A PROPOSAL:
AND MORE THAN ONE.
The summons to London was on the business of cutting off the entail to
the estates as proposed at the beginning of the last chapter. Mr.
Godfrey, whose love for Hester certainly approached to dotage, had
decided to gratify his darling's wishes; and to avoid future
confusion, had decided to allow her to come of age at eighteen, and to
enter on the enjoyment of the estates he destined for her, subject to
an annuity for himself. To give the matter a semblance of justice, he
proposed to pension off the rest of the family in the same manner,
thus settling their claims to the property during his life, as after
his death. What was wanting to this plan was Eugene's acceptance of a
present annuity in the stead of his inheritance at death.
The proposal made to him was by no means a liberal one, considering
the wealth of the family and the expectations in which he had been
reared.
"Three thousand pounds a year for life, now, instead of fifteen
thousand in reversion to descend to my posterity; the proposal is
preposterous," said Eugene, "especially as I was always given to
understand that I might look to receive a sum equal to that on my
coming of age, which I shall do in three weeks' time."
"That promise was conditional, young man," said Mr. Godfrey, somewhat
sternly; "conditional at least by implication; could I have foreseen
that you would have disgraced my family, it would not have been made."
"Disgraced!" ejaculated Eugene.
"Brother," interposed Hester, anxious to avoid any expression of
excited feeling, "you have renounced the position my father ambitioned
for you; you cannot hold office under government; you cannot become a
member of Parliament; you cannot act as a magistrate; [Footnote 173]
or take any useful part in the work of society. Surely three thousand
pounds a year will supply all your personal wants."
[Footnote 173: At the time of which we write the civil disabilities
for all dissenters from the English Establishment, and for all
Catholics, were still in force in England.]
"You have assumed a great deal, my good sister; a great deal more than
you can prove, I think. If I understand this matter rightly, it these
yourself who are be to benefited by this arrangement. You want to
experimentalize, to found a new Utopia; surely I might do that at
least as well as a woman."
"No, for you believe not in the principle. Money in your hands, just
now, would sink; you might build churches or convents, but forward the
progression of the race you would not. A bare-footed Carmelite ranks
higher in your estimation that a man raised by talent and industry to
a position surrounded by means of enjoyment. Now, my father objects
conscientiously, and his immediate ancestors would also object to
appropriate the both of his property to a phantasm. He offers you a
maintenance superior to the property your theory upholds. Be
consistent; try your own principle of renunciation, of poverty, if you
so like to term an annuity of three thousand a year. The allotment
which will be termed mine is in my eyes, and in in my father's, an
investment for the good of society, of which I am but a directress.
Give to the world that which the world claims, {599} take the portion
you have chosen in which the world has no share--spirituality.
Conscientiously my father has strained a point to offer you so much,
for he looks upon the promotion of your views as injurious to the
human race."
There was a long pause, a long silence; then Eugene said, "I must take
time to consider; my signature would not be of any avail until I am of
age, and it wants three weeks to that time. In a month's time I will
give you an answer."
Eugene, after a vain attempt to see his mother, returned to the town
in which Euphrasie resided. He was now determined to have the
interview he had so long vainly sought for. On that interview greatly
depended his future determination.
He did not call on her at her mother's abode. He waylaid her as she
was returning home from giving her lessons; with a few earnest words
induced her to permit him to lead her into a secluded grove where
often he had mused on her perfections, and there, at length, he took
courage, and poured forth, as much by gesture as by words, his long
pent-up tale of love, so hidden out of reverence, a reverence which
now gave way to the anxiety of placing her in a more suitable position
than the one she at present occupied, although still falling short of
that which she was calculated to adorn.
Euphrasie listened with profound attention; certainly not coldly. She
fully appreciated the young man's devotion, she fully believed his
tale. Even tears filled her eyes as he proceeded; but she was long in
answering.
"May I take this silence for consent, dear Euphrasie?" said Eugene.
Euphrasie shook her head. "No, indeed, you may not, my kind friend,"
she said. "I am silent because I know not how to express my sense of
your worth, of your kindness, of your disinterestedness, in fitting
terms, and accompany my words with a refusal. What you propose can
never be. Another vocation is mine. Yet believe me that my gratitude,
my friendship, my esteem, are, and ever must remain, your own. I thank
you earnestly for the long forbearing and silent sympathy which I have
ever received from you."
"Your tones are solemn, Euphrasie. You are not one to act a part, and
say no when you mean yes. You have seen this proposal possible, you
have weighed it; is it indiscreet to ask in confidence your reasons?"
"Is not all explained by the words, another vocation is mine? May I
not recall to your memory the explanation I once gave at Durimond
Castle?"
"But, Euphrasie, in this country, where Catholics are barely
tolerated, you can scarcely be a nun."
"I think, indeed, that at present there seems little likelihood that I
shall be what the world calls a nun; but I am none the less certain
that I am called to serve God by following the three evangelical
counsels."
"But as a married woman, Euphrasie, surely you could serve God also.
Marriage in the Catholic Church is exalted to the dignity of a
sacrament, and I would respect your self-imposed duties not only of
devotion but of charity also. I would share the cares you now bestow
on my aunt's comfort, and--"
"I believe it, Eugene, but it cannot be. I dare not resist the voice
which forbids me to bind myself by human ties. We are Catholics,
Eugene; we know that a vocation is something real; that not to respond
to it is to endanger salvation, is to risk the abstraction of that
grace which is of all treasures the most valuable."
Eugene replied not. There was a long pause. Euphrasie was agitated
beyond her wont, and was glad to avail herself of a seat fixed beneath
the shade of a tree. Eugene rested his forehead against the tree.
Suddenly he seized her hand and pressed it to his lips, but he spoke
not. The warm tears were pouring down his {600} cheeks. Oh! it is
agonizing to behold a strong man weep. No woman at least can see it
unmoved; still less Euphrasie, who beneath an impassive exterior bore
a feeling, tender heart. Scarcely less affected than himself she took
his hand in both of hers, and faltered out: "Eugene, my friend, my
brother, the day will come when you will rejoice at this hour's
decision, and make it the subject of your earnest thanksgiving. No
Catholic can have witnessed your noble struggle for truth, your
disinterestedness, your magnanimity, without feeling that for you,
too, God has a noble mission in store. As yet you are scarcely
conscious of what you would lose were you to fetter yourself by human
ties. Your studies as yet have occupied the intellect somewhat
exclusively. Controversy was necessary while you were assuring
yourself of the grounds of faith, of the reasonableness of the
creature's trusting to the solemn promise of the Creator, of the
unerring infallibility of the church founded by Christ, and sustained
by his holy spirit. Your learned research, conducted in simplicity of
spirit, has led you to the temple of truth. You have entered, but as
yet its most wondrous teachings are to be unfolded, to be
contemplated, to be realized in practice. Your soul is too noble to
content itself with the things of earth; your heart needs pure,
exalted realities to love, and those it will find only here." (She
took from her bosom a small ivory crucifix, which she placed in his
hand as she spoke). "Everlasting love speaks to you from this cross,
my beloved friend. Leave other studies for awhile to contemplate its
lessons in all its bearings, and a divine rapture will fill your
inmost soul; you will live in him only who is life and light and love,
and your heart will need to pour itself out for him, through him, in
him. Suffering for Christ will become blissful, and your whole being
will shape itself to one aim, his will, whom to serve is to find the
truest happiness on earth, as it is also the only happiness in heaven!
Oh! dared I speak to you, Eugene, of what it is to love God, and to
feel his love for us within our souls, you would not need consolation
then. But God himself will speak to you and instruct you in his
wondrous love, and you will be happy beyond your utmost imagination."
Euphrasie spoke as one inspired; and it was so rarely that she made
any speech of considerable length, that the effect was greatly
increased. Again there was a long pause, Eugene gazed on the crucifix,
pressed it to his lips, then hit it in his bosom. At length he said:
"Euphrasie, I can but submit. I will do my best to follow the
beautiful course you have described for me. But ere I leave you, since
since leave you I must, may I ask one favor?"
Euphrasie signified assent.
"It is this, then: You have called me friend brother. May I hope,
then, for a brother's privilege, a friends affection? I will never
again asked for more, if you will promise me these. But let your
brother be of use to you, dear sister, confide to your friend your
plans, and give him the happiness of helping them forward. Let there
be no estrangement between us, Euphrasie."
"There shall be none, I promise you, save such as prudence demands.
Your nobleness, your disinterestedness, claim my admiration, and I
promise you, my brother, to inform you when i need your proferred aid.
But you must forgive me if, for a while at least, I converse with you
only through the medium of our mutual friend. Let our excited feelings
have time to subside into a more reasonable frame ere we meet again,
Eugene. And now may the holy Angels have you in their keeping. Adieu."
She was gone ere Eugene could reply. Hid among the foliage, he had not
the courage to follow her, and in spite of his resolves the remained
desolate.
What now were to him the chances of heirship, the thoughts of
transmitting his name to a long posterity? {601} At the end of the
month Eugene signed the deed which deprived him for all time of a fair
estate. An additional motive for his doing this was found in the
reflection that he had no right to be depriving his mother of her
private property. He returned the deed of gift to her as soon as he
received the proposed annuity. There were no bells rung, according to
the custom from immemorial ages, when the heir of the Godfrey family
came of age; there was no feasting, no rejoicing among the tenantry.
All was silence and gloom, it was as if the very air were hung with a
funeral pall. Mrs. Godfrey seemed stricken to the heart. But when the
transactions became known which disinherited Eugene and appropriated
an unfair proportion of the estate to the youngest sister, all the
family were roused. Vexed as they were at Eugene's religious
demonstrations they were not prepared to give Hester so exclusive a
preference. Mrs. Godfrey, especially, felt the transaction as most
bitterly unjust. She yearned for Eugene's presence, and it was not
permitted her. Scarcely could she tolerate the sight of Hester in the
house. Her melancholy increased. Alas! poor mother!