgetting herself in her anxiety to spare and support Franceline. “Thou

wilt stay here and do what is necessary whilst I run and fetch the

doctor.”

She poured some eau-de-cologne into a basin of water, and desired her

to keep bathing her father’s forehead and chafing his hands until she

returned. This, after loosing his cravat and letting in as much air as

possible, was all her experience suggested.

Franceline sat down and did as she was told; but the perfect stillness,

the deathlike immobility of the face and the form, terrified her. She

suspended the bathing to breathe on it, as if her warm breath might bring

back consciousness and prove more potent than the cold water. But Raymond

remained insensible to all. The silence began to oppress Franceline like

a ghastly presence; the cooing of her doves outside sounded like a dirge.

Could this be death? His pulse beat so faintly she hardly knew whether it

was his or the pulse of her own trembling fingers that she felt. A chill

of horror came over her; the first vague dread was gradually shaping

itself in her mind to the most horrible of certainties. If he should

never awake, never speak again, never open those closed eyes on her with

the old tender glance of love that had been as familiar and unfailing as

the sunlight to her! Oh! what a fearful awakening came with this first

realization of that awful possibility. What vain shadows, what trivial

empty things, were those that she had until now called sorrows! What a

joy it would be to take them all back again, and bear them, increased

tenfold in bitterness, to the end of her life, if this great, this real

sorrow might be averted! Franceline dropped on her knees beside the

bed, and, clasping her hands, sent up one of those cries that we all of

us find in our utmost need, when there is only God who can help us: “O

Father! thy will be done. But if it be possible, … if it be possible, …

let this cup pass from me!”

There were steps on the stairs. It was Angélique come back. She had only

been ten minutes away--the longest ten minutes that ever a trembling

heart watched through--but Franceline knew she could not have been to the

doctor’s and back so quickly. “I met M. le Vicaire just at the end of the

lane, and he is gone for the doctor; he was riding, so he will be there

in no time.”

Then she made Franceline go and fetch hot water from the kitchen, and

busied her in many little ways, under pretence of being useful, until Dr.

Blink’s carriage was heard approaching. The medical man was not alone;

Mr. Langrove and Father Henwick accompanied him.

Angélique drew the young girl out of her father’s room, and sent her to

stay with Father Henwick, while the doctor, assisted by Mr. Langrove and

herself, attended to M. de la Bourbonais.

“Oh! what is it? Did the doctor tell you?” she whispered, her dark eyes

preternaturally dilated in their tearless glance, as she raised it to

Father Henwick’s face.

“He could say nothing until he had seen him. Tell me, my dear child, did

your father ever have anything of this sort happen him before?” inquired

Father Henwick, as unconcernedly as he could.

“Never, never that I heard of, unless it may have been when I was too

little to remember,” said Franceline; and then added nervously, “Why?”

“Thank God! It is safe, then, not to be so serious,” was the priest’s

hearty exclamation. “Please God, you will see him all right again soon;

he has been overdoing of late, working too hard, and not taking air or

exercise enough. The blade has been wearing out the sheath--that’s what

it is; but Blink will pull him through with God’s help.”

“Father,” said Franceline, laying both hands on his arm with an

unconscious movement that was very expressive, “do you know it seems to

me as if I were only waking up, only beginning to live now. Everything

has been unreal like a dream until this. Is it a punishment for being so

ungrateful, so rebellious, so blind to the blessings that I had?”

“If it were, my child, punishment with God is only another name for

mercy,” said Father Henwick. “Our best blessings come to us mostly in

the shape of crosses. Perhaps you were not thankful enough for the great

blessing of your father’s love, for his health and his delight in you;

perhaps you let your heart long too much for other things; and if so,

God has been mindful of his foolish little one, and has sent this touch

of fear to teach her to value more the mercies that were vouchsafed to

her, and not to pine for those that were denied. We seldom see things in

their true proportions until the shadow of death falls on them.”

“The shadow of death!” echoed Franceline, her white lips growing still

whiter. “Oh! if it be but the shadow, my life will be too short for

thanksgiving, were I to live to the end of the world.”

“Ha! here they come,” said Father Henwick, opening the study-door as he

heard the doctor’s steps, followed by Mr. Langrove’s, on the stair.

Franceline went forward to meet them; she did not speak, but Dr. Blink

held out his hand in answer to her questioning face, and said cheerfully:

“The count is much better; he has recovered consciousness, and is doing

very nicely, very nicely indeed for the present. Come! there is nothing

to be frightened at, my dear young lady.”

Franceline could not utter a word, not even to murmur “Thank God!” But

the dead weight that had been pressing on her heart was lifted, she

gasped for breath, and then the blessed relief of tears came.

“My poor little thing! My poor Franceline!” said the vicar, leading

her gently to a chair, and smoothing the dark gold hair with paternal

kindness.

“Let her cry; it will do her good,” said Dr. Blink kindly; and then he

turned to speak in a low voice to Father Henwick and Mr. Langrove.

He had concluded, from the incoherent account which Mr. Langrove had

gathered from Angélique, that he should come prepared for a case of

apoplexy, and had brought all that was necessary to afford immediate

relief. He had recourse to bleeding in the first instance, and it had

proved effective. M. de la Bourbonais was, as he said, doing very well

for the present. Consciousness had returned, and he was calm and free

from suffering. Franceline was too inexperienced to understand where the

real danger of the attack lay. She fancied that, since her father had

regained consciousness, there could be nothing much worse than a bad

fainting fit, brought on by fatigue of mind and body, and, now that the

Rubicon was past, he would soon be well, and she would take extra care

of him, so as to prevent a relapse. Her passionate burst of tears soon

calmed down, and she rose up to thank her visitors with that queenly

self-command that formed so striking a part of her character.

“I am very grateful to you for coming so quickly; it was very good of

you,” she said, extending her hand to Dr. Blink: “May I go to him now?”

“No, no, not just yet,” he replied promptly. “I would rather he were left

perfectly quiet for a few hours. We will look in on him later; not that

it is necessary, but we shall be in the neighborhood, and may as well

turn in for a moment.” He wished them good-afternoon, and was gone.

“And how did you happen to come in just at the right moment?” said

Franceline, turning to Father Henwick. “It did not occur to me before how

strange it was. Was it some good angel that told you to come to me, I

wonder?”

“The very thing! You have hit it to a nicety!” said Mr. Langrove. “It was

an angel that did it.”

“Yes,” said Father Henwick, falling into the vicar’s playful vein, “and

the odd thing was that he came riding up to my house on a fat Cumberland

pony! Now, we all know S. Michael has been seen on a white charger, but

this is the first time, to my knowledge, that an angel was ever seen

mounted on a Cumberland pony.”

“Dear Mr. Langrove, how good of you!” said Franceline, with moistened

eyes, and she pressed his hand.

“Had you not better come out with me now for a short walk?” said the

vicar. “I sha’n’t be more than half an hour, and it will do you good.

Come and have early tea at the vicarage, and we will walk home with you

before Blink comes back. What do you say?”

“Oh! I think I had better not go out, I feel so shaken and tired; and

then papa might ask for me, you know. I shall not go near him unless he

does, after what Dr. Blink said.”

“Well, perhaps it is as well for you to keep quiet. Good-by, dear. I will

look in on you this evening.”

“And so will I, my child,” said Father Henwick, laying his broad hand on

her head; and the two gentlemen left the cottage together.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE FRIENDS OF EDUCATION.

To pass from the discussion of arguments to the question of motives is

a most common yet most unjustifiable manœuvre of popular debate. This

is usually done when the field of calm and logical reasoning has become

tolerably clear. The flank movement is attempted as a final struggle

against defeat otherwise inevitable. If the motive thus impugned be

really indefensible; if it be, at the same time, glaring or manifest, a

positive advantage is sometimes gained by a vigorous diversion from the

real object of contention. But if such a motive has to be alleged--or,

still worse, invented--the demonstration against it, however violent, is

but a reluctant and ungracious acknowledgment of defeat and a flight from

the real point at issue. The most recent instance of this sort is taking

place before the American public, and has been afforded by those who

endeavor to represent Catholics as opposed to free and liberal education,

thereby attainting the motives of the position which Catholics have been

forced to assume with regard to what are falsely called “common” schools.

This attitude of our opponents, however, we regard not without

complacency. Our object is not war, but peace and good-will among

citizens. We hail the present violent misrepresentation as a sign

that the enemy is close to the “last ditch,” and that the discussion

approaches its conclusion. When this final effort to distort the Catholic

object and to asperse the Catholic character has exhausted itself and

been held up to the inspection of the American people, we shall have

seen the end of the “school question.” We insist upon an improvement in

our educational system which is necessary to perfect its character and

to satisfy the requirements of the times. The present system does not

meet the wishes of a very large portion of the community, is unfair to

others besides Catholics, and is out of harmony with the spirit of free

institutions. A system is wanted which shall at least be equal to that of

monarchical countries, fair to all citizens alike, and which will relieve

Catholics from the double burden of educating their own children, besides

paying for a system of education of which they cannot conscientiously

avail themselves.

The correctness of the Catholic position is so manifest, and is so

rapidly gaining the recognition of all thoughtful classes, that those who

are unwilling to allow Catholics equal rights as citizens are forced, in

order to hide the truth, not only to maintain that the present system

is absolutely perfect and incapable of any improvement, but to accuse

Catholics of harboring ideas of which they are not only innocent, but

which it would be wholly impossible for them to entertain--such as

that they are afraid of the light; that they attack the present system

because they are inimical to all education; and that their object is, if

possible, to do away with it altogether. Accusations similar to these

are daily repeated, garnished with rhetoric, and sent forth to alarm our

fellow-citizens and to encourage them to turn a deaf ear to whatever

Catholics may say. The weak point of this movement against us is that

the people will notice that it does not deal at all with the validity

of Catholic claims, and that it shirks the only question at issue. They

will be led to suspect that it is emphatically a “dodge”; and the mere

suspicion of this will awaken curiosity as to what Catholics really have

to say--a curiosity fatal to the success of the flank attack.

In the language of those who advance the charge with which we propose

to deal, education means either primary instruction in the elements of

knowledge, or else higher academic culture, such as is to be furnished

by colleges and universities. If, therefore, Catholics are hostile to

education, in this sense of the word, they must be opposed either to

the general spread of such information as is aimed at in elementary and

normal schools, or to the existence and growth of the higher institutions

of science and art.

We are perfectly aware that there is another meaning given to the word

education, to which reference is made, simply in order to avoid obscurity.

Philosophers of the class to which Mr. Huxley belongs understand by

education a certain specific course of moral and intellectual training,

the aim of which is to ensure its pupils against ever being affected by

“theological tendencies.” Such impressions are to be made upon childhood,

and matured in more advanced stages, as will rid men of that natural

but awkward habit of reasoning from cause to effect; which will free

them from all hope of any life but the present, and any fear of future

responsibility, in order that they may be impelled to devote themselves

solely to the analysis and classification of material phenomena, since

this is the only purpose of man’s existence--such a course of spiritual

defloration as was practised upon the tender and noble genius of the late

John Stuart Mill, the results of which, as manifested by the revelation

of his biography, afford, in the words of an ingenuous, critic, “a most

unpleasant spectacle.” A process of this kind is not education; it is a

heartrending and lamentable destruction of that which is noblest and

most essential in man, and as a definition has not yet obtained a place

in the English language.

If any of our readers would care to know our own ultimate definition

of education, we should describe it as the complete and harmonious

development of all the powers of man in reference to his true end. But

for present purposes it is sufficient to adopt the ordinary sense of the

word, as meaning the diffusion of knowledge by scholastic exercises in

academies and colleges.

If it appears singular to enlightened Protestants to hear a demand for

circumscription and discouragement of Catholics, and, if possible, the

suppression of religious education, from that faction whose motto is

“Liberty and Light,” we trust that it will seem none the less paradoxical

to hear the charge of favoring ignorance urged with most vehemence

against us by those whose boast, up to within a few years, has been “a

ministry without education, and a way to heaven without grammar.”

The first demand does not in the least surprise us, coming, as it does,

from a crude and undigested assumption of the principles of European

radicalism. We have seen its consistency illustrated by madmen chasing,

robbing, and killing one another to the cry of “liberty, equality,

fraternity.” We understand what it is to be assaulted by this party,

which knows not how to act except in the way of destruction, which is

never at rest except in the midst of agitation, and never at peace, so to

speak, except when at war.

Nor is it strange to see an attempt against Catholics made outside the

field of theological controversy, inasmuch as the result of controversy

for the past two centuries has tended rather to the disintegration of

Protestantism than to the conversion of Catholics to the new faith. Nor

is it surprising to find this assault directed against the equal rights

of Catholics in education; for here some earnest but short-sighted men

imagine that there is not simply ground to be gained, but that the

present system is a stronghold not to be given up. It is a stronghold,

truly, but rather of infidelity than of Protestantism.

But educated Protestants and heathen will marvel with us that the attack

has been made on the theory that Protestantism is the born friend, and

Catholicity the natural enemy of education, knowing as well as we the

fatal evidence of history.

The contempt for education which, until more recent times, has always

existed, to a certain extent, among the orthodox Protestants, was founded

upon their erroneous doctrines of the total depravity of human nature,

the consequent invalidity of human reason, and the principle of private

illumination.

When Luther said, “The god Moloch, to whom the Jews immolated their

children, is to-day represented by the universities” (_Wider den

Missbrauch der Messe_), it was not simply on the ground of the

universities being centres of association for boisterous and disorderly

youth, or fortresses of the ancient faith, but because of that “pagan and

impious science” which was taught in them.

In his furious onslaught against them Luther was sustained by his

well-known hatred of anything which tended to assert the prerogatives

of human nature or the dignity of reason. No man was ever more

intemperate in denunciation than this so-called “liberator of humanity

and emancipator of human reason.” “True believers strangle reason,” said

he; and he never alluded to it except in terms of most outrageous abuse.

The last sermon of his at Wittenberg[253] is monumental in this respect;

and his well-known reply to the Anabaptists is one of the most startling

examples of his intensely idiomatic style.[254]

The feelings of the master were fully communicated to the disciples. The

results were fearful. The free schools which existed in every city were

overturned by the very men whom they had educated; the _gymnasia_ were in

many places wholly destroyed, in others so reduced as never to recover

their former position.

At Wittenberg itself the two preachers, Spohr and Gabriel Didymus,

announced from the pulpit that the study of science was not simply

useless but noxious, and that it was best to do away with the colleges

and schools. The upshot was to change the academy of that city into a

bakery. Similar measures were carried into effect throughout the entire

duchy of Anspach. The history of the Reformation by Dr. Döllinger gives a

long list of the numerous scholars, rectors of high schools and colleges,

who were driven into exile, and also details a minute account of many of

the institutions which were destroyed.

The statements of Erasmus, as to the disastrous results of the

Reformation on studies, are constant and numberless. They may

be formulated in a sentence of one of his letters to Pirkheimer

(1538): “_Ubicumque regnat Lutheranismus, ibi litterarum est

interitus_”--“Wherever Lutheranism reigns, there is the destruction of

letters.”

The testimony of Sturm, Schickfuss, Bucer, and others is no less

forcible. Luther and Melancthon in later days seem to have been appalled

by their own work, and George Major thus sums up the melancholy condition

of things in his own day: “Thanks to the wickedness of men and the

contempt which we ourselves have shown for studies, the schools have more

than ever need of patrons and protectors to save them from ruin, and to

prevent us from falling into a state of barbarism worse than that of

Turks and Muscovites.”

The interesting works of the Benedictines of St. Maur of the XVIIIth

century, the Bollandists, and the collections of a few other Catholic

scholars have preserved nearly all the material that is left from which

to construct the history of the middle ages, so thorough was the work

of destruction done on libraries by the Calvinists and Huguenots. The

Bodleian library is but a fragment--a few torn leaves of the literature

which was weeded out of England by the enlightened zeal of the

much-married father of Anglicanism.

“What mad work this Dr. Coxe did in Oxon, while he sat chancellor, by

being the chief man that worked a reformation there, I have elsewhere

told you,” says Anthony Wood “To return at length to the royal delegates,

some of whom yet remained in Oxford, doing such things as did not

at all become those who professed to be learned and Christian men.

For the principal ornaments, and at the same time supports, of the

university--that is, the libraries, filled with innumerable works, both

native and foreign--they permitted or directed to be despoiled.… Works

of scholastic theology were sold off among those exercising the lowest

description of arts; and those which contained circles or diagrams it

was thought good to mutilate or burn, as containing certain proof of the

magical nature of their contents.”

What was left undone by the royal delegates was thoroughly attended to by

the Puritans, who never did their work by halves, and whose views with

regard to the Bible and literature bore a close resemblance to those of

the early Mohammedans in their comparative estimate of the Koran and

secular writings.

For a full account of the effect of the revolution of the XVIth century

on learning, people who may suspect Catholic writers of exaggeration can

compare their statements with those of the learned Protestant Huber, in

his exhaustive history of the universities. Even “honest Latimer,” who

certainly was not a zealot for profane learning, lifted up his voice in

complaint: “It would pity a man’s heart to hear that that I hear of the

state of Cambridge; what it is in Oxford I cannot tell.” How it was at

Oxford we have already seen. Throughout the length and breadth of the

land the monastic schools, which were asylums both of mercy and learning,

were destroyed; the mere list of their names, as given by the Protestant

historian Cobbett, occupies one hundred and forty-five pages of his

work. The present condition of the lower classes in England, which is

due to their being thus deprived of means of education and assistance

in distress, is the Nemesis of the Reformation. In listening to the

demand that the government shall dispossess the present landlords as

it despoiled the churchmen of old, we hear arguments of fearful power

as to the extent of eminent domain. When it is asked why the crown and

people shall not exercise for the common good the prerogative which was

conceded and exercised formerly for the benefit of the crown alone, the

present holders of property acquired by sacrilege may well take alarm

at the progress of revolutionary ideas. And the question as to how far

the people were forcibly deprived of the benefits of a trust vested for

them in the church, may be decided “without constitutional authority and

through blood.” God avert such a calamity from England! May the prayers

of Catholic martyrs, of More and Fisher, intercede in her behalf, and

save her from the consequences of that act, to prevent which, these,

her truest sons, did not hesitate to offer up their lives! However,

with these facts in view, it is scarcely wise for English Protestantism

to assume the position of a necessary and perpetual friend of popular

education. It is best to wait until the ink has become dry which has

scored from the statute book of that realm the law making it felony to

teach the alphabet to Catholics.

It would be gratifying to us to contrast with the conduct of the authors

of Protestantism that of the great educators of Europe who laid the

foundations of our civilization. A fierce and violent revolution has

turned that civilization aside, and introduced into it principles of

anarchy and death. A shallow and ungrateful era has failed to perceive

and to acknowledge its debts. It is only in the pages of scholars such

as Montalembert, the Protestants Maitland and Huber, and the author of

that recent modest but most charming book entitled _Christian Schools and

Scholars_, that we begin to notice a thoughtful inquiry into the history

of our intellectual development. The masters slumber in forgetfulness

and oblivion. We know not the builders of the great structures of the

middle ages; and people generally know almost as little of its great

intellectual and social system. The history of the human race for a

thousand years of most intense activity is summed up in a few unmeaning

words.

Time and space fail for such a comparison. But the fact that the first

Protestants found themselves educated, the fact that they found schools

to denounce and to destroy, in the XVIth century, is sufficient to

justify us with regard to history prior to that date.

It would also be a pleasure to describe the progress of those magnificent

bodies of Catholic educators which rose, under divine inspiration, as a

check to the wave of revolution, and whose successes first stimulated

the action of Protestants by the wholesome influence of fear. But this

also is beyond our compass. We are ready to discuss the charge that

Catholics are opposed to education, independently of all reference to

Protestantism, by the test of positive facts, and to stand or fall by the

Catholic record in modern times.

It is not necessary to cross the ocean or to visit countries where the

munificence of ages has endowed the universities of Catholic lands; as,

for instance, the seven great universities of the Papal States--Ferrara,

Bologna, Urbino, Macerata, Camerino, Perugia, and Rome, each containing

thousands of students. Nor is it necessary to remind the reader that

the great Protestant universities, and notably those of England, are,

to use the expression of a distinguished Anglican prelate, “a legacy

of Catholicism.” The charge that Catholics are opposed to university

education is simply laughable, considering that the university is

essentially a Catholic idea, and has never, even in Europe, been

successfully counterfeited.

It is not necessary, although it may be instructive, to refer to the

free schools of the city of Rome, which, according to the testimony of

a Protestant traveller, thirty years ago surpassed even those of Berlin

in efficiency and relative number. They were, before the recent seizure

by the Piedmontese government, the most numerous in proportion to the

population and the most varied in character of any city in the world.

They presented to their scholars the choice of day or night with regard

to time, and prepared them for every profession, art, and trade. This

matchless variety was doubtless the result of centuries of growth; but it

was also the spontaneous outcome of zeal for education, and laid not a

penny of taxation upon the people. So high was the standard of gratuitous

education that private schools, at the beginning of the reign of our Holy

Father Pius IX., had to struggle hard in order to retain the patronage

of the wealthy classes. At that time there were in Rome 27 institutions

and 387 schools for free education. Of these last, 180 were for little

children of both sexes. Of the remainder, 94 were devoted to males and

113 to females. The total number of pupils in elementary schools amounted

to 14,157, of which number 3,790 were of the infant class. Of those more

advanced, 5,544 were males and 4,823 females. In elementary schools,

_purely gratuitous_, 7,579 received education--viz., 3,952 boys and 3,627

girls.

There appears, however, in Cardinal Morichini’s report, a feature which

has never yet been introduced into the American system--to wit, in

_schools paying a small pension_ there were 1,592 boys and 1,196 girls;

making a total in such schools of 2,788. This last item may furnish a

hint to those who are anxious to secure the attendance of poor children

in our own schools; although it is scarcely practicable where common

education has to be provided by taxation alone. Of these 387 schools to

which we have referred, 26 belonged to religious communities of men,

and 23 to religious communities of women. The rest belonged to, or were

conducted by, seculars. Besides these, 2,213 children of both sexes

received free instruction in special conservatories.

In addition to this system of free primary education, there was the vast

system of colleges and academies connected with the university, the

advantages of which were at the command of the most limited and humble

means.

It would be interesting to ask some of the high-school graduates in this

country the simple historical question, “Who, in modern times; have done

most for free education?” General Grant has doubtlessly contributed

liberally towards it; so, it is to be presumed, has Mr. Blaine; so have

many other distinguished lecturers on the subject of education. But

if the question is rightly answered, the date will have to be assigned

much earlier, and St. Joseph Calasanctius, Venerable de la Salle,

Catherine McAuley, and a hundred thousand other “Papists” will have to

take precedence of our illustrious fellow-citizens. The spectacle of

one Christian Brother, or Ursuline Nun, or Sister of Mercy whose life

is devoted to the instruction of the poor, with no recompense but the

sweet privilege of being worn out in the service of fellow-men for the

sake of Jesus Christ--such a spectacle as was afforded by the gifted

Gerald Griffin, or by Mother Seton in our own country, and is daily shown

among us by thousands of calm, intelligent men and amiable women, in the

various religious orders--this is a testimony to education which none but

Catholics can produce. And yet these men and women, these bright martyrs

of charity, are they whom it is thought good to attack by every means

within the reach of calumny.

Let it be understood that we do not overlook the efforts made by

noble men and women in the ranks of Protestantism. Though few, and

insignificant in intensity of zeal when compared with the daily and

common sacrifices made by Catholics, nevertheless it must be borne in

mind that these isolated attempts have been ineffectual, save only in

so far as they have produced imperfect copies of the great works of

Catholicity. Protestantism, as such, has never prompted or organized

any great attempt at general free primary education. Indeed, it might

be safely challenged to produce any instance of the kind. And if the

American people to-day were to be seized with remorse for its injustice

towards Catholics, and to propose immediately to do away with all public

schools, we should object most strongly on the ground that no adequate

means would then exist for the education of Protestant children. The

problem of general education has never been faced by Protestantism. The

system of godless education is an extremely modern and thoroughly pagan

idea. If it has found favor among the leaders of Protestantism, this

has been because they have accepted it as a solution of the educational

problem; not having given the matter sufficient attention to observe the

ruinous effect which it is producing on themselves.

From similar thoughtlessness comes their maintenance of the present

system. It is a comparatively cheap solution, as far as individuals are

concerned. It calls for no sacrifices. It is supposed to be sufficiently

Protestant as long as the Bible is read in the schools. But if the

present movement of the infidel party succeeds, and the “common” schools

are reduced to purely irreligious institutions, the matter will soon

force itself upon Protestant attention. We are convinced that they will

perceive that Catholics have given the subject much more consideration

than they supposed, and have been right throughout. Many of them will

regret having misunderstood our views, and will be prepared to endorse

the proposition that such schools are subversive of Christianity and

demoralizing in their tendency. They will then endeavor to repair the

evils which may still result from their ill-judged neglect of Catholic

remonstrance. They will demand to be put upon at least an equal footing

with infidels, probably with as much vehemence as Catholics have

demanded an equal footing for all citizens alike. If they find themselves

hopelessly debarred from this by the radical changes in the constitution

which some of their number are even now proposing, they will impeach

these amendments. This failing, they will find themselves in the position

in which Catholics now are. Then, for the first time in history, will

Protestantism have a fair chance to show how much it cares for education.

But, as already intimated, it is not necessary to cross the seas to

discover testimony in rebuttal of the gratuitous slander which is urged

against Catholics. Nor is there need to summon from the tomb the teachers

of those who founded the so-called Reformation, nor to institute an

historic comparison between the labors of Catholics and Protestants.

Still less need is there to attempt to penetrate the future as to what

Catholics may do for education when they are relieved of one-half of

their present twofold burden.

We live in the XIXth century and in America; and in this, very age and

country Catholics are doing more for education than is actually done

by any other denomination, and, in proportion to their numbers and

means, more than is done by all other denominations put together, which

outnumber Catholics by at least four to one--Catholics, forsooth, who are

impudently charged with being opposed to primary schools and collegiate

training!

This assertion will doubtless sound strangely in the ears of those who

have allowed themselves to remain in ignorance of the facts which we

shall presently adduce. But, in view of them, it will be acknowledged

that our statement is the most modest that can be made, and that, if

disposed to be boastful, we could increase it many fold without fear

of exaggeration. Catholics in this country have, it is true, no great

university such as those produced by the efforts and endowments of

generations. Besides the lack of time necessary for such a development,

two other causes have thus far prevented its origin. The first is the

poverty of Catholics here--not simply their lack of means--but the fact

that the extent of the country and the comparatively small number of very

wealthy families require that educational institutions of the higher

class should be plentifully distributed. Secondly, Catholic resources

have actually been applied to satisfy this condition of things. We

feel quite sanguine that, before the close of the century, in spite of

all disadvantages, a Catholic university of the very highest character

will be established here; but, without it, there exist at present, in

every city of importance throughout the Union, colleges which, for

scholarship, will fairly compete with the chartered universities of this

country, and which, in certain localities and in special departments,

will surpass their older and more pretentious rivals. Although these

colleges do not approach the ideal of a university--_i.e._, a great

city of learning, which can no more be built in a day than a great

commercial metropolis--nevertheless there is no reason to be ashamed of

our colleges. Scarcely one of them can be found which does not contain

the children of non-Catholics, sent thither by the preference of parents

and guardians. Our great academies for young ladies are recognized as

possessing advantages which are without a parallel; and, as a class, the

convent schools for girls are without even a rival, and contain a very

large proportion of Protestant children.

Nor are Catholics lacking in efforts to provide primary education for

Catholic children, although their efforts in this direction are sadly out

of proportion to their necessities. In higher intellectual culture the

wealthy are naturally interested. They must provide suitable education

for their children. To do this in every place is a most severe tax upon

them. Nevertheless, it has been their duty to accomplish this, and,

at the same time, to subscribe liberally toward the education of the

children of their poorer brethren.

The poorer classes, also, with less natural impulse to make sacrifices

for education, exposed to the temptation of hundreds of proselytizing

institutions, forced to pay also for the lavish expenditure of the

public schools, have had to bear the burden of procuring the necessary

instruction for their children without exposing them to sectarianism and

the scorn of their religion too often openly manifested in the “common”

schools. How far they have done their duty will presently be shown.

Honorable men shall judge whether they have or have not valued education.

But if it be suddenly discovered that they have valued it, let it be

acknowledged also that they have acted as Catholics and from the deepest

religious motives.

The general statistics of the Catholic Church in America are very

imperfect. Nevertheless, from the _Catholic Directory_ of 1875 a few

figures may be gleaned which will abundantly sustain the statements here

advanced. It is to be regretted that the statistics as given in the

_Directory_ are not more complete, those of some dioceses being quite

minute and exact, those of others very imperfect.

With regard to colleges and academies for higher education, there are,

under Catholic direction, in the United States, at least 540, with an

attendance of not less than 48,000 pupils. In dioceses of which both

the numbers of institutions and their attendance have been given there

are 270 institutions, with an attendance of 24,000. A mathematical

computation gives for the attendance in the others the amount which we

have allowed as a safe estimate--viz., a total attendance of no less than

48,000 souls. How does this appear to those who have listened hitherto

to the revilers of Catholics? Are we right in repelling their charge, or

are they right, who have nothing but their angry feelings with which to

sustain it?

If Catholics are wanting in zeal for education, the spirit of obstruction

is not apparent in their higher institutions. But, as we have said,

the mass of our people are poor. What provision have they made for

themselves, besides paying for the education of others?

The Catholic parochial schools are principally designed to supply the

need of Catholic education for the masses. It would be wrong, however, to

consider them as merely primary schools. Many of the parochial schools

are really high schools, and have a course of studies equal to the best

normal schools. Nevertheless, under the head of parish schools are not

included any of those already mentioned as colleges or academies. In

the Archdiocese of Cincinnati there are 140 parish schools, in which

are educated about 35,000 children free of cost to the State. In the

Archdiocese of New York there are 93 parish schools, with not less than

37,600 children. In the Diocese of Cleveland there are 100 parish schools

and 16,000 children. In some places the attendance of the Catholic

schools is fully equal to that of the public schools. So that in these

districts Catholics not only pay for the education of their own children,

but half the expenses of the public schools, and--supposing both systems

to be conducted with equal economy--enough to pay for the education

of all the other children as well as their own, _free of cost_ to

Protestants, Jews, and infidels. And yet Catholics are charged with being

hostile to education!

In the United States we have statistics of 1,400 parochial schools, the

given attendance at which amounts to 320,000 pupils. The entire number of

parish schools foots up 1,700, and the total figure of attendance may be

set down at 400,000 scholars. Add to this the number of 48,000 who are

being educated in colleges and academies, and farther increase the sum by

the probable number of children in asylums, reformatories, and industrial

schools, and there will appear something very like half a million of

scholars who are receiving their education at the expense of Catholics.

Taking into account Catholic numbers, Catholic means, and the time in

which Catholics have made these provisions for education, we can safely

challenge, not only every denomination singly, but all of them put

together, to show any corresponding interest in the matter of education,

whether elementary or scientific. This challenge is made, not in the

spirit of pride (though certainly without shame), but in the name of

truth and of generous rivalry to outstrip all others in the service

of humanity and our country. Let it stand as the fittest reply to the

disingenuous charge that Catholics are opposed to education.

The candid reader to whom these facts are new will use his own language

in characterizing the “flank movement” against Catholics, and will

be disposed to credit us with honesty and consistency in our open

criticism of the present hastily-adopted system of education. But we

are persuaded that he will also be led, if not to make, at least to

concur in, farther reflections on the facts which are here adduced. If

Catholics are actually providing instruction for so vast a number of the

people of the United States, is not this a very considerable saving to

the public? We think it is. The average cost of education in New York

City is $13 60 per child; in the State of New York, $11; in the United

States and Territories, $9 26. The saving represented by such a number

in our schools amounts, at the rate of New York City, to $6,800,000;

at the rate of the State of New York, to $5,500,000, and at the lowest

rate, to $4,630,000 per annum. In addition to this direct saving, we must

be credited with the amount of our taxes for the public schools. When

Catholics stand before the American people, and state the reasons why

they do not consider the present educational system that prevails here to

be either wise or just, they are not beggars in any sense. They ask for

no favor. They demand an equitable system of disbursing the funds raised

for education, so that no class of citizens shall be deprived of that for

which they are forced to contribute. They would arrange it so that none

could justly complain. As Catholics, we must have religion and morality

(which, whatever others may think, are to us inseparable) taught in the

schools to which we send our children. No time or place will ever alter

our convictions on this point. What we demand for ourselves we gladly

concede to others. We are ready to consult with them on a common and just

basis of agreement. Nothing is wanting for a harmonious settlement except

fairness on the part of our opponents. There is no flaw in our position,

no evil design in our heart, nor have we the slightest disposition to

drive a close bargain. Let the word be spoken. Let any of the Protestant

denominations make a step forward, intimate a desire for settlement on

the basis of equal justice to all, and Catholics are with them. But while

we thus maintain our demand as strictly just, whether it be received or

rejected, we are not debtors but creditors of the state. We not only ask

our fellow-citizens, Will you stand by and see us taxed for a system of

education of which we cannot conscientiously avail ourselves? but we

further ask, Can you, as honest men, disregard what Catholics are doing

for education? Do you want them not only to educate their own children,

thereby saving you this cost, but to educate yours also?

What kind of a soul has the man or the nation who would deliberately

resist such an appeal? The time will come when people will ask--as,

indeed, many do ask at present--“Why is not a louder outcry made for

the Catholics in the school question?” And the answer is that we feel

a certainty, which nothing can shake, that the American people are

intelligent enough to understand Catholics after a time; and when they

do understand them, they will be fair enough to do them justice.

In the meantime let the Catholic laborer pay not only for the education

of his own children at the parish school, and save this expense to

his rich neighbor; let him also pay for the same neighbor’s children,

not merely in primary schools, but in high schools, where ladies and

gentlemen (whom poverty does not drive to labor at the age when the poor

man’s children have to be apprenticed) may learn French and German and

music, and to declaim on the glorious principles of American liberty and

of the Constitution, under which all men are (supposed to be) free and

equal. We love to hear their young voices and hearty eloquence. Let these

institutions be costly in structure and furnished with every improvement.

Let the teachers have high salaries. Let gushing editors issue forth,

to manifest to the astonished world the wisdom and deep thought which

they have acquired at the expense of their humbler and self-sacrificing

neighbor. But let honest and thoughtful men ponder on the meaning of

American equality, and judge who are the true friends of education.

The wages of the laborers will be spent, if the shallowness and crude

imperfection of the present system are learned, and the spirit of equal

rights among citizens peacefully preserved; though the credit will belong

to those who have kept their calmness of mind and made the greatest

sacrifices.

The candid reader to whom we have alluded will readily admit that

Catholics are true friends of education, and are doing most for it

proportionately to their means; that, instead of suspicion and abuse,

they deserve respect, honor, and acknowledgment of their services.

We think, however, that our fellow-citizens will go much farther, and

will, in time, endorse our statement when we affirm that Catholics at

present, and as a body, are the only true friends of popular education.

By this is not meant simply to say that they have not been backward in

obtaining, by their intelligence and integrity, the highest positions in

the country; that they count as representatives such men as Chief-Justice

Taney, Charles O’Conor, a Barry at the head of the navy, a Sheridan and

a Rosecrans in the army, and others of the highest national and local

reputation; or that, when the Roman purple fell upon the shoulders of the

Archbishop of New York, it suffered no loss of dignity in touching a true

and patriotic American, well fitted to wear it in any court or academy

of Europe. But we do mean that, outside of the Catholic Church and those

who sympathize with our views on this subject, there is no body whose

representatives are not biassed in their plan for common education by

prejudice or hostility toward some other body.

With what utter disregard for the rights of conscience the infidel and

atheistic faction coolly avows its purpose to enforce a secular and

irreligious education upon all the people--a system known to be no less

antagonistic to the spirit of our democratic institutions than hostile to

the religious convictions of Catholics as well as Protestants! What loud

outcries and stormy denunciations echo from certain popular pulpits when

this faction demands the expulsion of the Bible from the public schools!

Is any person cool in the midst of this confusion? Is there any class of

citizens which looks to the common good and adheres to the principle of

equal regard for religious rights and education free for all? There are

such persons. There is such a class. Those are they who never shrink from

avowing their principles, and whose principles are always right, in spite

of temporary unpopularity--the representatives of the Catholic Church of

America.

When the excitement of the hour has died away, and the schemes of

politicians to gain power by fastening upon the country a system fatal to

liberty, and radical in its assault upon the spirit of our government,

have met their just fate, then we shall receive the honor due to those

who have defended the country from the danger of adopting partisan

measures aimed against a certain class of citizens.

We hope to live to see the day when there will not be a child in the

whole land capable of instruction who shall not receive a thorough

education, fitting him to be a patriotic citizen of our country, and,

at the same time, in nowise interfering with his religious duties.

The present system signally fails to accomplish this. Those who so

strenuously uphold its organization and attempt to make it compulsory

upon all are hostile to the genius of our institutions and fanatical

in their zeal. That they are not lovers of education is evident from

their own ignorance of facts. That they are in earnest when they charge

Catholics with hostility to education we can scarcely believe; for we

hear from the same lips hints and warnings against Catholic success in

education. We hear also that the Catholic Church is growing, and, unless

something is done to stop her, she will convert all the Protestants

in the country; and, still at other times, that she is an effete and

worn-out thing which cannot live through the century in a free republic.

At one time Catholics are derided as idiots; at another represented

as deep and insidious conspirators. There is scarcely anything which

is not affirmed or denied of them, according as it suits the mood of

their revilers. If our people were cooler and more dispassionate, we

should find all those calumnies answering one another. As it is, we are

constrained to pay them more or less attention, though the nature of the

testimony against us scarcely allows us to take up more than one point at

a time.

If Catholics or Methodists or Episcopalians or Baptists can give a

better and a cheaper education, we see no reason why the state should

interfere with those who choose to avail themselves of it. Let the state

set up any standard it may choose, or make it obligatory; Catholics

will cheerfully come up to it, no matter how high it may be, provided

equal rights are allowed to all. The government has a right to demand

that its voters shall possess knowledge. It has no right to say how or

where they shall acquire knowledge. The government is bound by public

policy to promote education. This is to be done by stimulating in this

department the same activity which has made Americans famous in other

branches of social economy, by encouraging spontaneous action, and not

by an ill-judged system of “protection” of one kind of education against

another, or by creating a state monopoly. Bespeaking candor and due

respect on the part of those who may differ from us, we take our stand on

what we conceive to be the true American ground, and are willing to abide

by the consequences--fair play, universal culture, obligatory knowledge,

non-interference of the state in religion, and free trade in education.

SUGGESTED BY A CASCADE AT LAKE GEORGE.

Not idly could I watch this torrent fall

Hour after hour; not vainly day by day

Visit the spot to meditate and pray.

The charm that holds me in its giant thrall

Has too much of the infinite to pall.

For though, like time, the waters pass away,

They fling a freshness, a baptismal spray,

Which breathes of the Eternal Fount of all.

And so, my God, does thy revealed word,

In living dogma or on sacred page,

Flow to us ever new; though read and heard

Immutably the same from age to age.

And thither Nature sends us to assuage

The higher longings by her voices stirred.

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

V.

Time glides rapidly by, leaving no footprints on the dreary road

over which it has passed, as the wild billows, rolling back into the

fathomless depths whence the tempest has called them forth, leave no

traces behind them. And so passes life--fleeting rapidly, noiselessly

away; while man, weary with striving, tortured by cares and unceasing

anxieties, is born, suffers, weeps, and in a day has withered, and, like

a fragile flower of the field, perishes from the earth.

Wolsey, fallen from the summit of prosperity, continued to experience a

succession of reverses. Unceasingly exposed to the malice of his enemies,

he struggled in vain against their constantly-increasing influence; and

if they failed in bringing about his death, they succeeded, at least,

in poisoning every moment of his existence. Thus, at the time even when

Henry VIII. had sent him a valuable ring as a token of amity, they forced

the king to despoil the wretched man of the valuable possessions which

they pretended to wish restored to him. He received one day from his

master a new assurance of his royal solicitude; the next, his resources

failing, he was obliged, for want of money, to dismiss his old servants

and remain alone in his exile.

Cromwell, with an incredible adroitness, had succeeded by degrees in

disengaging himself from the obligations he owed the cardinal, and

in making the downfall and misfortunes of his master serve to advance

his own interests. He had made numerous friends among the throng of

courtiers surrounding the king, in obtaining from the unhappy Wolsey his

recognition of the distribution which the king had made of his effects,

by adding the sanction of his own seal. After repeated refusals on the

part of the cardinal, he was at last successful in convincing him of

the urgent necessity for making this concession, in order to try, he

said with apparent sincerity, to lessen the animosity and remove the

prejudices they entertained against him. But, in reality, the intention

of Cromwell had been, by that manœuvre, to strip him of his entire

possessions; for the courtiers, being well aware their titles were not

valid under the law, were every moment afraid they might be called on to

surrender the gifts they had received, and consequently desired nothing

so much as to have the cardinal confirm them in their unjust possessions.

It was by means of this monstrous ingratitude that Cromwell purchased the

favor of the court, began to elevate himself near the king in receiving

new dignities and honors, and at length found himself saved from the

fate he had so greatly apprehended at the moment of his benefactor’s

downfall. Of what consequence was Wolsey to him now? Banished from his

archbishopric of York, he was but a broken footstool which Cromwell no

longer cared to remember. He scarcely deigned to employ his new friends

in having Wolsey (reduced to the condition of an invalid) removed from

the miserable abode at Asher to the better situated castle of Richmond;

and later, when the heads of the council, always apprehensive and uneasy

because of his existence, obtained his peremptory exile, he considered

this departure as completely liberating him from every obligation to his

old benefactor.

Events were thus following each other in rapid succession, when, toward

the middle of the day, the door of the king’s cabinet opened, and Sir

Thomas More, in the grand costume of lord chancellor, entered as had been

his custom.