THE MOTHER AND SON.
It was a strange and certainly not a very pleasant feeling to Eugene
to find himself thus secretly, as it were, in his mothers company. Her
agitation, however, had subsided. During the journey she was even
cheerful at times, and she made not the slightest allusion to the
subject which had disturbed her. On their arrival at home she busied
herself more than had ever been her wont in domestic and tenantry
affairs, and kept Eugene occupied in many ways. There was, he fancied,
a tenderness in her intercourse with him that he had rarely observed
before, though she had ever been to him a most loving mother. Some
weeks passed, and then a letter came which made Mrs. Godfrey turn pale
as she read it. Eugene, alarmed, rose and placed himself beside her.
"Is anything the matter, dearest mother?" he asked.
"Yes, no, yes! that is, they are coming home."
"And who are they who cause you this alarm?"
"Your father and Hester."
"My father! he has ever love you dearly! Mother, my dear mother, do
explain yourself!"
The poor lady laid her head on Eugene's shoulder, and wept. Eugene
tried in vain to soothe her. At length he said, "May I see the letter,
mother?"
"No, no; you will know its contents but too soon. Now, Eugene, answer
me: have I not loved you well? have I not been a good mother to you?"
"The best of mothers," said Eugene, caressingly.
{483}
"Then you love me somewhat--you would do something for me!"
"Anything in my power, dear mother. I would lay down my life for you."
"It is not your life I want you to relinquish, foolish boy, but your
_fancies_. Your father has taken most serious offense at your
religious demonstrations, and swears he will disinherit you unless you
recant. Unfortunately, although some of the estate is entailed, much
of it is not, and you will lose a princely fortune if you deny his
wish."
"What does he wish?"
"That you renounce _in toto_, all Catholic friends and all Catholic
opinions."
Eugene made no reply.
"Eugene, my only son, my best hope, my greatest joy, did it depend on
me I would not shackle your freedom of action; Christianity,
Mohammedanism, or any other _ism_, might be at your option. Your
happiness is my desire, and whatever I might think of your creed, I
would not let it stand between me and my love for you. But yet is not
thus with your father. He will not suffer a Catholic in his house."
She paused; still Eugene replied not. She went on: "Eugene, you would
not be the cause of my death! I feel you would not!"' and she threw
her arms about him. "Yet these divisions will surely kill me; I dare
not tell you how I have suffered during the last few weeks."
"I have seen it, dear mother, and though I only partly guessed the
cause, I deeply sympathize with your unhappiness."
"Then you will remedy it?"
"I do not see how just yet. Thought must be free. I dare not bind
myself to think at another's pleasure."
"But you need not declare your thoughts".
"Nay, mother, I must be free: free to think, free to act according to
the dictates of my conscience. I learned this necessity from yourself,
dear mother; do not now belie your own teachings. You told me ever to
seek the truth, and to act upon it when found. I will not bind myself
to follow another course, were a kingdom to be the purchase of the
compromise."
"Or your mother's love, Eugene?"
"My mother will but love me better for practising the lessons that she
taught me. I know my mother's principles, and I do not fear the loss
of her love."
"Flatterer! but were it even so, your father is serious, Eugene. He
will not see you again, unless you accede to his demand."
"When is he coming home?"
"On the day after tomorrow."
"Then I depart to-morrow; I will not encounter him in his present
humor. Besides, I promised the late duke to execute a commission for
him; it is time I set about it."
"And how will you live, rash boy?"
"Will he not continue my allowance to me?"
"I do not know, at least I do not want the question mooted just now.
To prevent the necessity of it, I had a deed drawn up the other day
which will supply you with necessaries till you return to reason." And
Mrs. Godfrey took from her bureau a very business-like document, which
proved to be a deed of gift of the principal part of the property
settled upon herself and her heirs. "Use this," she said, "until right
reason returns to you."
"My mother!"
"No words now; I did it to relieve my own mind, for I must consent to
your departure. We will hope for better times, for I see I cannot
change you at present."
The property thus settled on our young hero was but a modest portion
for one educated as Eugene had been; yet to those numerous middle
people who struggle daily with economy it would have seemed a fortune.
{484}
Eugene departed with a gloom upon his feelings certainly, yet not with
hopelessness. He proceeded at once to call on the bishop, from whom he
hoped to obtain tidings of Ellen; but the bishop was gone to Rome, and
M. Bertolot with him, and they were not expected back till the spring.
It was dull work spending that winter alone, for to return to
Cambridge was not to be thought of. At last the spring advanced, and
the buoyancy of youth restored hope to his spirit; he resolved to take
a pedestrian tour through Wales while waiting the bishop's return.
Several months had passed since he left his home. His mother often
wrote to him, but no invitation to return came with her letters.
Young, and desirous of knowledge, his projected expedition would have
been acceptable to him but for this circumstance of domestic
estrangement. However, he wandered on, with what courage he might, and
found himself already on foot, with knapsack on his back, pursuing his
travels. The rage for making tours was not at that time what it has
since become. The scenes were comparatively untrodden and undescribed,
so that the pleasure and the charms of novelty at least were Eugene's.
He wandered on for some days, delighted with the picturesque scenery,
and gathering health and vigor from his primitive mode of travelling.
One fine morning he rose particularly early, and had gone some miles,
when he began to feel the need of some refreshment. He had neglected
to inquire where this could be obtained, and began to wonder where he
was likely to obtain any breakfast. Feeling somewhat impatient at the
length of the road, he climbed a high bank on the right hand side, to
gain a view of the country, and gladly perceived that immediately
below lay a scattered village. It was the first of May, and children
were carrying garlands from house to house. The morning was lovely,
and every thing wore the aspect of happiness. Our traveller sprang
down the bank, and made his way over fences into the village. He
stopped at the first cottage he came to; it was the picture of
neatness; the honey-suckle and sweet-brier climbed over the porch, and
the little garden-plot in front was the very embodiment of beauty. All
the early flowers were grouped in beds, most elegantly arranged. A
dark-eyed boy stood in the porch, watching the garlands which the
children were displaying. He caught sight of Eugene standing at the
gate, and came forward. His open-heartedness was painted on his
countenance.
"Can I serve you, sir?" said the boy. "You appear to be a stranger
here."
"I am a stranger," replied Eugene, "that is, I am a traveller. Can you
tell me where I may find rest and a breakfast?"
The boy opened the gate, and conducted Eugene into the porch, He then
went to call his mother.
A middle-aged woman of superior manners came forward, and bade him
welcome:
"You will find no inn, sir, nearer this than a mile or two; pray walk
is and partake of such fare as our cottage affords."
Good tea, eggs, bread and butter were produced, and Eugene did them
ample justice; but during the meal and after it was over, he could not
help being struck with the air of both mother and son, and the
appearance of the place altogether. The walls were only whitewashed,
and the floor uncarpeted, but on the said walls hung paintings of a
high order, and in a small recess stood a beautiful marble statuette
of our Blessed Lady. The features of the boy, too, seemed those of a
face familiar to him. A thought glanced through his mind as he gazed
on the finely formed face. "Thank you warmly for your hospitality,
young sir," said he, taking the boy's hand and drawing him nearer to
him. "Now, please to tell me by what name I M to remember you?"
{485}
"My name is Henry Daubrey," said the boy.
"Daubrey" thought Eugene; "can that the her maiden name? I almost
forgot. Ellwood was the name he gave her." He hesitated; then, turning
to the lady, remarked, in a somewhat embarrassed manner: "Judging by
these paintings, madam, I should imagine you, like myself, are almost
a stranger here. These are no country daubs."
"Mamma did these herself," explained the boy. The lady signed to the
boy to be silent. "She had not lived there always;" she said.
"Pardon my impertinence, madam," said Eugene, "but this young lad's
features so strikingly resemble those of a friend I have lately lost,
that I can but fancy he must be in some way related to him."
"What was your friend's name?"
"The Duke of Durimond."
The lady turned alarmingly pale, as she faltered forth, "And is the
Duke of Durimond is dead?"
"He died in my arms, about four months ago."
There was a long pause, which no one seemed inclined to break. At
length Eugene resumed: "The duke's life, latterly, puzzled many. He
married, left his wife suddenly, went abroad, fell ill, for upward of
two years suffered greatly, even tortures occasionally, which tortures
he endured with the patience of a martyr, being even thankful for his
sufferings. He died in the sentiments of the most perfect contrition,
immediately after receiving the Holy Viaticum."
"The Viaticum! Was the duke a Catholic?"
"He came so latterly, though this is not made public; the family
carefully conceal it."
A look of thanksgiving, with clasped hands, upraised, as it were,
involuntarily, confirmed Eugene's presentiment. After awhile he
continued: "When the duke was on his death-bed, he charged me to seek
out a lady, for whom he entertained a high esteem. I have a letter for
her in my knapsack. I will show it to you."
The letter produced was directed, "To Ellen, from Colonel Ellwood on
his death-bed." The lady's hand closed on the lines. Eugene made no
resistance. The lady retired to an inner apartment. The boy followed
her. An hour elapsed; stifled sobs were heard, but the lady came not
back. At length the boy returned with an open note. It contained these
words:
"You have guessed rightly: return in a few days; I cannot see you now.
When you return, ask for
"ELLEN DAUBREY."
"I will return on this day week, tell your mother so!" was the verbal
message Eugene delivered to the boy.
"I will," said the boy; and Eugene departed.
* * * * *
Ellen's account of herself when Eugene did return, was, that she had
made a very comfortable subsistence by the sale of her paintings,
which she had disposed of to a London dealer, to whom she was
introduced by the Comte de Villeneuve, who had watched over her
interests with a zeal truly fraternal. She and her boy had dwelt
together in seclusion, he giving her what help he could in the garden
and in her domestic affairs, she, in return, instructing him to the
best of her power.
"He loves learning, Mr. Eugene," she said, "and will soon be beyond my
teaching; besides, he wishes to become a priest, but how to get him
the necessary instruction in this most prejudiced country is a real
enigma."
"The Abbé Martigni, who was the duke's private chaplain, and who is
cognizant of all the facts connected with his position, would, I doubt
not, take charge of his education, if you were willing," replied
Eugene; "but how would you be able to bear the separation necessary in
that case?"
"I should fix my abode near, and find some occupation for myself,"
said the mother. "God forbid my selfish affection should stand between
my child and his vocation."
{486}
Ellen might have said that her occupation was already found, for
wherever there was an act of kindness to do, there Ellen found work.
Had she admitted Eugene to the inner room of her own cottage, he might
have found an old paralytic woman, who, deserted by all her friends,
was taken care of by this good Samaritan and tended with the affection
of a daughter. The duke's legacy to her was now employed entirely in
acts of mercy and of charity, offered up for the repose of his soul.
Not one penny was appropriated to her own use, for she still lived on
the product of her pencil. On the return of the bishop the Abbé
Martigni was appointed to a mission, and Henry Daubrey resided with
him as his pupil, preparatory to his being sent to the seminary,
aiding his tutor in that semi-concealed fulfilment of his high duties
which was then the characteristic mode of English Catholicity, induced
by English semi-toleration of Catholic religious rites. The mother
lived close by, and it was not long ere her house was known as a house
of mercy, a refuge for the poor, a hospital for the sick, a haven of
spiritual consolation to any who needed the kind offices practised
beneath its roof. Penitents, lovingly attracted by her angelic
sweetness, often came, as it were, by stealth to inquire of her the
way to God, and by her were led back into the fold whence they had
strayed while inquirers, touched by her life of self-denial, found the
prejudices in which they had been brought up melt away, and many were
led to embrace the saving truths which bind the children of the church
together in the one fold of Christ, at the feet of one Lord, who gave
us one faith, one baptism.