CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE BETROTHAL.

The next morning, Eugénie had news that surprised her, but seemed a

happy augury: her cousin had suddenly decided to go home! His departure

was announced by Fanny. As long as things remained undecided, and

Albert had some hope, Fanny had appeared cross and dissatisfied. But

now she made her appearance as she used to be--smiling, chatty, and

agreeable, without any one's knowing why. The artful _soubrette_ felt

it was high time to change her tactics. In consequence of the blunders

Albert had committed, and Eugénie's marked antipathy to him, he would

henceforth be blotted out of the list of mademoiselle's admirers. If,

therefore, Fanny wished to reinstate herself in her mistress' good

graces, if she wished to make sure of that cherished asylum--the object

of all her aims for the last ten years--she must pave the way by her

subserviency to her future patrons--Eugénie and the husband of her

choice, whoever he might be. With a keener eye, or at least bolder,

than Eugénie's, Fanny had no doubt it would be Louis.

With the assurance of those people who make others forget their faults

by appearing to be ignorant of them themselves, Fanny went with a

single bound over to the side of the man she regarded as a personal

enemy the night before. Eugénie perceived the sudden tack. It greatly

amused her, though she pretended not to see it.

"Where is my father?" she asked Fanny.

"Monsieur is going to town with M. Albert, and also to notify Mr.

Louis' family of the misfortune that has happened to him--a painful

errand. M. Louis has a father who is greatly attached to him, and a

sister who is still fonder of him--a very amiable woman, with a strong

mind."

"Ah! indeed; where did you learn these particulars?"

"Here and there. Mademoiselle knows the good God has given me ears to

hear with."

"And especially a tongue that can ask questions, Fanny."

Eugénie went down to the breakfast-room, where she found the rest

assembled. Mr. Smithson wore a cheerful air. Albert was in an

ill-humor, which he badly concealed under pretended elation. Mme.

Smithson appeared anxious, but Eugénie saw with delight that she was

more affectionate towards her than she had been of late.

A policeman from St. M---- passed by the window.

"What is that policeman here for?" inquired Eugénie.

"We had to search Durand's room, my child," replied Mr. Smithson. "The

man cheated me in a shameful manner. I have obtained positive proofs

of it. We found letters from his wife and other people which prove him

utterly heartless and base--in short, one of the most dangerous men I

ever saw."

Mr. Smithson and Albert started a short time after. The parting between

the two cousins was not, as you may suppose, very affecting. As Mr.

Smithson entered the carriage, he said to his wife: "Go and tell M.

Louis I am on my way to his father's. I intend to bring him back with

me, and hope the sister will accompany him; for no one knows so well

how to take care of him, or to do it so acceptably. Do not delay giving

him this information; it will do him more good than a visit from the

doctor."

Mme. Smithson made a brief reply, in which a slight confusion and a

lingering antipathy were perceptible. The commission was evidently

disagreeable, but she obeyed her husband. As soon as he was out

of sight, she proceeded towards the wounded man's room. Eugénie

returned to the house. She expected her mother would be back in a few

minutes, and was greatly surprised when a quarter of an hour--half an

hour--nearly a whole hour passed without her returning. She became

extremely anxious. She feared her mother had found Louis in too

dangerous a state to be left till Mr. Smithson returned. "Perhaps,"

she also thought--"perhaps mother and M. Louis are having a painful

explanation. Mother is very kind, but at times she is dreadful!

Exasperated by my cousin's abrupt departure, I fear she may, under the

impulse of vexation or animosity, say something painful to the poor

sick fellow...." And at this, she gave her imagination full course.

At length Mme. Smithson reappeared. Eugénie refrained from questioning

her, but she looked as if she would read the bottom of her mother's

heart.

"We had rather a long talk," said Mme. Smithson, without appearing to

suspect how anxious her daughter had been. "He is a good young man,

that M. Louis; a little serious, a little too gloomy, but that seems

to please certain people!... He is delighted because his sister is

coming...."

"I am not surprised," said Eugénie.

The conversation was kept up for some time in this discreet tone,

neither of them wishing to let the other see what she really thought.

It seemed to Eugénie, however, that her mother, instead of manifesting

any irritation against Louis, was making an effort to reconcile herself

to him. Had she then an idea he might become her son-in-law, and did

she wish to accustom herself to a prospect but recently so contrary to

her views?...

The carriage arrived an hour after. Eugénie felt somewhat agitated at

the thought of meeting Louis' father and sister. "Shall I like them?

Will they like me?" she said to herself, as she proceeded resolutely

to the door to receive them. She first shook hands with Aline. The

poor girl was pale with anxiety, but her very anxiety increased her

beauty. She made a conquest of Eugénie at the first glance. Her

thoughtful air, the distinction of her manners, her intelligent and

animated countenance, were all pleasing to her. Eugénie felt, if Aline

did not become her friend, it would be because she did not wish to.

Their interview lasted only a few minutes; then Aline followed Mr.

Smithson, who had taken her father's arm, to Louis' room. Eugénie was

also pleased with M. Beauvais. He had a cold, stern air, but so had Mr.

Smithson himself.

Quite a series of incidents of no special importance occurred after

this, which it would take too much time to relate. I must hasten to end

my story, as you wish, I fear.

A week after, Mr. Smithson's house was _en fête_ to celebrate Louis'

convalescence. Both families assembled on this occasion. Aline,

Eugénie, and Mme. Smithson, who had again become the excellent woman

she was when we first knew her, formed a trio of friends such as is

seldom found. And one would have taken Mr. Smithson and Louis' father

for two old friends from boyhood, so familiarly did they converse. They

seemed to understand each other at half a word.

"What a delightful _réunion_!" said Mr. Smithson when they came to

the dessert. "It is hard to think we must all separate to-morrow. But

it is settled that you, M. Louis, are to come back as soon as you are

perfectly well."

"I give you my word," said Louis; "and promise also never to leave you

from the time you see me again."

"I hope you will carry out that intention. We will never separate

again. But you are young, and it is more difficult for a young man to

foresee what may occur."

"As far as it depends on me, I can." As Louis said these words, he

glanced at Eugénie, who sat opposite. His look seemed to say: "There is

the magnet that will keep me here for ever!" Eugénie blushed. Every one

noticed it.

"It is useless for you to say that," said Mr. Smithson. "I shall

always be in fear of your escape till you are positively bound here.

But how shall we bind you to St. M----? There is one way," and Mr.

Smithson smiled as he spoke; "which has occurred to the parents; will

the children consent?"

Eugénie and Louis looked at each other. In the eyes of both beamed the

same joy.

"The children make no reply, ..." resumed Mr. Smithson.

"Pardon me," exclaimed Louis. "I dare not be the first to answer."

"Silence implies consent," replied Mr. Smithson. "If Eugénie is not of

your mind, let her protest against it. Otherwise I shall give my own

interpretation to her silence."

"I do not protest," said Eugénie, unusually intimidated.

"Oh! what strange lovers!" continued Mr. Smithson. "I think we shall

have to tell them they love each other."

"Perhaps we are already aware of it," said Louis. "At least, I have

been for a long time."

"And have you not confessed it to each other?"

"I had forbidden myself to do so."

"Louis, you have a noble heart," said Mr. Smithson. "To keep silence

in such a case requires a courage amounting to heroism. But I have

remarked that the heroic qualities you have given so many proofs

of since you came here always turn to the advantage of those who

continue under their influence. This proves that God, even in this

world, rewards the deeds of the upright much oftener than is supposed.

Doubtless they are also recompensed in heaven, but they often have on

earth a foretaste of what awaits them hereafter."

Such was the betrothal of my two friends. The next day, Louis came

to town, in order to obtain the medical aid necessary to complete

his cure. I had returned myself a few days previous. I cannot tell

you with what pleasure I received him, and learned the welcome news

from the lips of the _fiancée_ herself, who greatly pleased me at

the very first interview, and never gave me any reason to change my

opinion. My intercourse with them and Aline--three choice spirits--was

so delightful that it sustained me in the midst of the terrible

trials through which I was then passing. My grief for the death of my

husband had grown more calm, but his memory followed me constantly and

everywhere.

In addition to my mental troubles, I underwent physical sufferings that

were sometimes excruciating. And I was filled with a dread that was

still worse. I trembled at the thought I might always be a burden to my

poor mother and sister. I had not fully learned that, when God sends

a trial, he likewise gives the strength to bear it, and some way of

mitigating it. How many times I have since realized this! God comes to

the aid of those whose will is in conformity with his.

The marriage of Louis and Eugénie took place a month afterwards. For

them, and I might almost say for myself, it was the beginning of a life

of serene happiness that lasted six years. The better these two souls

became acquainted, the more they loved each other. They were always

of the same mind on all subjects whatever, particularly when there

was a question of doing good. Eugénie, under her husband's influence,

became in a few months a woman of angelic piety. The good works Louis

had previously begun under such unfavorable circumstances were resumed

at once, and carried on with a zeal and prudence that had the happiest

influence on the whole country round. St. M---- was transformed into

a Christian republic. The wicked--to be found everywhere--were few in

number, and, instead of ruling over the good, considered themselves

fortunate in being tolerated. Ah! if it were thus everywhere!... Every

summer, I went to pass three months with my friends. I was happier

there than I can express. It was delightful to behold a family so

admirably united, so beloved and respected everywhere around! Mr.

Smithson himself was hardly to be recognized. The sight of the wonders

effected by his son-in-law and daughter destroyed one by one all his

prejudices against the true religion....

Alas! the happiness of this world is seldom of long duration. Eugénie

had been married six years, and was the mother of two children, when

she was seized with a severe illness that endangered her life. She

got over it, however, but remained feeble and languid. The physicians

insisted on her residing permanently in the South. A large manufactory

being for sale on the delightful shores of the Mediterranean, a few

leagues from Marseilles, on the picturesque and charming road leading

from the Phocæan City to Toulon, Louis purchased it, and they all went

away!

No words could describe the sadness they experienced at leaving so dear

a spot as St. M----, where they were greatly beloved. They likewise

regretted separating from me. When I saw them start, I felt almost as

distressed as I was at the death of my husband; but I did not tell them

so, for fear of increasing their regret. After they went to Provence,

they had one more year of happiness; but the amelioration that took

place in Eugénie's health did not last any longer. She died three

months later.

Some time after, Louis came to seek consolation from his sister and

me. His very aspect made us heartsick. His grief was beyond the reach

of any human consolation. It would have been wrong had he voluntarily

given himself up to it. But, no; he struggled against it. It prevailed,

however, in spite of himself, as phthisis resists every remedy and

wears the sufferer to the grave. We represented to him the good he

might still effect, and reminded him he had one child left to bring

up; the other being dead. He listened kindly to our representations,

and said he had had more happiness on earth than he merited; that he

submitted to the divine will, and resigned himself to live as long as

God wished. But all this was said with a dejection and involuntary

weariness of everything, that was no good sign. Louis was one of those

souls, all sensibility, who die as soon as their hearts receive a deep

wound. Had he been an unbeliever, he would have taken his own life, or

died of grief in a few months. Religion sustained him four years longer.

During that time, his friends always found him resigned. He became more

devout than ever, and more zealous in doing good. A sudden illness at

length carried him off. The physicians asserted that he might have

recovered if grief had not undermined his constitution, once so robust.

When he died, he left his son to be brought up by his sister. God gave

him the happiness, before his death, of seeing his father-in-law enter

the bosom of the church.

Madame Agnes had finished her story.

"Such, my friend, is the history of my life," said she. "It is not very

entertaining, I confess, but I think it instructive. All who had a part

in it suffered, but they never lost courage. Such a misfortune could

not happen to them, because they only expected from life what it has

to give--many days of trial, mingled with some that are joyful. But

whether their days were sad or joyful, my friends were never deprived

of the light of the divine presence. They received from the hand of God

happiness and sorrow with equal gratitude, aware that he disposes all

things for the good of those he loves, and that in him all they have

loved on earth will be found again.

"My friend, imitate the example of these dear ones now gone! Keep

intact the gift of faith, which was their dearest, most precious

treasure. Let it also be yours! If you rely on God, you will never lack

resignation and hope, even in the midst of the most bitter trials.

Faith, while waiting to open the gates of heaven to you--faith,

practical and ardent, wonderfully softens every trial here below."

DANIEL O'CONNELL.

The good old saying, that it never rains but it pours, has received

additional illustration in the appearance within a very short time of

two lives and one memoir of the great Irish agitator, the late Daniel

O'Connell. The latter, it is true, is a mere sketch, intended only as

an introduction to a collection of ten or twelve of the most noteworthy

speeches of that distinguished man, judiciously selected from hundreds

which, as a lawyer, politician, and parliamentary debater, he had

delivered in the course of a remarkably busy life, extending over

nearly half a century. In this regard, if in no other, it will be found

interesting and useful to those who have not leisure or inclination to

study the history of his career in detail.

Of Mr. Luby's work, published originally in parts, many of which we

have carefully perused, we have little to say. It is evidently written

in haste, loosely, and without due regard to the canons which are

generally supposed to govern composition and narration. There are

no facts or incidents in it bearing on the public or private life

of O'Connell that are not already well known to every person of

ordinary intelligence, and which have not been better and more lucidly

presented to the public years ago. It has the demerit, also, of being

altogether too discursive, not to say blatant, in style, and the

author is too constantly wandering away from his subject to matters

quite disconnected from the actions and peculiarities of his hero.

Judging from this production, Mr. Luby seems to be a very unfit person

to portray the genius, aims, and designs of the great Irish popular

leader, lacking as he does that earnest sympathy which should exist

between the biographer and his subject, as well as that judicial and

philosophical insight into the secret springs of human action which,

while recording patent facts, can comprehend and elucidate the true

motives, designs, and probable results of the deeds related. Such has

ever been considered the real end of biographical literature.

In this respect, the _Life of O'Connell_, by Sister Mary Francis

Clare, is much superior to Mr. Luby's, as it is in every other

essential quality, though in itself far inferior to what might have

been expected from so popular a writer, particularly when dealing with

so great and congenial a theme. In her book of eight hundred pages,

the good religious has shown a vast amount of industry, a genuine

appreciation of the character, labors, and conduct of the Liberator,

and considerable literary skill in presenting them to the public in the

most attractive and readable form. The correspondence between O'Connell

and the venerable Archbishop of Tuam, now for the first time published,

constitutes a most valuable, perhaps the most valuable, feature in

the work, and, as a glimpse at the inner life of the busy lawyer and

untiring agitator, will be read with particular gratification by

the admirers of his extraordinary abilities in this country. Here,

we regret to say, our praise of Miss Cusack's book must end. As a

biography of one of the most remarkable public men of this century or

of any country, it is not a decided success, and, as coming from the

pen of an experienced, facile, and patriotic writer, it will, we do

not doubt, disappoint the majority of her admirers at home and abroad.

With the exception of the letters to Abp. McHale, alluded to above,

and some original notes and appendices supplied by friends, the facts,

incidents, and anecdotes recounted of the Irish leader are mainly

taken from such books as those of O'Neill Daunt, Fegan, Sheil, and

his own son, John O'Connell, all of which may be found in an anonymous

compilation published five or six years ago.[76]

We do not find fault so much with the fact that it is so largely a

compilation, as with the crude manner in which the extracts from those

works are collated and presented to the public. We can even point

to several instances where they are inserted bodily in the text, as

original, without quotation-marks, foot-notes, or any other sign of

reference. This may or may not be the fault of the printer, but the

examples are so numerous as to incline us to the latter opinion. We

have often admired the industry of Miss Cusack in bringing out so many

good books in such rapid succession; as well as her zeal in endeavoring

to aid, by the products of her genius, a most meritorious charity;

but we hold it to be against the laws both of fair play and literary

courtesy to neglect to accord to the labors of others a proper share of

acknowledgment.

We do not want to be unreasonable. Had the gifted authoress allowed

herself more time, and related the dramatic story of O'Connell's

life entirely in her own words, we would have been satisfied. We do

not expect that a lady secluded from the world, necessarily devoting

the greater part of her time to the duties of her calling, and

consequently practically unacquainted with the outside political world,

its storms, passions, and intrigues, can treat us to anything like

a full or elaborate disquisition on the circumstances, dangers, and

difficulties which surrounded and impeded the career of such a man as

the emancipator of the Catholics of Great Britain and Ireland. Only a

person who has devoted much time to the examination of the history of

Ireland and England, for the past hundred years, at least; who himself

has been a participant in, or an interested spectator of, the unceasing

conflict which during that period was naturally waged between the Irish

nationalists and their opponents, can attempt to do so. This war was

carried on in every relation of life; at the bar, on the bench; in the

pulpit, press, and forum; in the workshop, the club, and the halls

of St. Stephen; and the central figure, the invincible leader of the

aggressive and at length victorious national party, was O'Connell--the

man who for near half a century dared all opposition and defied all

hostile power in the championship of the cause of his persecuted

countrymen and co-religionists.

However men may differ as to the wisdom, policy, or honesty of

O'Connell, none will deny that he was a man of stupendous intellect and

indomitable perseverance. In everything he was gigantic. In physique,

mental attainments, courage, virtues, and even in his errors, he was

decidedly great. There was nothing small or dwarfed about him; and

as, a popular leader while living, he seemed to hold in his hand the

control of the masses of his countrymen; so, when dead, the very

mention of his name is enough to awaken the gratitude and evoke the

admiration of millions of the present generation, whose advent into

the world succeeded his demise. Not only in Ireland was he trusted,

beloved, and revered, but on the continent of Europe and in this

country his name was associated with the cause of civil and religious

liberty, and his every movement watched with interest by all classes.

And when at length, worn down by his excessive labors in behalf of

faith and liberty, he yielded up his soul to his Creator, his piety

and patriotism became the subjects of unqualified encomiums from the

noblest and most distinguished orators in both hemispheres. Surely

so great an embodiment of zeal and genius, well directed, deserves a

fitting chronicler.

Born of a house never remarkable before nor since his time for

attachment to creed or country; educated far from the influences of

his native land, we find him returning to it just as he had completed

his majority, an accomplished scholar and a barrister, with nothing to

depend upon but his own labors for support, yet full of ambition and

eager for distinction. Had he followed the traditions of his family,

he would have settled down quietly to the practice of his profession,

and in course of time, doubtless, would have become wealthy and a

useful assistant to the hostile power that controlled the destinies

of his nation, as too many of his professional brothers had already

done. But the young lawyer, to the dismay of many of his relations,

soon showed that he was made of sterner stuff. He could not "bend the

pregnant hinges of the knee, that thrift might follow fawning." He had

arrived home in time to witness the horrors of '98; he had seen his

fellow-Catholics, even then four-fifths of the population of Ireland,

bowed down to the very dust, sneered at, reprobated, and, on their own

soil, denied every social, commercial, and political right to which as

freemen they were entitled; and, with a courage that never deserted

him, and a capacity for labor that was truly remarkable, he ranged

himself on the side of the proscribed, and took up the gauntlet cast

down to the oppressed by the powerful and unscrupulous faction which

then, as now, represented British supremacy in Ireland.

His first appearance in public, being then but twenty-three years old,

was in 1799, when the question of a legislative union between Ireland

and England convulsed the former and deeply moved the public mind of

the latter country. At a meeting in Dublin, he denounced the measure in

terms so bold, clear, and forcible that those who listened to him had

little difficulty in foreseeing his future eminence and usefulness to

the national cause. The scheme of Pitt and Castlereagh was, however,

carried out, the Irish parliament was destroyed, and the Catholics

saw themselves at the beginning of the century not only without a

domestic legislature, but shut out from all representation, not only

in the united Lords and Commons, but even in the most insignificant

corporation and local boards.

Where, then, could the ardent young patriot, gifted, enthusiastic,

and impatient of the restrictions placed upon himself and his

fellow-countrymen, find an audience and an outlet for the fiery

eloquence that heaved and burned in his soul? Clearly in popular

gatherings and in the courts of law. But the people at that time

were so timid, nay, so degraded, that they dared not assemble in any

force to protest against the tyranny that had for so many generations

enslaved them; or, if a few hundreds did assemble together, the sight

of a magistrate, or the presence of some truculent follower of the

castle, like the infamous Maj. Sirr, was sufficient to disperse them,

while the few Catholic noblemen and gentry yet left were as timid as so

many hares. The Irish Catholics of that epoch, so long trodden under

foot, and deprived absolutely of political power and landed interests,

were not like the Catholics of to-day, who, in all thankfulness be it

said, are triumphantly bearing aloft the banner of the church when so

much of Europe is trailing it in the mire of infidelity and communism.

Then Wolfe Tone, once their secretary, in his _Memoirs_, and Wyse, in

his _History of the Catholic Association_, likened them to the servile

Jews, and described them as deficient in manliness and self-respect.

They crawled at the feet of a hostile government, says the latter,

fawned on their Protestant neighbors, and felt honored by being even

noticed by persons of that creed, even though in every respect their

inferiors. Such people had very little business in the civil courts to

give, and what little they had they gave to those who loathed their

creed and despised themselves.

O'Connell soon saw that nothing could be effected in the way of

popular demonstrations with such unpromising materials. He therefore

adopted another and a wiser course. The courts became his fulcrum,

and his eloquence the lever, by which he sought to raise the spirit

of the nation. Term after term, year after year, his potent voice was

heard ringing through the halls of justice by an astonished bar and

delighted and electrified audiences, in the defence of the victims of

landlord tyranny or official persecution. His arguments to the bench,

and his harangues to the jury, were always full of fire, audacity, and

logic, and were seldom, even in the face of unmitigated prejudice,

unsuccessful. Pathos and humor, wit and vituperation, strong appeals

to the patriotism of his hearers, and stern denunciations of the

rashness and folly of some of his compatriots, were with him invariably

mingled with sound common sense and unerring legal acumen. So great,

indeed, was his success as a pleader in criminal cases, so unlimited

his resources in difficult motions, and so general his triumphs over

ignorance and bigotry, that, before most of his fellow-practitioners

had earned their first fees, he found himself in the enjoyment of a

lucrative practice, and, what to him was an object of much greater

importance, the spokesman of the degraded majority, and the oracle

of his people. His forensic efforts were not confined to judges and

juries exclusively. He lost no opportunity of throwing into his legal

arguments and speeches some remarks for the benefit of the masses who

always throng Irish courts--remarks which never failed to elicit the

wildest delight and the most hearty applause.

In this indirect way he was gradually infusing into his countrymen

that spirit of manhood which so powerfully moved himself. As an

evidence of this, we may quote an extract, though a long one, from

his speech in defence of Magee, editor of the _Evening Post_, then

the most influential advocate of Catholic rights in Ireland. In

1813, Magee was prosecuted for a libel on the Duke of Richmond, the

retiring lord-lieutenant; and as the crown officers in their speeches,

and, as it appeared, by previous arrangement, endeavored to give

to the trial--having first selected a jury to suit themselves--a

political significance, Magee's counsel willingly joined issue

with them on their own terms. The array of legal ability on both

sides was proportionate to the gravity of the question involved.

For the government appeared the Attorney-General, Saurin, the

Solicitor-General, Bushe, and Sergeants Moore, Ball, and McMahon;

for the defence, O'Connell, assisted by Messrs. Wallace, Hamilton,

Findley, and Philips. Saurin, in his opening, alluding to the Catholic

Board, of which the defendant's newspaper was the organ, made use of

these words: "If the libel only related to him [Richmond], it would

have gone by unprosecuted by me. But the imputation is made against

the administration of justice by the government of Ireland, and it

forms only a part of a system of calumny with which an association of

factious and revolutionary men are in the habit of vilifying every

constitutional authority in the land." The opportunity thus afforded

O'Connell was instantly and dexterously seized by him to reply with

more than his usual boldness and wealth of invective. In the course of

his long address to the jury, he said:

"My lord, upon the Catholic subject I commence with one assertion

of the Attorney-General, which I trust I misunderstood. He talked,

as I collected him, of the Catholics having imbibed principles of

a seditious, treasonable, and revolutionary nature! He seemed to

me most distinctly to charge us with treason! There is no relying

on his words for his meaning--I know there is not. On a former

occasion, I took down a repetition of this charge full seventeen

times on my brief; and yet afterwards it turned out that he never

intended to make any such charge; that he forgot he had ever used

those words, and he disclaimed the idea they naturally convey. It

is clear, therefore, that upon this subject he knows not what he

says; and that these phrases are the mere flowers of his rhetoric,

but quite innocent of any meaning!

"Upon this account I pass him by, I go beyond him, and I content

myself with proclaiming those charges, whosoever may make them,

to be false and base calumnies! It is impossible to refute such

charges in the language of dignity or temper. But if any man

dares to charge the Catholic body, or the Catholic Board, or any

individuals of that Board, with sedition or treason, I do here, I

shall always in this court, in the city, in the field, brand him as

an infamous and profligate liar!

"Pardon the phrase, but there is no other suitable to the occasion.

But he is a profligate liar who so asserts, because he must know

that the whole tenor of our conduct confutes the assertion. What is

it we seek?"

"_Chief-Justice._--What, Mr. O'Connell, can this have to do with

the question which the jury are to try?"

"_Mr. O'Connell._--You heard the Attorney-General traduce and

calumniate us; you heard him with patience and with temper--listen

now to our vindication!

"I ask, What is it we seek? What is it we incessantly, and, if

you please, clamorously, petition for? Why, to be allowed to

partake of the advantages of the constitution. We are earnestly

anxious to share the benefits of the constitution. We look to

the participation in the constitution as our greatest political

blessing. If we desired to destroy it, would we seek to share

it? If we wished to overturn it, would we exert ourselves

through calumny, and in peril, to obtain a portion of its

blessings? Strange, inconsistent voice of calumny! You charge us

with intemperance in our exertions for a participation in the

constitution, and you charge us at the same time, almost in the

same sentence, with a design to overturn the constitution. The

dupes of your hypocrisy may believe you; but, base calumniators,

you do not, you cannot believe yourselves!

"The Attorney-General--'this wisest and best of men,' as his

colleague, the Solicitor-General, called him in his presence,--the

Attorney-General next boasted of his triumph over Pope and Popery;

'I put down the Catholic Committee; I will put down, at my good

time, the Catholic Board.' This boast is partly historical, partly

prophecy. He was wrong in his history--he is quite mistaken in

his prophecy. He did not put down the Catholic Committee; we gave

up that name the moment that this sapient Attorney-General's

polemico-legal controversy dwindled into a mere dispute about

words. He told us that, in the English language, 'pretence' means

'purpose.' Had it been French and not English, we might have

been inclined to respect his judgment; but in point of English,

we venture to differ with him. We told him, 'Purpose,' good Mr.

Attorney-General, is just the reverse of 'pretence.' The quarrel

grew warm and animated. We appealed to common sense, to the

grammar, and to the dictionary; common sense, grammar, and the

dictionary decided in our favor. He brought his appeal to this

court, your lordship, and your brethren unanimously decided that in

point of law--mark, mark, gentlemen of the jury, the sublime wisdom

of the law--the court decided that, in point of law, 'pretence'

does mean 'purpose'!

"Fully contented with this very reasonable and most satisfactory

decision, there still remained a matter of fact between us. The

Attorney-General charged us with being representatives; we denied

all representation. He had two witnesses to prove the fact for

him; they swore to it one way at one trial, and directly the

other way at the next. An honorable, intelligent, and enlightened

jury disbelieved those witnesses at the first trial; matters were

better managed at the second trial--the jury were better arranged.

I speak delicately, gentlemen: the jury were better arranged, as

the witnesses were better informed; and, accordingly, there was

one verdict for us on the representative question, and one verdict

against us....

"Let me pledge myself to you that he imposes on you when he

threatens to crush the Catholic Board. Illegal violence may do it,

force may effectuate it; but your hopes and his will be defeated

if he attempts it by any course of law. I am, if not a lawyer, at

least a barrister. On this subject I ought to know something, and I

do not hesitate to contradict the Attorney-General on this point,

and to proclaim to you and to the country that the Catholic Board

is a perfectly legal assembly; that it not only does not violate

the law, but that it is entitled to the protection of the law;

and in the very proudest tone of firmness, I hurl defiance at the

Attorney-General!

"I defy him to allege a law or a statute, or even a proclamation,

that is violated by the Catholic Board. No, gentlemen, no; his

religious prejudices--if the absence of every charity can be called

anything religious,--his religious prejudices really obscure

his reason, his bigoted intolerance has totally darkened his

understanding, and he mistakes the plainest facts, and misquotes

the clearest law, in the ardor and vehemence of his rancor. I

disclaim his moderation, I scorn his forbearance. I tell him he

knows not the law, if he thinks as he says; and if he thinks so, I

tell him to his beard that he is not honest in not having sooner

prosecuted us, and I challenge him to that prosecution."[77]

Those were brave words, such as the ears of the English officials were

unused to hear, but which found a responsive echo in the hearts of

millions of the oppressed Catholics, degraded and enthralled as they

were at that time. On the first day of its publication, ten thousand

copies of the entire address were sold, and in a short time it was

to be found in nearly every house and place of public resort in the

country. It was also translated into French and Spanish, and eagerly

read and commented upon on the continent. In fact, this trial may be

considered the true initial point of the great Catholic movement which

culminated in emancipation sixteen years afterwards.

To a man of less indomitable will and less transcendent legal

abilities, a course such as O'Connell had adopted would have been

utterly ruinous. Then, as now, but to a far greater extent, the Irish

judges were the mere creatures of the castle, and their least frown or

sneer was considered sufficient to blast the prospects of any young

aspirant for professional honors, even if he were only suspected of

patriotic leanings. But in the future Emancipator they met their

equal, not only in point of legal knowledge, but their superior in

moral courage and in that mental force which, like a torrent, swept

everything before it. The following anecdotes, told of O'Connell

while in active practice, illustrate his method of dealing with the

government jurists:

"Happening to be one day present in the courts in Dublin, where a

discussion arose on a motion for a new trial, a young attorney was

called upon by the opposing counsel either to admit a statement

as evidence, or hand in some document he could legally detain.

O'Connell stood up, and told the attorney to make no admission.

"'Have you a brief in this case, Mr. O'Connell?' asked Baron

McCleland, with very peculiar emphasis.

"'I have not, my lord; but I shall have one when the case goes down

to the assizes.'

"'When _I_ was at the bar, it was not _my_ habit to anticipate

briefs.'

"'When _you_ were at the bar, I never chose _you_ for a model;

and now that you are on the bench, I shall not submit to your

dictation.'

"Leaving the judge to digest this retort, he walked out of the

court, accompanied by the young attorney.

"At a case tried at the Cork assizes, a point arose touching the

legality of certain evidence, which O'Connell argued was clearly

admissible. He sustained his own view very fully, reasoning with

that force and clearness, and quoting precedent with that facility,

for which he was distinguished. But it was to no purpose. The

court ruled against him, and the witnesses were shut out. The

trial was of extraordinary length, and at the close of the day the

proceedings were not ended. On the following morning, when the case

was about to be resumed, the judge addressed O'Connell:

"'I have reconsidered my decision of yesterday,' said his lordship,

'and my present opinion is that the evidence tendered by you should

not have been rejected. You can, therefore, reproduce the evidence

now.'

"Instead of obsequiously thanking him for his condescension, as

another would have done, O'Connell's impatience broke out:

"'Had your lordship known as much law yesterday as you do to-day,'

said he bitterly, 'you would have spared me a vast amount of time

and trouble, and my client a considerable amount of injury. Crier,

call up the witnesses.'"[78]

The career of the great criminal lawyer--for his civil business was

comparatively small--lasted for more than a generation, and his success

was uniform and uninterrupted, while his fees in the aggregate,

for that time, were enormous. "A single fact," says the author just

quoted, "will demonstrate the confidence which the Irish public placed

at this period in the professional abilities of O'Connell. In the

autumnal assizes of 1813, twenty-six cases were tried in the Limerick

Record Court. In every one of these O'Connell held a brief. He was

likewise retained in every criminal case tried in the same city. His

professional career was equally triumphant and extraordinary in the

autumn assizes of Ennis; while in Cork and his native province, Kerry,

it was that year, if possible, exceeded. At this golden period of

his life, his prosperity, flowing from his brilliant abilities, and

his popularity, springing from his country's gratitude, rendered his

position at the bar in the highest degree enviable."

But it was not as a jurist or an advocate that O'Connell was destined

to hand down his name to posterity covered with imperishable glory. He

only used his great professional success to further two ends. Like a

true patriot, and, _à fortiori_, unlike the politicians of to-day, he

desired first to establish his own independence before attempting to

obtain that of his countrymen, knowing well that poverty, associated

with ambition, is too often the means of leading men, otherwise honest,

into the commission of acts not always honorable or meritorious. Then,

also, as we have before intimated, he desired, under the protection

of the court, to instil into the hearts and souls of the dejected

Catholics a spirit of manliness and courage by his burning appeals to

courts and juries--words which, if uttered out of court, would have

entailed on him endless prosecutions and proscription.

Strictly speaking, O'Connell cannot be considered as the leader of

the Irish Catholics till 1820, when Henry Grattan died. That brilliant

orator and inflexible patriot, though a Protestant, always enjoyed

the confidence and esteem of the persecuted masses; and whether in or

out of Parliament, in College Green or St. Stephen's, his conduct was

ever such as to command their respect and affection. O'Connell, on the

contrary, up to that date, was unable to control for any length of

time the feeble movements which, during the previous decade, had been

made by the Catholic body to obtain some redress of their grievances.

His audacious denunciation of the government, and his contempt for the

advocates of half measures, frightened away such lukewarm Catholics as

Lords Fingal, Trimleston, and French; while his superior foresight,

skill, and perhaps arrogance, frequently led him into disputes with the

less clear-headed and more violent of his other associates. A portion

of the national press, also, looked coldly upon the burly lawyer,

fearing his ambition; while many of the clergy and bishops hesitated

to yield implicit confidence to a man who was once a freemason, and

a good deal of whose leisure time, it was said, was spent amid the

_convives_ of the capital. The "Catholic Committee," which was mainly

his creation, was established in 1808, and easily suppressed by the

government, after a useless existence of less than three years. Its

successor, the "Catholic Board," was equally powerless, and even

more given to internal dissensions; and after its demise, in 1814,

nine years elapsed, during which the Catholics, divided, dispirited,

and despairing, made no effort whatever for their rights, unless the

forwarding of an odd petition to the English Parliament might be called

so.

In fact, the generation that had witnessed the horrors of '98 and

the wholesale perfidy of the men who planned and passed the act of

union, were not fit to carry on a manly, determined agitation: fear had

been driven into their very marrow, and the badge of slavery was worn

with a calmness that closely resembled contentment. It required a new

generation to conduct such a movement with success, and a leader to

point the way to victory.

Time at last brought both. The first sign of returning life in the

people was evinced upon the occasion of a relief bill having been

introduced into the House of Commons in 1821, and passed by that body

by nineteen majority. Though of course defeated by the Lords, its

partial success, and the unexpected support it received from some of

the more distinguished members, had a salutary effect on the public

mind in Ireland, and aroused hopes that had long lain dormant in the

bosom of the Catholic party. Meetings began to be held in different

parts of the provinces, and at length a _Catholic Association_ was

formed in Dublin, April 28, 1823. Its founder was O'Connell, then

in his prime, physically and mentally; his reputation as an orator

and a statesman beyond question; his impetuosity mollified, if not

subdued; and his judgment matured by long experience of actual life.

At first the association numbered but a few individuals; so few,

indeed, that after it had been a year in existence, it was difficult

to get the necessary quorum of members to attend its stated meetings;

but a combination of circumstances almost providential, and certainly

unexpected, occurred, which gave the movement an irresistible impulse.

The hierarchy of Ireland unanimously endorsed the movement; the

clergy not only approved of it, but were active in extending the

organization; the poet Moore dropped the lyre, and took up the pen

controversial; the illustrious "J. K. L." thundered through the press;

while the halls of Parliament rang with the eloquence of Brougham,

Mackintosh, and Sir F. Burdett. The rent or revenue to conduct and

disseminate a knowledge of the principles of the association flowed in

with unparalleled generosity, sometimes as much as ten thousand dollars

being received weekly by the treasurer. O'Connell was the head and

front, the vivifying principle, organizer, and counsellor of this grand

uprising of an enslaved people; and his efforts were as untiring as his

advice was judicious and well timed.

At length the government, the supporters of Protestant ascendency,

became alarmed, and at the session of 1825 of the British Parliament a

bill was introduced to suppress the association. That body immediately

delegated O'Connell and R. L. Sheil to attend the bar of the House, and

offer their testimony as to the perfect legality of the organization.

They attended, but were not heard, though admitted to seats in the

body of the chamber. Still, they were ably represented by Brougham

and other influential members. Speaking of the two delegates, the

_Edinburgh Review_ of that day well said: "No men in circumstances so

difficult and delicate ever behaved with greater temper and moderation,

or more recommended themselves to all parties by their fairness and

the conciliatory manner of their proceedings. Of necessity ignorant

of the men with whom they were called upon to act, they could not

avoid falling into some errors.... The sanguine temper which made

them give ear to the hope [of emancipation] so unaccountably held out

by some persons, is to be reckoned the chief of these mistakes; for

it led to far too much carelessness about the blow to be levelled at

the association.... When the bill was prepared for putting down the

association, a debate ensued, not, perhaps, paralleled in parliamentary

history for its importance and the sustained excellence which marked

the whole compass of its duration. Four whole nights did this memorable

contest last, if contest it might be called, where all the strength

lay, except that of numbers, on one side. The effect produced by

this debate out of doors and within the Parliament itself was truly

important. The whole range of Irish policy was discussed, all the

grievances of Ireland were openly canvassed, the conduct of the

government freely arraigned, and such a death-blow given to the cry

of 'No Popery!' and the other delusions of the High-Church party that

intolerance lost more ground that night than it had ever hoped to

regain by the alarm which the association enabled it to excite. The

conduct of that body was most triumphantly defended, and it appeared

plainly that the peace of Ireland had been restored by its exertions

and maintained by its influence."

Nevertheless, the act passed and the association was dissolved, but

only to reappear in another form. The cause of emancipation had gained

many and powerful friends, not the least of whom was the editor of the

quarterly just quoted. A new _Catholic Association_ was formed the

same year, and the work of arousing the supine masses went bravely on.

Meetings were held simultaneously in the various centres of population,

at one or more of which O'Connell was generally present; for he

seemed ubiquitous. The patriotic newspapers teemed with speeches,

communications, and extracts, all directed to the same purpose. The

country was in a state of tremendous fermentation, to a degree that

it was thought impossible it could go further, till the Emancipator

himself, by a masterly stroke of policy, which could only have been the

inspiration of genius, resolved to get himself elected to Parliament,

and "carry the war into Africa." Ireland was now thoroughly aroused and

organized; so he resolved, if he could not convince or persuade England

to do her justice, at least to shock the latter into something like

equity, or expose her to the world as an oppressor and a hypocrite.

He had seen what beneficial effects had followed the debate on the

"Algerine Bill," and he was determined not to rest till all Europe, all

Christendom, should become familiar with the wrongs of the Catholics.

In 1828, a vacancy occurred in the representation of Clare. O'Connell

presented himself as a candidate, was against all odds elected, and

immediately proceeded to London.

Events, however, hurried on so fast that he had not time to present

himself to the Commons before the great measure for which he had so

long struggled, and for which millions had prayed for years, had

passed. On the 22d of January, 1828, the Duke of Wellington was

appointed First Lord of the Treasury. Towards the end of that year,

the Catholic Association was voluntarily dissolved, in conformity to a

preconcerted plan between the Irish Catholics and the British Ministry,

having first passed unanimously the following resolution:

"That, as the last act of this body, we do declare that we are

indebted to Daniel O'Connell, beyond all other men, for its

original creation and sustainment, and that he is entitled, for

the achievement of its freedom, to the everlasting gratitude of

Ireland."

On the 13th of April, 1829, the Emancipation Act received the royal

signature, the bill having passed the House by an overwhelming vote,

and the Lords by one hundred and four majority.

Many persons fondly thought that this law had laid the fell spirit of

Protestant bigotry for ever; but it was not so. The snake was only

scotched, not killed. It required another blow to render it completely

innoxious. O'Connell, who had been elected before the bill passed,

claimed a right to a seat in the Commons, even though a Catholic, and

in support of that claim presented himself early in the session. The

scene that ensued is thus described by an eye-witness:

"It is impossible to convey a perfect idea of the silent, the

almost breathless attention with which O'Connell was watched and

perused, when, in compliance with the request of the speaker, he

advanced to the table. So large a number of peers had never been

previously seen in that House. Two members of the aristocracy

accompanied O'Connell, and, as a matter of form, introduced him

to the House. Their names were Ebrington and Dungannon. As he

passed the bar of the House, every eye was fixed on him. The

first oath tendered to O'Connell was that of the supremacy, which

he was seen, by the silent and watching multitude, to wave away

and refuse. They heard him say: 'I apply to take my seat under

the new act. I am ready to take the oath directed to be taken by

Roman Catholic members. I do not feel that I am bound to take

_these_ oaths.' As he uttered these last words, he passed his

hand over the oaths which he objected to, and which were affixed

to pasteboards. 'You will be good enough,' added O'Connell, 'to

inform the speaker that I do not think I am bound to take these

oaths.' The chief clerk gathered up the pieces of pasteboard, and

hurried up with them to the speaker, where he was seen pointing

out to that functionary the oaths which O'Connell refused to take.

The speaker then rose and said that, unless the new member took

the old oaths, he must withdraw. The speaker alluded to those

blasphemous oaths whose injustice was so flagrant that they had

been just repealed. O'Connell, it is said, requested that the oath

of qualification, stating that he possessed six hundred a year,

should be administered to him; but this was likewise refused.

During all this time, the speaker's manner and expression of

countenance towards O'Connell, on whom he fixed his regards, were

extremely courteous, but the declaration that he must withdraw firm

and authoritative. O'Connell looked round, as if expecting support;

but this failing, he bowed, and stood facing the speaker in perfect

silence. At this moment, Brougham was seen to rise; but before he

could address the house, the speaker exclaimed 'Order!' and again

intimated to O'Connell that he must withdraw. The latter bowed

respectfully, and, without uttering a single syllable, withdrew.

After his departure, Brougham, who was still on his legs, addressed

the house in a subdued tone, and, after some discussion, the debate

was postponed.

"May 18, 1829, was a memorable day in the history of O'Connell's

eventful life. Peel, rising in the House of Commons on that day,

moved that O'Connell should be heard at the bar--a motion which

was carried. Accordingly, he advanced to the bar, attended by

Pierce Mahony--the whole house regarding him with the most intense

interest. He addressed the house in a long and elaborate speech,

in which he clearly demonstrated his right. His courteous manner

and temperate address conciliated, in some degree, the good opinion

of the members. He exhibited that flexibility of mind, that power

of accommodating himself to his auditory, which formed his most

remarkable attribute. When he concluded, the question was taken

up by the lawyers, who endeavored to explain the meaning of the

new act to the very men who had passed it. As the aristocracy had

previously determined that O'Connell should not sit, the members of

the lower house, who always do their bidding, rejected O'Connell's

claim.

"Retiring with Pierce Mahony by his side, O'Connell endeavored to

recover the seat which he had occupied previously to his appearance

at the table. But to his surprise, he found two gentlemen in

possession of it. They were Frenchmen, but spoke English like

natives. One of these men afterwards reigned in France as Louis

Philippe. The other was his son, the Duke of Orleans.

"The following day, O'Connell appeared for the third time at the

bar of the House. He was told by the speaker that unless he took

the oath of supremacy, the House would not permit him to take his

seat.

"'Are you willing to take the oath of supremacy?' asked the speaker.

"'Allow me to look at it,' replied O'Connell.

"The oath was handed to O'Connell, and he looked at it in silence

for a few seconds; then raising his head, he said: 'In this oath

I see one assertion as to a matter of fact, which I _know_ to be

untrue. I see a second assertion as to a matter of opinion, which

I _believe_ to be untrue. I therefore refuse to take this oath.' A

writ was immediately issued for a new election."

He was again triumphantly elected for Clare, and from thenceforth till

his death occupied a seat in the House, representing at various times

different constituencies. Of his conduct as member of Parliament,

however his contemporaries might have differed in opinion, either

through partiality or prejudice, posterity will do him the justice of

according to him a wonderful versatility of talent, a conscientious

desire to forward the interests of his country, an unswerving courage

and dignity in meeting the taunts and sneers of Tory and Whig alike

against his compatriots--a process of reasoning then much in vogue

among English politicians. From Peel, Russell, Disraeli, and Sipthorpe

downwards, no man, among the seven hundred or so that are supposed

to represent the commons of Great Britain and Ireland, ever dared to

raise their crest against Catholics or Irishmen, but, swifter than the

flight of a falcon on a heron, the Liberator pounced upon him, and,

metaphorically, tore him to pieces. In the debates on the Reform Bill,

the Poor Law Act, and the tithe question, he was generally found on

the side of popular rights and free government; and if, as has been

charged, he sometimes leaned towards the Whigs, it was because he

accepted their measures as the lesser evils.

FOOTNOTES:

[76] _A Life and Times of Daniel O'Connell, with Sketches of his

Contemporaries, etc._ 2 vols. Dublin: John Mullany. 1867.

[77] _Life and Speeches of Daniel O'Connell, M.P._ New York: J. A.

McGee. 1872.

[78] _Life and Times of Daniel O'Connell._ (Anonymous.) Dublin. 1867.

THE PRIEST.

"And the people were waiting for Zachary."--S. LUKE i. 21.

As morning breaks, or evening shadows steal,

Duties and thoughts throng round the marble stair,

Waiting for Him who burneth incense there,

Till He shall send to bless them as they kneel.

Greater than Aaron is the mighty Priest

Who in that radiant shrine for ever dwells;

Brighter the stones that stud His glowing vest,

And ravishing the music of His bells

That tinkle as He moves. The golden air

Is filled with notes of joy that dance and run

Through every court, and make the temple one.

--The lamps are lit; 'tis past the hour of prayer,

And through the windows is their lustre thrown--

Deep in the holy place the Priest doth watch alone.

--_Faber._

GRAPES AND THORNS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE."

CHAPTER VI.

MARRIAGE BELLS.

That green and sequestered domain which Mr. Schöninger had looked at

across the water-lilies and peopled with his fancies, which, indeed,

he had visited, and was perfectly familiar with, was not so far out

of the world as it appeared. It was in a great triangle made by three

railroads, and there was a station-house a mile back from the pond by

which the tenants of the cottage held easy communication with the two

cities near. Still, the place was not very accessible from without;

for this mile of country road had been made by simply driving over

pasture and field, and through alder-woods, till a track was visible,

and then continuing to drive in the same track. After coming through

the alder-swamp, the road became two yellow-brown lines across the

greensward, and ended in a grove that completely hid the barn built

in it. Between these two yellow-brown lines, at regular distances,

were yellow-brown spots, showing where the horse had stepped. Dobbin

appeared to always step precisely in his own tracks.

It was seldom that any one drove over this road except old Mr. Grey,

whose horse and wagon were, after their kind, quite as old as himself.

Mrs. Macon, zealously collecting useful articles for the new convent,

had driven there in her light phaeton, and spent two hours rummaging

the attics with Mrs. Grey, and talking over the relics they found; that

is, Mrs. Grey explained, and her visitor listened. She had gone away

with bundles piled up to her chin.

One afternoon late in August, Mr. Grey harnessed Dobbin to the

wagon--"tackled" Dobbin, he would have said--and started for the

railroad station. He had almost reached the alders, which seemed to bar

the way, when he drew the reins and listened. If it had been Mrs. Grey,

instead of her husband, she would have driven straight on, for she was

perfectly deaf.

These alders leaned over, and, in summer, completely hid the road, and

whatever went through there had to breast a tide of leaves. It had

never occurred to Mr. Grey to cut the twigs away, nor, apparently,

had it occurred to Dobbin to fret against them. They jogged on

uncomplainingly, never in a hurry, and lived and let live. Mr. Grey's

philosophy was that every person in the world is appointed to do just

so much, and that, as soon as his work is accomplished, he dies. He

preferred to do his part in a leisurely manner, and live the longer.

The sound he listened to was a faint noise of wheels and hoofs, in,

or beyond, the alders. For two carriages to meet in that place would

be a predicament more perplexing than that of the two unwise men and

the two wise goats on the narrow bridge we have all read of; because

here neither could turn back, nor walk over the other, and if one

should be killed, still that would not clear the track. So the driver

waited, his mouth slightly open, to hear the better, and the lash of

his old-fashioned whip hanging motionless over his shoulder. The old

white horse dropped his nose, and went to sleep, and the creaking and

rattling wagon looked as if it had made its final stand, and meant to

go to pieces where it was.

There was just sound enough to show how still it was. Some wild

creature under a rude cage on the lawn snarled lowly to itself, there

was the swift rustle of a bird's wings through the air, and the roll

of a train of cars lessened to a bee's hum by distance. The pond was

glassy, the rails shone hot beyond it; farther still the sultry woods

heaved their billows of light and shade; and, farthest of all, over a

little scooped-out valley, a single mountain stood on the horizon.

There was, indeed, a carriage among the alders, but by no means such

an equipage as that which awaited it. It was like a fairy coach in

comparison, with a glitter of varnish and metal, and snowy-white lining

that shone like satin, and beautiful horses that pranced from side to

side as they felt the soft, brushing leaves and twigs against their

dainty coats, and pushing into their very eyes. The mice on the box

wore glossy hats, and appeared to be very much disgusted with this trap

into which they had fallen. To the birds overhead the whole must have

looked like something swimming in a sea of green leaves.

The fairies in the coach were not fully visible from any point, but

a clear voice rose presently from the submerged cushions. "There's a

sufficient road underneath, John," it said. "Drive where you see the

alder-tops lowest. There are no roots, if you keep the way. It is only

overleaning branches."

In a few minutes they emerged, and drew up beside the wagon. Its

occupant did not make the slightest reply to the bright salutation

of the two ladies. It was not his custom to salute any one. He merely

waited to see what would be said.

"O Mr. Grey!" says Annette, "if I had a pair of strong shears, I would

cut a peep-hole, at least, through that jungle. Did you get my letter?"

He nodded, with a short "Yes," looking with calm scrutiny at the two

young women.

"Well?" continued Miss Ferrier.

"Elizabeth is out on the pond," he said; "but the old woman will blow

the horn for her. She'll show you the flowers; and you can have 'em

all. I can put them aboard of any train you settle on."

There was a moment of silence; for Mr. Grey had condensed the whole

business into a few words, and there was really no more to say. Annette

had written him to save all his flowers for her wedding, and this was

his answer.

"Are you going away?" she asked, rather needlessly.

"I'm going to meet the next up-train," he answered, and began to tug at

his reins, and chirrup at Dobbin.

They left him making great efforts to get under way again, and drove

noiselessly on.

"What a peculiarly condensed sort of man he is in his speech!" remarked

Miss Pembroke.

"Condensed!" exclaimed the other. "His talk reminds me of some one

whose head and limbs have been cut off. It takes me by surprise, and

leaves me astonished. I always feel as if something ought to be done."

So one carriage creaked into the alders, and the other sparkled up to

the house door.

This door stood open, and within it sat an old woman, her hands folded

in her lap, her eyes looking out over the water. She had a placid face,

and looked refined. A sweet, faint smile greeted her visitors, and her

voice was sweet, and was very low, as the voices of some deaf persons

are.

"Elizabeth has gone out on the water," she said. "I will call her."

"Don't rise!" exclaimed Annette quickly, preventing her. "I'll get the

horn for you. I know where everything is here."

The old lady understood the action, though she had not heard the words,

and sank back into her seat again.

"She feels for everybody's pain," she said gratefully, speaking to

herself.

Annette tripped lightly across the sunny, silent room, and took down

from a nail beside the chimney a large ox-horn suspended there. With

simple politeness, the old lady obeyed her visitor's wish, and did

not rise even when the horn was placed in her hand. She merely leaned

forward, and, placing it to her lips, blew a loud and prolonged blast

that sounded far over water and forest.

"That will bring her," she said, and gave back the rustic instrument

for Annette to return to its place.

The two then strolled down to the water-side to wait for the lady of

the lake. They seated themselves on a mossy rock close to the water,

under the shade of the only tree left there. It was an old pine-tree,

of which the main part was decayed, but one strong branch made a shade

over them, and held firmly all its dark-green fasces in token of a

sovereignty it would not abdicate while life remained. Beside the rock,

in the warm sunshine, stood a group of Japan lilies.

"I don't like them," Annette said. "They are beautiful in their way,

but they look cruel and detestable. They seem to me like a large pink

and white woman who poisons people."

"My dear," said Miss Pembroke, as she bent her head over the flowers,

"it would be well if you could contrive to shut the battery of those

nerves of yours once in a while."

"It might be well if I could be changed into one like you," Annette

responded; but immediately corrected herself. "No! And I do not believe

that the most unfortunate and discontented person in the world would

be willing to change his individuality with another. It is only his

circumstances he would change, and be still himself, but at his best.

Perhaps that is what will keep us contented in heaven, though we may

see others far above us: each will be himself in perfection, with all

the good in possession that he is capable of holding, and will see that

he cannot be different without being some one else."

"Perhaps," said Honora dreamily.

It may be that she felt unconsciously a little of that superiority

which the calm assume over the troubled, though the calm may be of

the pool, and the trouble of the ocean, or both a mere question of

temperament. She leaned over the lily, and examined the red clots

on its petals; how they rose higher, and strained upward toward the

centre, till by their passionate stress they drew up the milky flower

substance into a stem to support them; as though they would reach the

slender filaments that towered aloft over their heads. Two or three

tiniest red spiders were picnicking on the fragrant white ground among

these stems, and did not seem to even suspect the presence of a large

black spider, with extravagantly long legs, which walked directly over

the flower and them in two or three sextuple strides.

"The petal they stand on must seem to them a soft and snowy-white

moss," drawled Miss Pembroke, half asleep with the heat and the

silence. "I should think the perfume of it would be too strong for

their little noses."

"Perhaps the particles of fragrance are too large for their little

noses. Or, perhaps, they have no noses," responded Miss Ferrier,

gravely.

A faint, responsive murmur of assent from the other.

Annette tossed twigs into the water, and watched the dimples they made,

and which way they floated. "That is a wild fox up under that cage,"

she said. "It is cruel to keep it there. I shall free it when we go

back."

"Perhaps Mr. Grey is going to stuff its skin, and may not like to lose

it," Honora answered, having finished her examination of the lily. "I

have heard that he is quite a naturalist, and has specimens of every

animal, and insect, and plant about."

Annette tossed a pebble this time with energy. "I hate naturalists,"

she remarked. "I always fancy that they have bugs in their pockets."

"Bugs in their pockets! That would be uncomfortable," was the placid

comment.

"For the bugs, yes!" said Annette; then, after a moment, added,

"Whenever it is a question of tormenting what Lord Erskine called the

'mute creation,' I am always for the plaintiff. Who is to be profited

by knowing about bugs and beetles? It is a contemptible science, and, I

repeat, a cruel one. I never can like a woman or a man whom I have once

seen sticking pins through beetles, and butterflies, and bats; and I

would as lief have a human skull for an ornament in a room as a stuffed

skin of anything. I shall set that fox free this instant. I observed it

as I came past, and it looked like a person going crazy. Its eyes were

like fire and there was froth round its teeth."

Miss Pembroke looked up in alarm, for Annette had risen. "Do be

careful!" she said. "His bite would kill you. Don't you remember that

Duke of Richmond who was bitten by a fox, in Canada, and died of

hydrophobia a day to two afterwards? He was playing with it, and it

snapped at his hand."

"I'm not going to play with it, but to free it," said Annette, and

walked rapidly across the green. "I've found one fault in Honora,"

she muttered. "She is sweet and good to a certain length, but her

sympathies are circumscribed."

The cage of strong withes was securely fastened to the ground with

wooden pins, and the door was tied with a slender chain. The fox was

furthermore secured by a rope which held one of his legs. He faced

about and glared at his liberator, while, from the outside, she cut the

rope with her pocket-knife. His eyes were like balls of fire, but he

did not snap at her. He did not trust her, but he had perhaps a doubt

that she meant him well.

The leg free, Annette slipped the knob of the chain, and opened the

door.

"In honor of the Creator of men and beasts, and S. Francis of Assisi,

go free now and for ever," she said.

The creature stood motionless one instant, then, with the rush and

speed of an arrow, it shot through the opening, flew across the green,

and leaped into the water, that hissed as though a red-hot coal had

been dropped into it. Annette ran, laughing and full of excitement,

back to the rock, and watched the swimmer. Only his nose and long tail

showing, he made fiercely for the shore, his whole being concentrated

in the one longing for freedom.

"If he should run into a cage on the other side, I believe his heart

would burst with the disappointment," Annette said, standing up to

watch him. "Bravo! There he is, my dear brother, the fox."

He leaped up the farther shore and over the track, and rushed headlong

into the broad, free woods.

"Won't he have a story to tell!" said Annette, seating herself; "that

is, if he ever stops running. You may depend on it, Honora, I shall be

a great heroine among the foxes; and as years go by, and the story is

passed down from generation to generation, I shall undergo a change in

the picture. My hair will grow to be golden, with stars in it, and my

eyes will be radiant, and they will put wings on me, and I shall be an

angel. That's the way the myths and marvels were made. But how they

will get over my sawing off the rope with a dull pen-knife is more than

I can tell."

"The spirit will be true, dear, if not the letter," Honora answered,

smiling. "What signifies a little inaccuracy in the material part? That

will be turned to dust before the story reaches the winged period."

Miss Ferrier had something on her mind which she shrank a little from

speaking of, but presently mentioned in that careless manner we assume

when we care more than we like to own:

"I've been wondering lately whether it would be silly in me to have my

genealogy looked up. It seems a little top-heavy to have one's family

tree all leaves and no roots, though mine is not so in reality. My

father and mother were both very poor and ignorant when I was born; but

my great-grandfather was a French gentleman. He became poor in some

way, and had no idea how to do anything for himself. I dare say he

was very weak, but he was immensely genteel. He and his sons lived in

a tumble-down old stone house somewhere near Quebec, and ate oatmeal

porridge out of painted china bowls, with heavy spoons that had a crest

on them. There they moaned away their existence in a state of resigned

surprise at their circumstances, and of expectation that the riches

that had taken to themselves wings would fly back again. There was one

desperate one in the family, and he was my grandfather. He grew tired

of shabby gentility, and set out to work. The others cast him off; and

I suppose he wasn't very energetic, or very lucky, for he went down. He

married a wife from the working class, and they had no end of children,

who all died sooner or later, except my father. My grandfather died,

too--was glad to get himself out of sight of the sun; and my poor

father--God be merciful to him!--stumbled on through life in the same

dazed way. All he inherited was the dull astonishment of that old

Frenchman who could never be made to realize that riches would not

some day come back as they had gone. Of course"--Annette shrugged her

shoulders, and laughed slightly--"it would be necessary to drop some

of the later details. That is the way people do. Build a bridge over

the chasm into the shining part. Miss Pembroke, what do you think of my

unearthing my great-grandfather, and setting him up in my parlors for

people to admire? Wouldn't it be more interesting than a stuffed fox?

I am of his ancestry"--her laughter died out in a flash of pride. "If

they had any fire worthy their blood, I have it. Some spark was held in

abeyance, and I have caught it. I would like to go back and search out

my kindred. Well! do you think me vulgar?"

Honora looked at her earnestly. "No, Annette; but you are condescending

too much. You are coming nearer to vulgarity than I ever knew you to

before. Lineage is something, is much, and those who can look back on a

noble and stainless ancestry are fortunate, if they are worthy of it.

I do not wonder that they are pleased to remember their forefathers.

But character is more, and does not need ancestry. It is sufficient to

itself. What, after all, is the real advantage of belonging to a high

family? It is that one is supposed to inherit from it high qualities.

If one has the qualities without the family, it is far higher. It

is the kind of character that founds great families--that natural,

newly-given loftiness. I should be sorry if you allowed yourself to

take a step in this matter, Annette."

"You can easily say all that," Annette replied, half pleased and half

bitter. "You have a past that you can look to with pride."

"With pride!" echoed the other. "I do not understand you. If you mean

Mrs. Carpenter, I certainly like to think of her; but her qualities

were entirely personal. I have nothing to be ashamed of in my family,

and I am thankful for that; but, also, I am not aware that there is

anything to be proud of. It is a merely negative feeling."

"But," Annette said, "your people have always been well off, and some

were very rich, and they were educated."

"And you think me capable of pluming myself on that--of being proud

of an ancestry of prosperous traders and merchants who were passably

educated!"

Honora flushed, and drew herself up involuntarily, with an awakening

of that invincible personal haughtiness which is more soaring than any

mere royalty of blood.

"I never give it a thought, except in a negative way. They merely did

what decent people with ordinary sense and capacity are obliged to do.

No, Annette, don't fancy that I can walk on such small stilts. If it

were an old historical name, now, one that painters had illustrated

and poets sung, that would be fine. If there had been great warriors

and mighty rulers, there would be a chance for pride to come in. Or,

better, if it were some hero or benefactor to the race, whom I could

look back to; or if it were a poet. I always fancy some grace surrounds

the children of a poet. They may not sing, they may be personally

commonplace; but, like the broken vase,

"'The scent of the roses will hang round them still.'"

"I think you must be descended from a poet," Annette said, smiling.

"And so, child," concluded Honora, laying her hand on her companion's

arm, "don't condescend to go into the past for some reason why you

should be respected; find it in yourself. I think it right to tell

you now what might otherwise sound like flattery. I, and many better

judges than I, think you uncommon and admirable. You have made little

mistakes--as who has not?--but they were never mean ones. Don't be led

into pettiness now."

Annette blushed.

"What set me talking of ancestry?" she exclaimed. "It's a dusty

subject, not fit for this fresh, clear place. It belongs to the town.

How quiet and lovely it is here! I would like to come often. In the

city, I can't hear myself think."

They sat a while without saying anything, and looked over the water. A

shower was travelling across the distant mountain, trailing in a dim

silver mist from sky to earth. It sailed nearer, so that drops from the

edge of it dimpled the pond not far away.

A boat came toward them, propelled by a pair of strong arms. Elizabeth

had heard her grandmother's summons, and was coming home. Her little

boat was piled full of boughs of the wild cherry. Strings of its fruit,

like strung garnets, glowed through the green leaves. With this was

a tangled mass of clematis. She had hung a long spray of the vine

over her head and neck, and its silvery-green blossoms glistened in

the loose rings of her short, black hair, which it pushed over her

forehead, and almost into the laughing eyes beneath. Through this vine,

and the blouse that covered but did not hide them, the working of

her supple shoulders could be seen. Her smooth, oval face was deeply

flushed with health, exercise, and warmth.

She was perfectly business-like in her manner, and attended strictly

to what she was doing. Even in passing before the young ladies, and

looking directly in their faces, though her lips parted in a smile,

she made no other sign of recognition. She brought her boat round in a

smooth circle, not without pride, apparently, in displaying her skill,

pushed it into a tiny cove, where the long, trailing grass brushed both

sides, sprang lightly ashore, and tied it to the mooring-ring.

Then she made her half-embarrassed salutation, and stood wiping away

the perspiration that lay in large drops on her forehead, and in little

beads around her mouth.

If these three young women had been changed into flowers, the rower

would have been a peony, Honora a lily, and Annette--but there is

no flower complex and generous enough to be her representative. Be

her symbol, rather, the familiar one of the orb just rounding into

shape out of chaos. She was less well balanced than Honora, merely

because there was so much more to balance. Her freak of searching out

an ancestry would never have been acted on, even if her friend had

approved it. It was one of those thoughts which need only to be put

into words in order to be dismissed. Annette had rid herself of a good

many foolish notions in this way, and had been growing wiser than her

critics by the very acts which they took as proofs of her weakness.

Miss Pembroke had discovered this, for she looked lovingly. Others

were astonished to find themselves awed to-day where they had mocked

but yesterday, and professed that they knew Annette Ferrier only to be

puzzled by her.

It sometimes happens to people that illusory thoughts and feelings,

which, pent in the mind, have an appearance of reality, and even of

force, perish in expressing themselves, as the cloud breaks in thunder.

There was another difference between these two: Annette had one of

those souls that are born nailed to their cross.

It is usual with hasty and superficial judges, people who, as Liszt

says, "desire to promulgate laws in spheres to which nature has denied

them entrance," to show what they fancy is a good-natured contempt for

these discontented beings who cannot accommodate themselves to life

as it is. They mention them with an indulgent smile, and seem to take

pleasure in wounding still further these sensitive souls, not aware

how clearly they display their own presumptuous selfishness. The ease

with which they content themselves with inferior aims and pleasures,

they dignify by the name of philosophy and good sense; and they presume

to censure those who, tormented by a vision of perfection, and feeling

within themselves the premature stirring of powers that can be employed

only in a higher state of existence, seem so imperfect only because to

be perfect they must be superhumanly great. There are two ways in which

this divine discontent may be silenced: the soul may degrade itself,

and treat its ideals as visionary; or it may find rest in God. But no

ordinary piety suffices; only a saintly holiness, flowing in and around

the troubled soul like a sunny and peaceful sea, can lift and bear it

smoothly on to that land where nothing sacred is mocked at, and the

smiles are awakened by no sight of another's pain.

Annette Ferrier had made this much progress, that she had learned to

rely on no one for a sympathy that would satisfy her, and had owned to

herself that her heart required other and nobler aims and motives than

those which had occupied her. She was half aware, or would have been,

if the thought had not been rejected as treasonable, that if she were

not already engaged to Lawrence Gerald, nothing would induce her to

accept him as her future husband. But she had accepted him, and there

was no longer room to doubt or to choose, or even to think of doubting

or choosing. It lacked but a week to their wedding-day, and she was

making her last preparations. What was worth doing at all was worth

doing well, she thought, and resolved to make the occasion a festival

one.

The three walked up the green together, Elizabeth between the two young

ladies. Miss Pembroke stepped quite independently, her hands folded

lightly together; Annette held by the end of the clematis wreath that

still hung over the young girl's shoulders, and looked at her with a

caressing smile.

"Did you buy the little writing-case we were speaking of when I was

here last?" she asked.

"Well, not exactly," was the hesitating answer.

"Not exactly! That means that you have engaged it, or got one that does

not suit, and must be exchanged."

Miss Ferrier had dropped the wreath, and was engaged in gathering up

the cloud of pale blue muslin that flowed around and behind her, and

did not observe the smile on the girl's face.

"No," said Elizabeth, gathering courage from her visitor's kindness.

"You see, when I sat down and looked at the half-eagle you gave

me, I thought it seemed a pity to go right off and spend it for a

writing-case. I could have that, if I wanted to, so I didn't feel quite

so anxious about it; and there were other things I wanted just as much.

It would be nice to have a little clock in my room, and five dollars

would buy one. So since I could have that, too, I felt easier about not

having it. Then, I would like a larger looking-glass. Well, I kind of

thought I had it, since I could buy it if I would. And I could get any

one of the half a dozen other things I wanted, making about ten in all.

But when I knew that I could have either whenever I chose, I didn't

feel in a hurry to get anything; and I was so sure of each one that it

seemed to me as if I had them all. So I just kept the five dollars;

and while I keep it, it is as good as fifty to me. When I spend it, it

will be only five dollars, and I shall want nine things dreadfully, and

be sorry I hadn't bought one of them instead of what I did get."

Annette dropped her gathered-up skirts from her hands to throw her arms

around the young rustic's neck, and kiss her astonished face.

"You dear little soul!" she cried, in an ecstasy, "how quickly you have

found it out!"

Elizabeth blushed immensely, for she was not used to being kissed.

"Found out what?" she asked.

"Why, that nothing in the world is very desirable except what you can't

get."

"Oh!" The girl tossed her head back, and laughed ringingly. "I found

that out as long ago as I used to cry for mince-pie to eat, and then

cry with stomach-ache after I had eaten it. Grandfather used to tell me

then that if there is anything in the world that we want so much we cry

to get it, it will be sure to make us cry still more after we have it.

I never forgot that. Grandfather knows a great deal about everything,"

she concluded, with an air of conviction.

"Did you ever see a creature learn so easily?" Annette said to Honora.

"She begins life with all the wisdom of experience."

Honora sighed as she answered, "She reminds me of something dear Mother

Chevreuse said the last time she came to see me: 'Nothing is worth

working for but bread and heaven.'"

They had reached Mr. Grey's floral treasure-house by this time, and the

flowers absorbed their attention.

"Bushels of asters!" exclaimed Annette, pausing outside the door, and

glancing along the garden-beds. "And they are almost as handsome as

roses. Those will do for the balconies and out-of-the-way places. And,

Elizabeth, I want you to cherish every pansy as if it were a jewel. I

don't care about the piebald ones, but the pure purple or pure gold are

quite the thing. And now, Honora, step in here, and own that you never

before saw fuchsias. You remember Edgar Poe's hill of tulips sloping

to the water, like a cataract of gems flowing down from the sky? That

Poetical creature! Well, here's a Niagara of lady's ear-drops."

When at length they had started, and were driving down to their

alder-bath again, Honora leaned out of the carriage, and looked back.

"What a lovely place this would be to spend a honeymoon in!" she said

softly, as if to herself.

"Which, yours or mine?" asked Annette.

Honora blushed. "I was thinking of honeymoons in the abstract," she

replied.

Elizabeth stood on the lawn, and looked after the carriage as long as

it was in sight; and when it was no longer in sight, she still gazed at

the green wall that had closed up behind it. Perhaps she was thinking

what a fine thing it must be to drive in a pretty carriage, and have

gauzy dresses trailing away behind one like clouds; or may be she was

recollecting what they had said to her, and how that delicate, airy

lady had kissed her on the cheek, and laughed with tears in her eyes.

While she gazed, deeply occupied with whatever dream or thought she was

entertaining, the alders parted again, and a man appeared, hesitating

whether to come forward, yet looking at her as if he wished to speak.

Elizabeth did not much like his looks, but she advanced a step to see

what he wanted. No harm had ever come to her there, and she had no

thought of fear. Besides, she would have considered herself perfectly

well able to put this person to flight; for his slim, little figure and

mean face were by no means calculated to inspire either fear or respect.

Encouraged by her advance, the man came forward to meet her.

"My grandfather will soon be home, if you want him," she said directly,

holding aloof.

The stranger did not want to see him; he merely wished to ask some

questions about the place which she could answer.

They were very trivial questions, but she answered them, keeping her

eyes fixed intently on him. He wanted to know what they raised there;

if it was very cold in winter; if it was very hot in summer; if they

had many visitors there; if she was much acquainted in Crichton; if she

had a piano; if she could play; if she knew any good music-teacher. And

perhaps she had seen Mr. Schöninger?

No, she had not seen him.

"Oh! perhaps you have met him without knowing," the man said with

animation, in spite of an assumed carelessness. "Seems to me I saw him

come here this summer. Don't you remember a man whose buggy broke down

beyond there, and he came here for a rope?"

The girl's eyes brightened. "Oh! is that a music-teacher?" she asked.

"His voice sounds like it, or like what a music-teacher's ought to

be. Yes, I remember him. He got on to the wrong road driving up to

Crichton, turned off here instead of going straight on, and something

broke. I gave him a rope, and he went away."

"Let me see; there was somebody else here at the same time, wasn't

there?" he asked, with an air of trying to recollect. "Wasn't there a

woman here getting things for the new convent?"

The disagreeable eagerness in her questioner's eyes chilled the girl;

but there seemed no reason why she should not answer so insignificant a

question. She did so reluctantly. "Yes, Mrs. Macon was here."

"And her carriage was standing at the door?" he added, nodding.

"Seems to me you're very much interested in our visitors," said

Elizabeth abruptly, drawing herself up a little.

The man laughed. "Why, yes, in these two. But I won't ask you much

more. Only tell me one thing. Did you see this Mr. Schöninger come up

to the door, and go away from it?"

"I saw him come up, I didn't see him go away," she said.

The truth was that Miss Elizabeth had admired this stranger

exceedingly, but had not wished him to suspect it. So instead of

frankly looking after him as he went out, she had turned away, with an

air of immense indifference, then rushed to the window to look when she

thought him at a safe distance.

"Then you didn't see him when he passed by the phaeton that stood at

the step?" pursued the questioner.

She shook her head, and pursed her lip out impatiently.

"He had a shawl over his arm when he came. Did you notice whether he

had it when you saw him going away?" was the next question.

"I don't know anything about it," she said shortly; but recollected

even in speaking that she had said to herself as she watched the

strange gentleman going, "How does he hold his shawl so that I can't

see it?"

"Now, one more question, and I have done," the stranger said. His

weak, shuffling manner had quite disappeared, and he was keen and

business-like. "Was there anybody else about the house who saw this

man?"

"Yes; grandfather was in the garden; but he didn't come near him."

"What part of the garden? In sight of the door?"

"I won't tell you another word!" she exclaimed, turning away. "And I

think you'd better go."

When she glanced back again, the man had disappeared. She felt uneasy

and regretful. Something was going on which she did not understand, and

it seemed to her that she had done harm in answering those questions.

"I wish I had gone into the house when I saw the prying creature," she

said to herself; "or I wish I had held my tongue. He's got what he came

for, I can see that."

He had got what he came for, or very nearly.

"Shall I waylay the old man, and question him?" he thought; and

concluded not to. "If he knows anything, he will tell it at the proper

time."

The green boughs brushed him with their tender leaves, as if they would

have brushed away some cobwebs from his sight, and opened his eyes to

the peace and charity of the woods; but he was too much absorbed in one

ignoble pursuit to be accessible to gentler influences. What he sought

was not to uphold the law; what he felt was not that charity to the

many which sometimes makes severity to the few a necessity. His object

was money, and charity lay dead in his heart with a coin over each eye.

That evening Miss Ferrier and Lawrence Gerald talked over their

matrimonial affairs quite freely, and in the most business-like manner

in the world. They discussed the ceremony, the guests, the breakfast,

and the toilette, and Annette displayed her lace dress.

"It is frightfully costly," she owned; "but I had a purpose in making

it so. I shall never wear it but once, and some day or other it will

go to trim a priest's surplice. You see, I ordered the pattern to that

end, as nearly as I could get it, and not have it made for me. There

was no time for that. The ferns are neutral; but the wheat is perfect,

you see, and that vine is quite like a grape-vine. I shall wear a

_tulle_ veil."

She threw the cloud of misty lace over her head.

"Why, Annette, it makes you look lovely!" Lawrence exclaimed.

"I am glad you think so," she responded dryly, and took it off again.

Lawrence was seated on a tabouret in Annette's own sitting-room, which

no one else was allowed to enter during these last days of her maiden

life. It had been newly furnished after her own improved taste, and

the luxury and elegance of everything pleased him. He was still more

pleased to see her so well in harmony with it. He was beginning to find

her interesting, especially as he found her indifferent and a little

commanding toward him.

"And now, Lawrence," she said, folding carefully the beautiful Alençon

flounce, "you have some little preparation to make. You know you must

be reconciled to the church."

"I have nothing against the church," he said coolly.

"The church has something against you, and it is a serious matter," she

urged, refusing to smile. "You haven't been to confession for--how many

years? Not a few, certainly. No priest will marry us till you go."

"I suppose a minister wouldn't do?" remarked the young man, with the

greatest hardihood, seeming mildly doubtful about the question.

"Now, Lawrence, don't talk nonsense," Annette begged. "When one is

going to be married, one feels a little sober."

"That's a fact!" he assented, with rather ungallant emphasis.

She colored faintly. Her gentle earnestness might have touched one less

careless. "It is beginning a new life," she said; "and if it were not

well begun, I'm afraid we should not be happy."

The young man straightened himself up, and gave his moustache an

energetic twist with both hands--a way he had when impatient.

"Well, anything but a lecture, Ninon," he exclaimed. "I'll think the

matter over, and see if I can rake up any transgressions. I dare say

there are plenty."

"You will speak to F. Chevreuse about it?" she asked eagerly.

He nodded.

"And now sing me something," he said. "I haven't heard you sing for an

age. Is there anything new?"

She seated herself at the exquisite little piano, well pleased to be

asked. Here was one way in which she could delight him, for he grew

more and more fond of her singing. Annette's was a graceful figure

at the piano, and she had the gift of looking pretty while singing.

Her delicate and expressive face reflected every light and shade in

the songs she sang, and the music flowed from her lips with as little

effort as a song from a bird.

"Here is 'The Sea's Answer,'" she said.

Lawrence settled himself into a high-backed chair. "Well, let us hear

what the sea answered. Only it might be more intelligible if one first

knew what the question was, and who the questioner, and why he didn't

ask somebody else. There! go on."

Annette sang:

"O Sea!" she said, "I trust you;

The land has slipped away;

Myself and all my fortunes

I give to you to-day.

Break off the foamy cable

That holds me to the shore;

For my path is to the eastward,

I can return no more.

But ever while it stretches--

That pale and shining thread--

It pulls upon my heart-strings

Till I wish that I were dead."

Then the sea it sent its ripples

As fast as they could run.

And they caught the bubbles of the wake,

And broke them one by one;

And they tossed the froth in bunches

Away to left and right,

Till of all that foamy cable

But a fragment lay in sight.

And on the circling waters

No clue was left to trace

Where the land beyond invisibly

Held its abiding-place.

"But, oh! "she cried, "it follows--

That ghostly, wavering line--

Like the floating of a garment

Drenched in the chilly brine.

It clings unto the rudder

Like a drowning, snowy hand;

And while it clings, my exiled heart

Strains backward to the land."

Then the sea rolled in its billows.

It rolled them to and fro;

And the floating robe sank out of sight,

And the drowning hand let go.

"O Sea!" she said, "I trust you!

Now tell me, true and bold,

If the new life I am seeking

Will be brighter than the old.

I am stifling for an orbit

Of a wider-sweeping ring;

And there's laughter in me somewhere,

And I have songs to sing.

But life has held me like a vise

That never, never slips;

And when my songs pressed upward,

It smote me on the lips.

"And, Sea," she sighed, "I'm weary

Of failure and of strife;

And I fain would rest for ever,

If this is all of life.

Thy billows rock like mothers' arms

Where babes are hushed to rest;

And the sleepers thou dost take in charge

Are safe within thy breast.

Then, if the way be weary,

I have not strength to go;

And thy rocking bosom, Ocean,

Is the tenderest I know."

Then the sea rose high, and shook her,

As she called upon its name,

Till the life within her wavered,

And went out like a flame.

And stranger voices read the Word,

And sang the parting hymn,

As they dropped her o'er the ship's side

Into the waters dim.

And the rocking ocean drew her down

Its silent ones among,

With all her laughters prisoned,

And all her songs unsung.

There was silence for a little while when the song ended; then Lawrence

exclaimed, with irritation, "What sets people out to write such things?

The whole world wants to be cheered and amused, and yet some writers

seem to take delight in making everything as gloomy as they are. Why

can't people keep their blues to themselves?"

The singer shrugged her shoulders. "You mistake, I think. I always

fancy that melancholy writing proves a gay writer. Don't you know that

school compositions are nearly always didactic and doleful? When I was

fifteen years old, and as gay as a lark, I used to write jeremiads at

school, and make myself and all the girls cry. I enjoyed it. When a

subject is too sore, you don't touch it, and silence proves more than

speech."

Lawrence kept the promise he had made, though he put its fulfilment

off as long as possible. The morning before his wedding-day he was

at early Mass, and, when Mass was over, went into F. Chevreuse's

confessional. It would seem that he had not succeeded in "raking up"

many transgressions, for ten minutes sufficed for the first confession

he had made in fifteen years. But when he came out, his face was very

pale, and he lingered in the church long after every one else had left.

Glancing in from the sacristy, after his thanksgiving, F. Chevreuse saw

him prostrate before the altar, with his lips pressed to the dusty step

where many an humble communicant had knelt, and heard him repeat lowly,

"_Enter not into judgment with thy servant; for no one living shall be

justified in thy sight_."

The priest looked at him a moment with fatherly love and satisfaction,

then softly withdrew.

The spiritual affairs of her future husband attended to, toilet,

decoration, ceremony, reception, all planned and arranged by one brain

and one pair of hands, Annette had still to school and persuade her

mother to a proper behavior. She, the daughter, had conquered Crichton.

They no longer laughed at nor criticised her, and were in a fair way

to go to the opposite extreme, and regard her as an authority on all

subjects. For the Crichtonians had the merit of believing that good

can come out of Nazareth, and could become enthusiastic over what

they conceived to be an original genius victoriously asserting its

independence of a low origin and of discouraging circumstances.

But the mother was, and ever would be to them, a subject of quenchless

mirth. Her sayings and doings, and the mortification she inflicted on

her daughter, were an endless source of amusement to them.

"Now, do keep quiet this once, mamma," Annette begged pathetically.

"You know I shall not be able to hover about and set people to rights

when they quiz you. You will have to take care of yourself. Don't trust

anybody, and don't quarrel with anybody."

For once the mother was disposed to yield entire obedience. She had

begun to assume that mournful face which, according to Thackeray, all

women seem to think appropriate at a wedding; and there was far more

danger of her being inarticulate and sobbing than of her showing either

pugilism or loquacity.

"I'm sure I sha'n't feel much like saying anything to anybody when

I see my only daughter getting married before my eyes," she said

reproachfully.

"Suppose you saw your only daughter growing into an old maid before

your eyes, mamma," said Annette, laughing, and patting her mother on

the shoulder. "Would you like that any better?"

"Well," Mrs. Ferrier sighed, "I suppose you may as well be married,

now you've had the fuss of getting ready. All I care about is your

happiness, though you may not believe it. I'm no scholar, and I know

people laugh at me; but that doesn't prevent my having feelings. You

deserve to be happy, Annette, for you have been a good child to me,

and you were never ashamed of me, though you have tried hard to make

me like other folks. I couldn't be anything but what I am; and when I

have tried, I've only made a greater fool of myself than I was before.

But for all that, I'm sorry I've been such a burden to you, and I'm

grateful to you for standing by me."

This was Mrs. Ferrier's first confession of any sense of her own

shortcomings, or of her daughter's trials on her account, and it

touched Annette to the heart.

The outside world, that she had striven to please and win, faded away

and grew distant. Here was one whom she could depend on, the only one

on earth whom she could always be sure of. Whatever she might be, her

mother could not be estranged from her, and could not have an interest

entirely detached from hers.

"Don't talk of being grateful to me, mamma," she said tremulously. "I

believe, after all, you were nearer right than I was; and I have far

more reason to be ashamed of myself than of you. I have been straining

every nerve to please people who care nothing for me, and to reach

ends that were nothing when reached. It isn't worth the trouble. Still,

it is easier to go on than to turn back, and we may as well take a

little pains to keep what we have taken much pains to get. I'm sorry I

undertook this miserable business of a show-wedding. It disgusts me. A

quiet marriage would have been far better. But since it is undertaken,

I want it to be a success of its kind."

"Oh! as to that," Mrs. Ferrier said, "I like the wedding. I don't like

to see people get married behind the door, as if they were ashamed of

themselves. You don't marry every day, and it may as well be something

uncommon."

They were conversing more gently and confidentially than they had for

a long time; and the mother appeared to greater advantage than ever

before, more dignified, more quiet. Annette pushed a footstool to the

sofa, and, sitting on it, leaned on her mother's lap.

"Still, I do not like a showy marriage," she said. "It may do for two

young things who have parents and friends on both sides to take all the

care, while they dream away the time, and have nothing to do or think

of but imagine a beautiful future. For serious, thoughtful people, I

think the less parade and staring and hurly-burly there is, the better.

But then, that quiet way throws the two very much alone together, and

obliges them to talk the matter over; and Lawrence and I would find it

a bore. We are neither of us very sentimental."

She spoke gently enough, but there was a faint touch of bitterness in

her voice that the mother's ear detected.

"I don't know why he shouldn't like to talk the matter over with you,"

she began, kindling to anger; but Annette stopped her.

"Now, mamma, there must be an end put to all this," she said firmly.

"And since there is no other way, let me tell you the true story of my

engagement. You seem to think that Lawrence was very anxious to get me,

and that he has made a good bargain, and ought to be grateful. Well,

perhaps a part of the last is true; but the first is not. I've got to

humiliate myself to tell you; but you will never cease to reproach him

unless I do." A burning blush suffused her face, and she shrank as if

with a physical pain. "Lawrence knew perfectly well that I liked him

before he ever paid the slightest attention to me; and when he began

to follow me ever so little, I encouraged him in a manner that must

have been almost coaxing. He knew that I was to be had for the asking.

Of course, I wasn't aware of this, mamma. Girls do such things, like

simpletons, and think nobody understands them; and perhaps they do not

understand themselves. I am sure that Lawrence was certain of me before

I had the least idea what my own feelings were. I knew I liked him,

but I never thought how. I was too romantic to come down to realities.

Of course, he had a contempt for me--he couldn't help it--though I

didn't deserve it; for while he thought, I suppose, that I was trying

to win him for my husband, I was only worshipping him as superior and

beyond all other men. If girls could only know how plainly they show

their feelings, or rather, if they would only restrain and deny their

feelings a little, they would save themselves much contempt that they

deserve, and much that they do not deserve. So you see, mamma, Lawrence

might at any time, if you reproach him, turn and say that I was the one

who sought him, and say what is half true, too. I didn't mean to, but

I did it for all that. Now, of course, it is different, and he really

wants to marry me. He is more anxious than I am, indeed. But the less

said about the whole matter the better. When I think of it, I could

throw myself into the fire."

"Well, well, dear, don't think about it, then," the mother urged

soothingly, startled by the passion in Annette's face. "It doesn't

make much difference who begins, so long as both are willing. And now,

don't torment yourself any more, child. You're always breaking your

heart because you have done something that isn't quite up to your own

notions. And I tell you, Annette, I wouldn't exchange you for twenty

Honora Pembrokes."

Annette leaned on her mother's bosom, and resigned herself with a

feeling of sweet rest and comfort to be petted and caressed, without

criticising either grammar or logic. How mean and harsh all such

criticisms seemed to her when brought to check and chill a loving heart!

"Mamma," she whispered, after a while, "I almost wish that we were back

in the little cabin again. I can just faintly remember your rocking me

to sleep there, and it seems to me that I was happier then than ever

since."

"Yes," Mrs. Ferrier sighed, "we were happier then than we are now; but

we shouldn't be happy to go back to it. I should feel as if I were

crawling head-foremost into a hole in the ground. We didn't know how

happy we were then, and we don't know how happy we are now, I suppose.

So let's make the best of it all."

The wedding proved to be, as the bride had desired, a success of its

kind. The day was perfect, no mishap occurred, and everybody whom the

family had not invited themselves as spectators. Policemen were needed

to keep the way clear to the church door when the bridal party arrived,

and the heavens seemed to rain flowers on them wherever they went.

Seeing Mr. Gerald bend his handsome head, and whisper smilingly to the

bride, as they entered the church, sentimental folks fancied that he

was making some very lover-like speech suitable to the occasion. But

this is what he said: "Annette, we draw better than the giraffe. Why

hadn't we thought to charge ten cents a head?"

Her eyes had been fixed on the lighted altar, just visible, and she

did not look at him as she replied, "Lawrence, we are in the presence

of God, and this is a sacrament. Make an act of contrition, or you will

commit a sacrilege."

And then the music of the organ caught them up, and the rest was like a

dream.

"How touching it is to see a young girl give herself away with such

perfect confidence," remarked Mr. Sales, who was much impressed by the

splendor of the bride.

"Give herself away!" growled Dr. Porson in return. "She is throwing

herself away."

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE CATHEDRAL OF CHARTRES.

The story of the erection of the Cathedral of Chartres is an epic

from beginning to end. Before it arose in the amplitude and majesty

which the great epoch of Christian art knew how to bestow upon its

works, nothing less was required than the greatest courage, the

most indomitable perseverance, and a determination of will which no

difficulties or reverses could turn from its purpose. The building

of this cathedral was a struggle against fire and sword, against

barbarians and the elements--a long conflict, which in the end left

piety and devotion victorious.

No sooner was the era of persecution closed by the conversion of

Constantine, A.D. 312, than a church was raised over the Druidic

grotto, and thronged incessantly by the multitudes of pilgrims who came

to venerate the sacred image. The wood covering the hill, no longer

possessing, as formerly, any sacred character, was cut down, in order

that the town might extend itself in that direction; and houses began

forthwith to cluster round the foot of the temple, as if seeking the

immediate protection of Mary.