Among the objects most worthy of a visit is the cathedral, which in taste

and magnificence of decoration promises to surpass all modern

ecclesiastical buildings in Ireland. It has rich marbles from Italy, fine

specimens of native marble, _lapis lazuli_ and _verd‐antique_, in stones

that are worth their weight in gold. Some of the work on the altars is

exquisite. The cathedral will be a superb memorial of the piety and taste

of the present archbishop, Dr. Leahy. We had the pleasure of visiting, and

being visited by, that distinguished ecclesiastic and most refined and

courteous gentleman. Very kindly and hospitably did he entreat us.

About four or five miles from Thurles are the ruins of Holy Cross Abbey.

Our ride thither was through a delightful country in all the humid beauty

of an Irish spring. The ruins are not extensive. They have been so often

and so minutely described that a detailed description is not necessary

here. Besides, I am not writing a guide‐book. I must mention, however, a

stone balustrade which is quite artistic in its effect. The principal

window is a splendid piece of work. It is in excellent preservation. There

are a number of tombs of considerable age in the abbey. Near the principal

window is one to which a singular legend is attached. It was related to us

by the guardian of the place, an old woman of eighty, but hale and hearty,

chatty and cheerful—such a pleasant female Old Mortality as the immortal

Sir Walter would have loved to study and depict. I have often wondered at

the cheerfulness with which the old among the Irish poor bear the burden

of lengthened existence. The tomb is of stone, and in its upper surface is

a hollow. The old woman told us that it was worn by a rain‐drop which for

many years fell unceasingly from the roof until the constant dropping wore

into the stone the hollow that we saw. The drop began to fall on the

commission of some crime, or some offence against the church—she did not

recollect which—by “one of the family”—“perhaps some trouble with the

priest of the parish.” It continued to fall, drip, drip, drip, rain or

shine, year in and year out, until the crime was atoned for, or the

offence pardoned, or the family sold out and left the country. Then the

drop ceased to fall, and has never fallen since.

“Do you think the story is really true?” asked the Lady from Idaho of the

old custodian.

“Do I think its thrue, ma’am?” said the old woman, giving her territorial

ladyship a diplomatic look. “Shure, it isn’t for the likes o’ me to be

denyin’ the likes of that. And shure, ma’am, can’t you see the hole for

yourself?”

“Of course. There is no better proof than that.”

“And don’t you see, ma’am, that it’s rainin’ now at the very minnit that

I’m talkin’ to ye?”

“There certainly can be no doubt about that,” replied the Lady from Idaho,

glancing upwards at the umbrella which Cousin George held over her head.

“And don’t you see, ma’am, that niver a dhrop falls on the tomb where the

hole is, now?” added the old woman triumphantly.

“I do indeed,” replied Mme. Idaho. “That last argument is conclusive. Even

if it were not, I am of easy faith in such matters.”

“And wisely so,” chimed in Cousin George. “Doubting Thomas makes a

miserable traveller. He loses the pleasures of travel in the search for

proofs that he is not enjoying himself without proper warrant. If he finds

evidence for us that our pleasures of association are not justified by

fact, that we have no right to be pleased by legends he can disprove, we

tell him he is a fool for his pains. We do not want his facts. We are

determined to believe in our favorite legends, in spite of him and all the

Gradgrinds in the world.”

The old woman looked at Cousin George with rather a puzzled air. She had

listened most attentively, leaning her old head forward, and with withered

forefinger pushing back her mob‐cap from her time‐dulled ear; but Cousin

George’s harangue was evidently Greek to her. She instinctively divined,

nevertheless, that George was talking on her side of the question; for she

said, nodding her head approvingly the while:

“Faith, and shure it’s mighty right ye are, yer honor!”

A gratuity, calculated according to the American standard, resulted in a

series of blessings and a succession of antique “dips,” known as

“courtesies” by the Irish peasant women of a past generation.

We took the cars again at Thurles on our way Dublin‐ward.

There is an air of comfort and solidity about the few farm‐houses we

notice on our route, but they were indeed few. The proportion of land

under tillage was comparatively very small. The country seemed generally

to be in pasturage. Large flocks of sheep and herds of cattle were to be

seen. The small proprietors and farmers had disappeared. We saw a couple

of women working in the fields. This annoyed the Lady from Idaho very

much. She said that no matter how beautiful the landscape might be, that

blot destroyed all her enjoyment of it. Our travelling companion, Viator,

bade her season her admiration for a while until she reached the interior

of Germany, where she would see many a team of wayward sisters harnessed

to the plough and driven by a beery lord of the creation. Mme. Idaho said

she did not want to go where such sights could be seen.

We pass Kildare, with its world‐famed “Curragh,” an extensive flat, on

which a few thousand British troops were encamped at the time. At every

station we find a policeman or two casting argus eyes over things in

general. Physically, the policemen—the “Royal Irish Constabulary”—are

among the finest specimens of the _genus homo_ I have seen. They are tall,

generally over six feet, and magnificently moulded. Their uniform, though

somewhat sombre, is in good taste: a dark, green tunic and trousers, with

a small, visorless forage‐cap ornamented in front with a harp in scarlet.

Clondalkin, which is within a few miles of Dublin, possesses a round tower

in excellent preservation. It is about eighty feet high. The entrance is

about twelve feet from the ground. It has four openings or windows some

ten feet below the roof.

We are in Dublin, at King’s Bridge terminus, so called from being near the

bridge erected over the Liffey to commemorate the visit to Dublin of the

fourth of the royal personages so unflatteringly designated by the author

of _Childe Harold_. A charming Irish landscape greets the eye as you

approach the city; on the left the prettiest portion of the Liffey and the

Phœnix Park; on the right a gently‐undulating expanse of green fields

bordered by old trees and dotted with ancient churches and picturesque

cottages, bounded in the distance by the soft outline of the Wicklow

Hills.

One of our party expected to meet a brother whom he had not seen since

they were both boys nearly a quarter of a century ago. Arrived at the

terminus, and once more restored to liberty by the unlocking of the

carriage‐doors, he looked around anxiously for the individual he expected

to find waiting for him. He could pick out no one in the crowd whom he

could claim as a brother.

“I do not think there is any one here,” said Mr. Hibernicus with an air of

disappointment, after vainly peering into the faces of a dozen gentlemen,

who seemed rather surprised by his close scrutiny.

“What kind of a brother do you expect, Mr. Hibernicus?” asked the Lady

from Idaho.

“I assure you, my dear madam,” replied Mr. Hibernicus, “I have not the

remotest idea what Jack looks like now. He was quite a boy when we parted,

and I have not seen even a photograph of him since. I hoped that instinct

would reveal to me, as to honest Jack Falstaff, the ‘true prince.’ ”

We stood irresolute for a moment, when a gentleman with a long beard _à

l’Américaine_ approached our group. Raising his hat, and acknowledging the

presence of ladies by a bow, he said to Mr. Hibernicus, who was still

endeavoring to bring his instinct into play:

“May I ask, sir, if you are looking for anybody?”

“I am looking for my brother, sir,” replied Mr. Hibernicus. “Permit me to

inquire if you expect any one?”

“I expect my brother,” returned the gentleman.

“Are you Jack?”

“I am Jack.”

“How are you, Jack?”

And the brothers, after a vigorous hand‐shake and some inquiries after

“So‐and‐so,” took things as coolly as if they had only been parted a

quarter of an hour instead of a quarter of a century.

Decidedly, people born to the English tongue have a horror of anything

approaching to demonstrative sensibility. They have nothing dramatic about

them. What a _scène_ two Frenchmen or two Italians would have made out of

such a meeting after many roving years! During the days when a generous

and romantic credulity gave me undeserved credit for burning the midnight

oil over Homer and Horace, I had a French student‐friend named l’Orient—an

_ami intime_ of six months’ standing. L’Orient made a six weeks’ trip to

England, and I was at the station to receive the great traveller when he

returned.

“_Te revoilà toi! Comment vas‐tu?_” said I, putting forth my hand for a

friendly shake. But l’Orient was not to be put off with anything so

commonplace as the usual English pump‐handle reception.

“_Enfin, je te revois!_” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around me, “_ce

cher ami! Ce brave Jeem! Ce vieux de la vieille!_” And putting a hand

behind each of my ears, thus rendering escape impossible, he kissed me

vigorously on both cheeks. Then we walked toward our hotel, l’Orient

holding my hand in his. We met Jules; and l’Orient left me, and threw

himself on Jules: “Ce cher Jules! Ce brave Jules!” etc., etc., and

performed a double osculation on Jules. Next we met Victor, and then

Benoit and several others, each of whom was accosted by l’Orient and

embraced in the same effusive manner. Our two brothers meet after a

separation of half a century with a simple “How are you, Jack?” and a

hand‐shake. What demonstration would be lively enough for my old friend

l’Orient under such circumstances? Yet l’Orient did not feel a tithe of

what Jack and his brother felt. I often think it would be better for us if

we were more demonstrative. We should perhaps be better satisfied with

ourselves, and perhaps others would be better satisfied with us also.

I had directed my telegram from Queenstown to a wrong number, but the

telegraph people took the trouble to find the person to whom it was

addressed. I have had occasion frequently to use the postal telegraph. I

have found its management admirable. The post‐office department is also

excellently well conducted. If there is any possibility of delivery, a

letter is sure to be delivered. One of my friends writes a hand so hard to

decipher that I can generally achieve most success in unravelling its

mysteries by turning his missives upside down and studying his

hieroglyphics in an inverted position. He wrote to me at Dublin, and

addressed me at a street unknown to the Dublin directory. In New York this

would have been the last of the letter. The Dublin post‐officials referred

the letter from one postal district to the other until the person to whose

care it was addressed was found, and it was forwarded to Paris, where I

happened to be at the time.

Dublin occupies both sides of the Liffey. The river runs through the city

from east to west. The streets along its banks are subdivided into

“quays.” The banks are faced with granite, of which the parapets are also

constructed. The river is spanned by nine handsome bridges, seven of stone

and two of iron. The river streets extend about three miles on either

side. Each block, as we would say in New York, has a different name. Thus

there is Usher’s Quay, Merchants’ Quay, Wellington Quay, etc., on the

north side, extending from the Phœnix Park gate to the North Wall

Lighthouse. On the south side are Arran Quay, King’s Inn Quay, where the

Four Courts are situated, Upper Ormond Quay and Lower, Eden Quay, Custom‐

House Quay, etc. The entire street reaches from King’s Bridge to the end

of the South Wall at Dublin Bar Lighthouse. The Liffey may be considered

as the diameter of a circle in which Dublin is contained; the circular

roads which run around it describe the circumference. West of Carlisle

Bridge, which is the head of navigation, the Liffey is a dull and

uninviting stream, especially at low water. It is not more than eighty

yards wide. The mouths of the sewers which empty into it are some feet

above low‐water mark. Their contributions to its by no means pellucid

flood are not agreeable to contemplate either from an æsthetic or from a

sanitary point of view. I should suppose the quays to be unhealthy places

for residence. One must have the suicidal mania very strong indeed who

would throw himself into the Liffey between King’s and Carlisle Bridges.

Beyond King’s Bridge you get into the country, where the stream is not

defiled by the filth of the city.

Sackville Street is the principal street of Dublin. It is about twice as

wide as Broadway, but is not longer than from Canal Street to Houston

Street. Its shortness takes away from its impressiveness. At the foot of

Sackville Street stands Nelson’s Pillar, a Doric column about a hundred

and twenty feet high, with a figure of the great admiral leaning against a

capstan on the summit. A fine view can be had on a _clear_ day (which is

not always to be had) from the top of the monument, to which you may

ascend by a spiral staircase in the interior on payment of a small fee.

The steps at the base of the column are generally occupied by squatting

idlers of all ages. On a fine day—_i.e._, when it does not rain—every inch

of sitting space is occupied. Belated “squatters” may be seen waiting for

hours until place is made by the retirement of some of the sitting

members. Then a general rush is made for the vacant place. Here the

politics of the nation and of the universe are discussed by the unwashed

politicians of the Irish capital. I endeavored to ascertain how these

squatters manage to live; but I was told that it is one of those mysteries

which no one can penetrate.

The General Post‐Office and the Rotunda are near the monument. The Post‐

Office is a fine structure of stone with a portico of Ionic pillars five

feet in diameter. Its pediment is surmounted by three statues: Ireland at

the apex, Fidelity on the left, and Mercury on the right. In certain post‐

offices that we wot of Mercury would indeed be the right statue in the

right place, and might be considered to have a double significance—as a

celestial messenger and a patron of thieving post‐office clerks.

Certain tourists have claimed for Sackville Street the proud pre‐eminence

of being “the finest thoroughfare in Europe.” I do not think the claim

well founded. I do not consider it equal to some of the new boulevards in

Paris, or even to some of those in Brussels. It is certainly grand and

imposing as far as it goes, but it does not go far enough. Sackville

Street, however, presents a lively scene on a fine afternoon. Beautiful

women, well‐dressed gentlemen, rich toilets, and magnificent equipages may

then be seen; the toilets superior to anything to be seen out of Paris,

the equipages not to be equalled out of London. Nothing that I have seen

on the Continent of Europe can compare with the “turn‐outs” and “cattle”

driven in Dublin. The most beautiful equipage I have noticed, and at the

same time the chastest in its elegant simplicity, was that of Earl

Spencer, the present viceroy; four dark bays—blood‐horses—with postillions

and outriders in a dark livery almost black, with white buckskin breeches

and top‐boots. Not a brass button or strip of tawdry gold lace to be seen.

Compared with this equipage, the state carriages at Buckingham Palace and

those at Versailles looked like circus wagons.

Carlisle Bridge, the _embouchure_ of Sackville Street, being considerably

narrower than the street, is generally the scene of something like a

“Broadway jam.” On a busy day it reminds one of the Fulton Street

crossing—even to the policeman.

The _élite_ of Dublin, however, will be found in Grafton Street about four

P.M. This street, though narrow—narrower even than Broadway—is the

brightest, cheeriest street in Dublin. It is laid with asphaltum, and is

delightfully free from mud or noise. It is the fashionable shopping‐

street. Equipages in the very perfection of good taste may be seen in long

lines at both sides of the street in front of the principal shops, while

ranks of magnificent “Yellowplushes,” in rich liveries and powdered heads,

wait, with the grand imperturbability of flunky dignity, to open the

carriage‐door for madame or “my lady.”

I have already said that the Irish in Ireland are becoming a serious

people. I did not meet a single specimen of the Irish joker, indispensable

to the tourist in Ireland a quarter of a century ago. If he ever existed

as they represented him, the railways have killed him. Now there is no

time for display of wit, so called. I think the extinction of the genus

“joker” is something to be grateful for. I did not see any evidence of

suffering among the laboring classes or any more raggedness than in

England, France, or Germany. Artisans are becoming scarce, and can command

good wages. It is hard to get agricultural laborers; they can almost set

their own terms. Those who may be obtained cannot be kept very long; they

work merely to save enough to join their relatives and friends in the Land

of the Free.

The traditional costume of the stage Irishman is as rarely seen in Ireland

as the short‐waisted, long‐tailed coat, and striped trousers of the stage

Yankee in the United States. I saw but one pair of “knee‐breeches” between

Cork and Kingstown.

I did not encounter a single shillelah.

Grapes And Thorns. Chapter XIV—Uprooting Thorns.

By The Author Of “The House Of Yorke.”

“You are happy, then!” F. Chevreuse said to Mr. Schöninger the next

evening when they were talking together.

His companion repeated the word with a doubting inflection. “I have always

associated the idea of happiness with excitement,” he said; “and I am too

calm for that. I should say that I am deeply satisfied.”

Mr. Schöninger had been rehearsing in the church the music for the next

day, and F. Chevreuse had sat in the sanctuary listening, marking with

what will and effect the leader accomplished his work. He showed small

regard, indeed, for the vanity or the personal dignity of the singers he

was training, but the success was admirable. If the men and women around

him had been organ‐pipes or keys, he could scarcely have treated them with

less ceremony. When the rehearsal was over, he dismissed them without a

word, except the command to be promptly in their places the next morning.

Knowing the touchiness of singers in general, and the peculiar touchiness

of some of his own choir, the priest fully expected to see some

manifestation of resentment among them; but they seemed merely surprised

and a little awe‐struck, and, after a momentary hesitation, withdrew in

silence, leaving the organist alone in the loft, with the soft gloaming

painting the air about him, as he closed the instrument with tender care,

and drew the curtain about it.

While waiting for him to come down, the priest perceived for the first

time a lady dressed in deep mourning, who knelt near the door, and who

quietly followed the singers from the church. Miss Pembroke had the habit

of visiting the Blessed Sacrament at this hour; and she was, moreover,

making a Novena, which she had begun the night before, with a special

intention. In that Novena her dear Sisters at the convent had joined, only

Sister Cecilia knowing what the intention was.

Mr. Schöninger went into the house with F. Chevreuse, and stood with him

at an open window looking out in that exquisite hour when day and night

meet in mid‐air, the sunset not yet relinquishing all its rose and gold,

the night drawing only her tenderest film of purple across the sky, and

crushing back her trembling stars like glimmering tears crushed between

dark‐fringed eyelids.

The two men looked out, both unconsciously pleased because the evening was

beautiful and spring in its freshness, and consciously thinking of other

things.

“They are all taking their places again,” Mr. Schöninger said, after

looking upward a moment in silence. “My patriarchs and prophets! I hated

to see them discrowned, and growing dim, and fading away into myths. Now

they burn out again with a greater splendor than ever. The church of the

fulfilment has never shown such men as my prophetic church. The glory of

the later ritual is theirs. When the church which sees would express her

emotion, she borrows the song of the men who foresaw. They were a grand

race. I would like to build a church, and dedicate it to King David, and

have a stone statue of him playing on his harp over against the altar.”

F. Chevreuse smiled, but said nothing. He was watching with intense

interest the development of this new Christian, who took his religion as

he might have taken a crown. Mr. Schöninger had an odd way of performing

what in any one else would have been acts of humility with a proud

unconsciousness, or an unconscious pride that was a little puzzling. Of

what is commonly called piety he showed not a sign; yet he did without

hesitation or apparent effort what ordinary piety shrinks from. One might

say that he possessed a sublime common sense, which, perceiving the

relative importance of God and man, worshipped God as a matter of course,

taking no thought whether man were pleased or not. Certainly, had any

religious persecution threatened him, he would have taken it as a piece of

astonishing impertinence.

F. Chevreuse had only just checked in himself an intention to compliment

the convert on what he took to be the bravery of his profession of faith

the evening before, finding that Mr. Schöninger had been as disregardful

of the crowd who had listened to him as if they had been wooden posts; and

he refrained also from referring to the cool “Oh! come to think of it, I

do not eat meat to‐day,” with which he had that day, at the hotel table,

sent his plate away in the face of a score of staring people, who,

however, did not venture to smile.

If any one had exhorted him not to be ashamed of God, he would probably

have asked simply, Do you think I am a fool?

Their conversation approached this topic after a while.

“One thing that has always astonished me is the mean spirit so many

Christians have,” Mr. Schöninger said. “Their religion seems to degrade

rather than ennoble their character. They make such grand, heroic talk

because they overcome some contemptible temptation which a pagan should be

ashamed to yield to, and seem to regard themselves as constant proofs of

special divine interposition because they are not habitual liars, thieves,

and robbers. They delight, apparently, in calling themselves miserable and

worthless, which is a shame to them and a contradiction of God. If they

had been so worthless, the Almighty would not have taken so great pains to

be reconciled to them.”

“You are regarding the dignity of man, not that of God,” remarked the

priest quietly. Then, seeing that his companion did not understand his

meaning, added: “These expressions of humility and abasement come with

sincerity only from those souls which, gazing heavenward, have seen so

much of the glory of God that they shrink to nothingness in comparison. It

is by looking at him that they grow small in their own eyes, and their

little faults, if you would call them so, become so mountainous in

appearance. There is, indeed, an immense dignity in man, but he loses in

contemplating it; for there is sure to grow up in his soul as immense a

pride and egotism. We are quite safe when we leave our honors to the

guardianship of the God who gave them, and occupy our minds in caring for

his honor, which was once so fatally lost sight of that all mankind were

smitten with a curse. We are a fallen race. Adam and Eve could once walk

with heads erect in the face of heaven, but no human being since.”

Seeing his pupil frown, F. Chevreuse added more lightly: “But I do not

think it worth while to make the devil of too much consequence. Our Lord

said, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’ Now, most people would be afraid to

have the devil behind them. They would be continually peeping over their

shoulder to see what he was about. His great strength is in our

misconception of him. I don’t suppose any man ever yielded to him and

consented to offend God but he was astonished afterward to see how easily

he might have conquered, and how small was the bribe for which he had

sacrificed so much.”

“The devil, too,” said Mr. Schöninger with an odd little smile. “Must I

accept him?”

“No; you must reject him,” retorted the priest.

And then came question after question. How did the church explain this?

What was the meaning of that? F. Chevreuse found his philosophy and

theology somewhat tested by this searching questioner, who, without

doubting, wished that all things should be made plain to him.

“I always had a tender feeling for Christ,” he said, “and sometimes a

slight questioning if he might not be the Messias; but only last night

were the needed links supplied which made my fragmentary acquiescences a

single conviction. But though satisfied with Christ, I am not satisfied

with religion as I see it. There are too many trumpery glozes and comments

and complications. I like common sense in religion, and without it

religion has no dignity in my eyes. Nothing, not even his humility and

love, was more conspicuous in the character of Jesus Christ than his

common sense and consistency. How honest he was! I say it with all

reverence and adoration. How free he was from evasion and policy, and that

prudence which is founded on an infinite number of small lies! He always

detected a fallacy, and exposed it; and he was constantly appealing to the

reason and good sense of his followers. When he propounded a mystery, it

was not a mystery because it was involved and obscure, but because it was

so great that we could not see all the parts of it. His mysteries hang

like suns in space. How little there is in common between his transparent

nobleness and the petty tricks of, I must say, the majority of Christians,

their weights and measures for the offences they may dare against him, and

those which are over the permitted guilt, their excuses, their

compromises! Why, sir, there never was a time when I did not think, there

never will be a time when I shall not believe, that the greatest foes to

the Christian church are Christians themselves.”

“You are quite right,” F. Chevreuse answered with an air of sorrow and

mortification. “There is a vast difference between Christ and Christians.

He is God, and we are men. And it is the thought of this difference which

makes us walk with that downcast face which so offended you a few minutes

ago. Do not come to too many decisions at once. Wait, and learn by

experience. Here in your reach now is all the splendor of faith, a free

gift for you to work out your life by. Your privileges are peculiar. You

have had no sacrament to misuse; and when you are baptized, you will stand

as new and sinless a man as Adam was at his creation. In that instant, if

your intention is pure, you will possess heaven in your soul. It does not

often fall to the lot of a man to be sure of such happiness. Let us see

how you will use the privilege. Show us, if you will, the ideal Christian,

and we will be glad to see and imitate him. But beware of pride!”

“My dear friend!” exclaimed Mr. Schöninger, “I did not mean to be

presuming nor to wound you. I am sure you do not wish me to say it, but to

me you, at least, are perfect.”

F. Chevreuse laughed slightly. “Only wait and see,” he said. “And now a

score or two of penitents are waiting to confess, and F. O’Donovan is

wondering if I am going to let him stay in the confessional till midnight.

I must leave you. Why do you not go up and see Mrs. Ferrier? She has been

anxiously inquiring for you to‐day, and complaining a little. Go and make

the good soul happy. Miss Pembroke will be glad to see you too, I am sure.

She has gone to live with Mrs. Ferrier. They do not receive company; but

send your name in, and you will be welcome.”

“I had forgotten them both!” Mr. Schöninger said with some compunction. “I

will go at once.”

F. Chevreuse soon found that he had been mistaken in two of his

assertions; F. O’Donovan was not in the confessional, and Miss Pembroke

was not at that moment in Mrs. Ferrier’s house. Both had gone to the

convent, one called there, the other hastening to follow when she knew his

errand.

Little Anita was dying, killed by her first vision of the wickedness and

agony of the world. She had heard of sin as one living far inland hears of

the ocean, which he has never seen; and now the bitter waves of that wide,

salt sea she believed so far away and alien had rolled in about her. It

touched her feet and her garments, and left its poisonous rime there; it

caught and strangled before her eyes those she had trusted and been near

to; it tossed its sacrilegious foam on to the very altar of God. Her soul

trembled within her, and she turned her face away from life, and hid it in

the bosom of her Lord.

“O my God! my God!” she prayed. “Forgive me! but I cannot live.”

There was no physical malady; but the heart, which, like a busy shuttle,

tosses to and fro its rosy threads, weaving soul and body together,

faltered, and let slip link after link. The invisible folded wings

detached themselves, trembling; the spiritual hands left the bodily hands

cold, and stretched out into eternity, trembling, always trembling; the

whole soul, still full of the fear and agony of the world, shrank outward.

The Sisters knelt about her, cruelly grieved. Was this delicate saint to

be torn away from them thus, leaving them no consolation but the memory of

her blameless life? Was she to go down to the grave without a sign of

victory? Were they to keep for ever this last vision of her, prostrate in

the shadow of that low portal?

And even while they prayed, just giving up hope, as the slight form grew

cold and rigid, all at once it shone out like a marble statue on which a

sudden sunbeam falls. The eyes flashed wide open, the shining soul stood

tiptoe in them an instant, then parted softly.

It is not for us to follow, even in fancy, the flight of that innocent

soul, nor to witness the tears of mingled sorrow and joy which the Sisters

shed over their young companion, nor to listen to the prayers they said,

nor the sacred communings they held together.

Our business is with earth, with Honora Pembroke, driving homeward soberly

through the still evening.

“Drive slowly,” she said to the footman—not John now. “There is no haste.”

And she added to herself: “I want a chance to think.”

There was, indeed, little chance to think in her new home; for good Mrs.

Ferrier, who did her thinking with her tongue, could not conceive any need

for solitude, and was constantly breaking in upon the few moments of

retirement her young friend allowed herself to ask if she had “got

through,” if she were ill, if she would please to come down, or if she

objected to company. And then would come the recapitulation of her trials,

her fears for her daughter, and lamentations without end. That Miss

Pembroke herself might be sad and troubled, and stand in need of cheering

and sympathy, did not seem to enter her mind.

So thus early in their intercourse the young woman was fain to seize every

excuse for a moment of solitude. Whether she would have taken advantage of

this had she known that a visitor awaited her return is doubtful.

The drive was not interminable, however, and it was still early in the

evening when she reached the house and entered. She stopped at sound of a

voice in the drawing‐room. It was Mrs. Ferrier who spoke, but her words

were quite sufficient to tell whom she spoke to.

“I shall never, never get over your having been treated so—never!”

“Madam,” said Mr. Schöninger with a decision which scarcely covered his

displeasure, “I request as a favor that you will never again mention this

subject to me. I am sorry for your trouble in the matter, and grateful for

the kindness you have shown me; but you must see that it is something of

which I do not wish to be reminded.”

Miss Pembroke’s impulse was to go immediately up‐stairs. A kind of terror

seized her at the thought of meeting him. What if he should know that she

was making a Novena, and what it was for!

She stopped one moment, irresolute, then went into the bright drawing‐room

where the two sat. Mrs. Ferrier uttered a little exclamation, not having

heard her come; but Mr. Schöninger had heard the carriage, the door, even

the step that paused at sound of their voices, and half divined that he

had come near not seeing Miss Pembroke that night.

She gave him her hand with dignified and earnest friendliness. “I cannot

tell you how happy you made us all last night,” she said. “You are

welcome.”

He found something haughty in her mode of address, like that of a queen

speaking to a subject, and looked at her intently to discern its meaning,

if possible.

Alarmed at his searching expression, she turned abruptly away from him

with unmistakable haughtiness this time. But no sooner had she done so

than, smitten by a swift recollection of the folly and injustice of the

act, she returned with a glance and gesture so full of mute, impulsive

penitence that it more than atoned; it explained.

The proud surprise in his face melted to a quiet smile. He resumed his

seat by Mrs. Ferrier, and began to talk with her, taking no further notice

of Honora for a few minutes. But when he saw her sitting silent and pale,

her momentary trouble forgotten in the recollection of the solemn scenes

which she had witnessed in the last few days, he spoke to her.

“I hope you will take some interest in my choir,” he said; “for I wish to

improve it very much. The material is bad, the greater part of it. Those

persons seem to have been selected who had loud, blatant voices and a firm

belief that they were excellent singers. They make noise enough, and are

not afraid; but they are vulgar singers. I want a choir of boys in

addition to them. You must know some good voices among the children.”

She brightened. It was a pleasant surprise to hear something in common

life spoken of, and to have one who knew all assume that all was not lost.

“I know a good many such voices,” she said; “and I should be glad to help

you. Could not I make the selection, and teach them the first lessons? It

would be small work for you.”

“If you would be so good,” he replied, quite as if he had expected the

offer.

And so, without more words, Miss Pembroke was installed as Mr.

Schöninger’s musical assistant. It was a timely employment and interest in

her changed life, and exerted a softening influence on his. He gradually

relinquished the designs he had meditated, and looked on his sufferings in

a more impartial light. Whatever prejudice had existed, he could not

doubt, when he examined the subject calmly, that he had been condemned on

a reasonable array of circumstantial evidence, and that, without

prejudice, any other man would have been condemned on the same evidence.

Besides, even had there been a chance of success in the attempt, he could

not have received as much in legal reparation as was voluntarily given him

by the public. The city was, in a manner, at his feet. The highest

officials, both in private and in their public capacity, tendered to him

their respect, their regrets, and offers of any assistance he might need.

People felt that they could not do too much for him. It was quite true, as

Mrs. Ferrier said to him: “Now is the time for you to break the law, if

you want to. You could do anything, and no one would find fault with you

for it.”

For the real criminal, who shall say how it happened that he was not

brought to justice? There was certainly an immense activity in searching

where he was not. The law put on its most piercing spectacles, then shut

its eyes and looked in every direction. The spectacles saw nothing. If

they were on the point of having a glimpse, they were instantly turned in

another direction. We have all seen such justice when wealth and influence

are on the side of the culprit. Letters came from Annette to her mother

with only the smallest circumlocution, and answers were sent to them with

the most transparent diplomacy in the world.

“When my poor Gerald heard of his mother’s death,” Annette wrote, “I

thought for a while that he would die. He lay for hours almost insensible,

and only revived from one swoon to fall into another. But he soon

recovered from the first shock, and is, I think, glad to know that her

sufferings were so short. But he says nothing, and I do not talk to him. I

wait to see what God will do with his soul. He is like a frail building

that has been overthrown so thoroughly that not one stone remains upon

another, and is being built up again in a different shape. I can perceive

a strength in the new foundations of his life which I had not believed him

capable of. Indeed, he is not humanly capable of them. But this is the

city of miracles, and ours is a miraculous faith. As I have told you, he

says nothing. His life is almost an absolute silence, and, I might say,

blindness to earthly things. I never see him looking at any beautiful or

sublime object except the crucifix. Even I seem to be only a voice to him.

He begins lately to show a disposition to be active, which is to me a sign

that his mind is becoming settled.”

Annette did not think it best to describe the nature of the activity that

her husband was showing, well knowing that it would have made Mrs. Ferrier

believe herself to be, in addition to her other afflictions, the mother‐

in‐law of a maniac. For the work he did, here and there, wherever it could

be quietly done without attracting attention, was menial. She had seen him

help the poor man unload his cart of stones, or take the spade from his

hands to labor in his stead, and he was constantly performing menial

labors in the house. All this was done, not with any appearance of being

an eccentric gentleman, but as one of the poor. For day by day his dress

had been growing rude and his whole aspect changed. The sun had burnt his

fair skin and faded his unshorn beard, and, by means best known to

himself, his delicate hands had become dark and rough. Looking at the

firm, silent lips and downcast eyes, Annette could scarcely doubt that the

man she had called her husband was gradually and purposely effacing all

the beauty and daintiness of which he had been so proud. He never went out

with her, and if by chance they were likely to encounter in the street, he

avoided the meeting. No one, except the people of the house where they

lived, suspected that there was any acquaintance or connection between

this dainty _signora_ and this man, who grew every day less and less to be

distinguished from the common laborer.

But in humbling himself Lawrence Gerald had not been unmindful of the one

earthly duty remaining to him. “Are you willing to give me up entirely,

Annette?” he asked her one day.

She answered with a brief affirmative. “Follow wherever God leads you,”

she said; “and do not stop an instant to think of me.”

He was used to depending on her, and to being sure that she meant what she

said, and could perform her promises. Yet he wished to make certain. “You

have to go out alone, and have no protection but that of servants,” he

said.

“I do not need any other protection; I am quite safe here,” she replied.

“You cannot marry again,” he went on.

“I have no wish to!”

Perhaps there could not have been a stronger proof of the purification

which Annette Gerald’s character had undergone than the fact that this

reply was made without a tinge of bitterness or regret. She spoke with

gentle sincerity—that was all. As an absorbing affection had made her

consent to be taken without love, so now a pity and charity yet more

engrossing enabled her to find herself discarded without anger.

“Follow God, and think no more of me,” she said. “I remain here. Go when

and where you will.”

It was the first time they had spoken together for several days, and was

more by accident, apparently, than of their seeking. Passing through the

room where Annette was, Lawrence had seen her trying to open a window that

resisted her slight hands, and had opened it for her. Then the sweet

clangor of the Ave Maria breaking out from all the towers at once, they

had paused side by side a moment.

Perhaps he had wished to speak, and seized this opportunity.

At her answer he looked at her earnestly, for the first time in months, it

seemed to her, and with a look she could not endure without emotion, so

far‐away and mournful, yet so searching, was it. It was a gaze like that

of one dying, who sees the impassable gulf widening between his eyes and

what they rest upon. How many, many glances she had encountered of

his!—laughing, critical, impatient, in the old days that now seemed

centuries past; superficially kind, penitent, disregardful, careless, but

never from the depths of his soul till now. Now she knew at last that his

soul had depths, and that, as she stood before him, he was aware of her,

and saw her as she was.

“Annette,” he said, almost in a whisper, “words cannot tell my sense of

the wrong and insult which I have heaped upon you—on you more than all the

rest put together.”

“Do not speak of that,” she said, trying still to be calm.

“Of all the women I have hurt or destroyed, you are the noblest,” he went

on, seeming not to have heard her.

She drew her breath in quickly, and stood mute, looking down, and some

strong band that had been holding her down—how long she knew not, perhaps

for years, perhaps for her whole life—loosened, and she felt herself

growing upright. She was like the graceful silver birch that has been

bowed over by the snow, flake after flake, till its head touches the

ground, when the warm sun begins to melt its burden, and it lifts a

little, and feels itself elastic.

In days when Honora Pembroke was his ideal, “noble” was the word he

applied to her, and Annette Ferrier always felt herself grow small when

she heard him utter it.

“Of all women I have ever known, you are the noblest and most lovely,” he

said slowly. “I was blind. Too late I have learned that. And if I had a

wish left, it would be that God would reunite us in heaven.”

The snows had melted, and she stood upright at last.

There was a confused whispering in her brain. Since she was loved and

honored, why need they part? She could comfort him, be at his side always,

and help him to win back peace, if not happiness. They would perform works

of charity together, and in humbling herself she would raise him.

She lifted her eyes, and opened her lips to speak some such word, but

checked herself on seeing him turn away. His face was no longer calm and

sad, but full of anguish. All the enticements of human life had assailed

his soul, and were fighting against its one stern tenant, remorse.

Silently, and with a feeling of unacknowledged disappointment, she awaited

the result, scarcely doubting that he would yield. When had he not

yielded? was the bitter question that rose in spite of her, only to be

thrust down again under many excuses, as she called to mind his sufferings

and his isolation.

He stood near the window, with his face turned to the light, and she

watched the struggle without daring to move or to speak. What silent clash

of warring passion held him thus rigid she could only guess; what voices

sweet and pitiful were pleading, and what voices stern and terrible

replying, who can say? It did not need that angels of darkness should be

there; the human heart was enough. In that swift review when the soul,

anticipating a privilege of eternity, can compress a lifetime into a

moment, what visions of all that life might give could have presented

themselves!—dusky eves and sunlighted mornings, when the singing of birds,

mingled with the prattle of children, and quiet and elegant leisure, and

smiling friends, made earthly existence seem like an Elysian dream; ever‐

present affection, with its excuses for every fault, its recognition,

prompt and inspiring, of every virtue, its cheering word for the hour of

sadness, its loving check, its sympathy, its silent tenderness; the

freedom of earth which wealth can give, every portal opening as if by

magic, existence a perpetual feast. They crowded upon him mercilessly, and

tossed to and fro his grief and remorse as the sea tosses its dead, that

are now but faint white outlines, half lost in froth, now cold faces

starting clearly out of the thin, green wave.

How many times that soul was lost and won in those few minutes none but

the invisible witnesses of the scene could tell.

He moved at length, and Annette stepped nearer with sudden alarm, as she

saw him put his hand into his bosom slowly, as if with dread to draw forth

what was there. The hand closed on what it sought, and with bitter

shrinking, as if it were his heart he was thus uprooting, brought it to

light. It was no knife, nor pistol, nor vial of poison, as she had feared,

but a folded paper. She had seen it in his hands before, and wondered what

he kept with such care.

He opened it and read; and she, leaning nearer, read also, without

stopping to consider her right.

This was the breviary Lawrence Gerald carried in his bosom, written

largely and clearly, and signed with his name in full:

“I am a gambler, a housebreaker, a thief, a sacrilegious liar, a murderer,

and a matricide.”

“O my love! stand firm! stand firm!” the wife tried to say; but the words

died in a whisper on her lips, as her heart fainted with pain and delight.

He did stand firm without having heard her admonition. She saw the

unsteady lips close again, the gazing eyes droop, the whole face and form

compose itself. That brief reminder, written to be a visible witness when

the voice of conscience should fail, was more potent than poison or blade

or bullet.

“I wish to take a room by myself in another part of the city,” he said.

“Are you willing?”

“Certainly!” she replied. “But I would like to know where it is. Not,” she

added quickly, “that I would intrude or trouble you in any way. But you

cannot expect me to lose all interest in you, and I shall feel better to

know where you are, and to go once to see your room and the people you are

with.”

“I will let you know as soon as I find a place,” he said. “Of course I

wish to support myself, to be removed from all society, except those

persons whom I must see, and to wait my time in penance. You understand it

all, Annette. I no longer exist in the ordinary life of men. I am either

in purgatory or in hell—I do not yet feel sure which.”

He was going away, but turned at a little distance, and looked at her once

again. “My dear,” he said faintly, “good‐by!”

She could not utter a word, could only clasp her hands over her face, and

so lose his last glance. For as he spoke that farewell, and as she heard

his retreating step, the door of her sealed and frozen heart burst open,

and her dead love, stirring uneasily in its grave during these last days,

rose up stronger than ever before, and resumed the throne it was never

again to abdicate. There, at last, was a man worth loving!

The next evening she received his new address; and he added: “I shall be

out to‐morrow, and the _padrona_ will admit you, if you wish to come.”

Of course she went; but, what had not been to her a matter of course, the

place pleased her. The house was in an old and crowded part of the city,

where the streets swarmed with poor people; but the room was at the very

top, in an odd corner quite removed from noise and communication with any

other apartment, and had an eastern and a northern window that looked off

over palace roofs and through towers and domes to the beautiful mountains.

Close to its southern wall pressed a church tower, and on a level with its

windows rose the sculptured façade, wreathed with angels. Once there, one

might easily forget the steep, dark stair, the squalid street below, and

even the bare walls and floor of the room itself.

Annette had not allowed herself to bring any article of comfort, still

less of adornment, though her heart had ached with longing to do so. But

she placed a beautiful crucifix on the one poor table, and left a volume

of lives of saints beside it. A bunch of roses hung at her belt, and her

fingers lingered on them in doubt for a moment. But she checked that

impulse also. How much might roses breathe of woman’s presence there and

all the graces and sweetnesses of life! But before leaving, she hung over

an arm of the crucifix a single small bud, where the petals showed like a

drop of blood oozing through the green.

As she was placing this last souvenir, her tears dropping over flowers and

cross, there was a sound as though a hurricane should draw in its breath

before blowing, the floor of the room trembled, then there came a

tremendous and reverberating stroke. The great bell in the tower was

striking the hour of noon, and the chamber shook as a bird’s nest shakes

when a storm sweeps over the tree in which it is built. For the moment

everything in the universe was obliterated but sound. She breathed its

tremulous waves, she was enveloped and borne up by its strong tide; the

very sunshine and the blue of the sky were like bright, resounding tones.

Then the stroke ceased; and, circling round and round in fainting rings,

the music of the bells went out to join the music of the spheres, perhaps

to creep with a golden ripple up the shores of heaven.

The woman who had opened the door wondered much to see the pale _signora_

come down with a face flushed with weeping; but a liberal gift disposed

her to think the best of everything.

“You must be very good to him, and not allow any one to intrude,” Annette

said to her. “I shall come to the church here below every morning at seven

o’clock; and if he should be ill, or any accident should happen to him, I

wish you to come there and tell me. But you must not talk to him. Speak to

him only when he asks you to.”

That evening she wrote to her mother: “Lawrence has left me, and is in the

arms of God. That is all I can say, except that I trust he has won a

perfect forgiveness.

“I am sorry, dear mamma, if you are lonely, but I cannot return to

America. I do not wish for society anywhere. Here in Rome is my place,

with my religion and the poor to occupy my time. Try to be happy, and to

think of me as peaceful and contented. And, mamma, if there should be any

good, honest man whom you would like to marry, I shall be glad of it.

Goodness is the chief thing.”

Mrs. Ferrier wept profusely over this letter, not doubting that Lawrence

was dead.

“The poor fellow!” she said. “After all, he wasn’t so bad as he might have

been.”

And then, bethinking herself, she wiped away her tears, and calmed her

grief as much as possible; for it would not do to render herself

unpresentable. It was necessary to go at once with the news to F.

Chevreuse.

The way that Mrs. Ferrier took to the priest’s house was a roundabout one;

it led in an opposite direction, and stopped before a new dry‐goods store

of the most glittering sort. There was, in fact, no shop in Crichton so

fine or so much frequented as this. People went there at first from

curiosity, and were disposed to make themselves very merry regarding it;

but there seemed to be nothing to laugh at, unless it might be certain

erroneous notions in their own minds. Everything was well ordered and

business‐like, the clerks attentive and respectful, and the proprietor

perfectly dignified and watchful. Indeed, a slight excess of dignity and

watchfulness had at first marked his conduct, and made his customers wary

of giving offence.

We have already intimated that Mrs. Ferrier had a new footman.

This functionary, a slim and sentimental young man, let down the step for

his mistress; but before she had made her majestic descent, the proprietor

of the shop stood in the door, bowing to his wealthy customer. She

beckoned him out, and motioned the footman away out of hearing.

“Poor Lawrence is dead, John!” she said plaintively, a smile tempering her

grief. “And it’s best so, of course. I’ve just got a letter from Annette.

And, John—”

The lady paused, and looked down, and laughed a little.

“Well, what is it?” asked the new merchant with an appearance of

curiosity.

“She’s willing.”

John’s face expressed two contrary emotions at this announcement—one of

pleasure, the other a dogged sort of resentment that Annette’s willingness

should have been considered of consequence.

“It is pleasanter to have everybody pleased,” the lady said soothingly.

“Of course, though, it doesn’t make one bit of difference with me so far

as what I shall do; for you know, John, I’d stand by you through thick and

thin. Now I must go to F. Chevreuse.”

“There isn’t a more respectable‐looking merchant in the city of Crichton,”

said Mrs. Ferrier emphatically to herself, as she drove away.

“Beg y’r pardon, mum?” said the slim footman, leaning over.

“I wasn’t talking to you!” exclaimed his mistress indignantly.

It was, indeed, observed by everybody that Mrs. Ferrier was very high with

this unfortunate man, who was humility personified, and only too assiduous

in his obedience. She had assumed a trifle more of state with all her

servants; but the footman was scarcely allowed to breathe freely.

“I shouldn’t wonder, now, if he might think he could marry Annette,” she

muttered to herself, as they drove on.

Poor fellow! his ambition did not soar beyond Betty, and she was treating

him with cruelty. However, with a story‐teller’s prescience, we are fully

aware that his trials are only the little waves which are sending him

nearer and nearer to his haven, and that before the year is over the day

will be named. Already in our mind’s eye we see the fair Betty in her

bridal robes, with her magnificent and patronizing mistress fastening on

the veil, and giving her a kind and resounding kiss at the same time. We

even hear the small whisper with which she silences her bridegroom’s last

jealous misgiving when he comments on the salute given her by the master

of the house:

“What! you think that I could ever have had a fancy for him—a man who

drops his h’s?”

The withering contempt of this remark was decisive.

But we are anticipating.

Mrs. Ferrier found the priest at home, and gave him the letter to read. He

read it attentively, but came to a different conclusion from hers. He did

not tell her so, though, for it was evident that Annette wished them to

think that her husband was dead. Her former letters had prepared him to

suspect a state of things very near the truth.

After a long conversation, in which F. Chevreuse perceived that his

visitor was lingering and hesitating in an unusual manner, Mrs. Ferrier at

last called his attention to the concluding sentences of the letter.

He read it a second time, glanced up through his spectacles at his

visitor, read it again, and gave the letter back, quite uncomprehending.

He was, doubtless, the only person in Crichton who could have been

unconscious of her meaning.

“You may think me foolish, father, at my time of life, to be thinking of

marrying again,” she said deprecatingly. “But you have no idea how lonely

I am. Honora will soon have a house of her own, anybody can see that;

Annette won’t come back, and Louis won’t live here, after what has

happened. I have nothing to do but wander from room to room of my great

house, and think how awfully lonesome I am, and almost wish that I had a

little cabin that I could fill. I don’t feel as if I were in a house, but

as if I were out somewhere. Many a time I’ve gone and sat in my chamber‐

closet, just to feel my elbows hit something.”

She paused, and F. Chevreuse said, “Yes!” as sympathizingly as he could,

wondering greatly what was to come.

“John is a decent man, and my equal in everything but money,” she went on.

“Oh! it’s John!” F. Chevreuse exclaimed, light breaking in.

Mrs. Ferrier dropped her eyes and smiled.

“I don’t see any harm in it, if you have got your mind made up,” the

priest said, recovering from his first astonishment. “I suppose it would

be of no use for me to try to break off the arrangement, even if I wanted

to.”

“Well, John is pretty set,” the lady admitted modestly.

“I dare say,” was the smiling rejoinder. “When is it to be?”

“In a month, if you please. He is started in business now, and is doing

well, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be a great merchant as well

as any other man. He’s capable of it, if anybody is,” she said, becoming a

little defiant.

“Certainly!” replied F. Chevreuse with perfect gravity. “There is not a

law in the commonwealth which will prevent his being as great a merchant

as he pleases. The world of trade is open to John, and I wish him all

success in it. Do you put your property into his hands?”

Instantly the beautiful modesty of the bride‐elect gave place to the

business‐like acuteness of the woman who knew perfectly well the value of

money.

“No, father, we keep our accounts separate,” she said. “He had half enough

to start in business with, and I lent him the other half. The income of

the whole is to go toward our housekeeping, but he will have nothing to do

with the rest of my property.”

F. Chevreuse nodded. “I see that you haven’t lost your head. You have

managed your own affairs so well thus far, you may as well continue to do

the same, for your children’s sake.”

A month later there was a quiet marriage at the priest’s house; and the

only notice the Crichtonians had of it was when John appeared again in

Mrs. Ferrier’s carriage, this time by her side, instead of in the dicky.

Everybody smiled except Honora Pembroke. She alone, perfectly polite, and

refraining from all interference, felt haughtily indignant at the

marriage. It was in vain that F. Chevreuse tried to reason away her

prejudices.

“I do not object because he was poor,” she said. “Riches are less a

distinction than a difference. But he has been a servant, and that is

irreparable.”

The priest began to hum a tune:

“Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!

Les aristocrats à la lanterne.”

Somewhat to his surprise, she blushed slightly, but did not smile.

“You may think me foolish, or even guilty of sinful pride,” she said with

a certain stiffness; “but this is a feeling of which I cannot rid myself.

I do not like to sit at table with a person who has once brought me my

soup, nor on the same seat in the carriage with one who used to let down

the step for me. Of course I recognize and submit to the situation; but I

shall go to my own house again immediately.”

“Well!” said the priest, “it takes a good while to get acquainted with

people. Here have I known you these ten years and more, have seen you

simple, unpretending, humble, apparently, good to the poor, and going

freely among them. I thought I knew you thoroughly; yet all at once I come

upon the rock in that smooth stream. Have I ever caught a little gray

shadow of it before, I wonder? Well, well! I won’t undertake to blast it

out of the way at once. I am sorry, though, that you do not like John.”

“I like him in liveries,” said Miss Pembroke with dignity.

“I tell you,” persisted the priest, “they are going to be a very happy

couple.”

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” she replied. “But that is no excuse.”

He laughed, and let her go. The haughty recoil of pride in the fibre was

not to be reasoned away.

It was a clear afternoon in mid‐autumn; and when Miss Pembroke stepped

from the priest’s door, she paused a minute on the sidewalk, and hesitated

which way to go. She did not wish to return home, and she did not think of

any other place where she would rather go.

And then, without looking, she was aware of a tall gentleman, who came

down the street, and, still without looking, knew that he had crossed to

her side of the street, and was approaching her. And then, with a

perverseness which was scarcely natural to her, she turned quite coolly in

the opposite direction, and walked from him, perhaps lest he might think

that she wished for his company. Not but she and Mr. Schöninger were on

the most friendly, and even cordial, terms—it was, indeed, taken for

granted in Crichton that they were the best of friends—but—in short, she

walked away from him. Perhaps she found his full and prosperous life a

little discordant with her saddened one. She almost fancied sometimes that

he had an air of triumphant pride, and that he was being spoiled by the

adulation paid him on all sides.

She had been wishing lately that she could go to Annette; and, now that

Gerald was dead, if the ambiguous letter they had received really meant

that, perhaps Annette would like to have her. Miss Pembroke felt strangely

lonely in her native town, where she knew everybody, and where she had

not, certainly, to complain of any lack of attention. But she would be

lonely for ever rather than Mr. Schöninger should think that she waited on

F. Chevreuse’s step for him. He must have been at the end of the street

when she came out, and—surely he would never dare to think that she saw

him, and had been giving him time to overtake her!

Mr. Schöninger was meantime walking leisurely behind her quickening steps,

intending to overtake her presently, but wishing first to watch her a

little, and to think of some things. One was that he did not approve of

her wearing black any longer. She was beautiful in anything, but too sad

in this; and, besides, it interfered with certain plans of his. He made a

slight reckoning, as nearly correct as the masculine mind could make it on

such a subject. She might put on gray, or black and white, immediately.

That would enable her to wear a rich purple in the winter. He liked to see

her in purple. Some day, when she should be older, she must have a

trailing robe of purple velvet with diamonds. Well, in the spring, then,

she could change her deeper color for one of those delicate lavenders or

lilacs that women know how to look pretty in; and then the way would be

quite open for white, and rose, and blue, and all the fresh, gay colors a

bride might wish to wear.

“We should be married by the first of May, at latest,” thought the

gentleman very decidedly.

Miss Pembroke was quite right in fancying that there was something

triumphant in Mr. Schöninger’s air; but she did not believe, and it was

not true, her pettish charge that he was being spoiled by adulation. All

was going well with him. Hosts of friends surrounded him—friends as

sincere as any one can claim; he did not believe they would stand any

great test, but, also, he did not believe that they were hypocrites. In

his profession he was winning gold and reputation; and, what no one but

himself knew as yet, the fortune for which he had vainly struggled so long

was approaching him of itself. Two of those who had stood between it and

him had died, and there remained now but a feeble old man. With his death

all other claims would die. And not least in his cause of congratulation

was his conviction that this fair woman, who walked before him with the

black drapery fluttering back from her light foot, the braid of hair just

showing its glossy bronze beneath the mourning veil, and, as she turned

the corner of a street, the curve of her smooth cheek glowing like a

peach, was his own.

What made her cheek so red now?

“Honora!” he said, quickening his pace.

She stopped with a start.

“Mr. Schöninger!”

“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, recollecting that he had never called

her by her Christian name before. “I was thinking, and I forgot.”

She walked soberly by his side without asking what the subject of his

thoughts had been. His exclamation may have revealed to her something of

their nature; but she was far from suspecting that she was engaged, still

less that her marriage‐day was fixed. She had, indeed, no reason to

suppose that Mr. Schöninger had any intention of renewing the suit that

she had once rejected.

“You are willing to take a walk?” he asked, and, when she nodded assent,

added:

“Let us go up the Cocheco. Last night’s frost has added the finishing

touch to the trees, and everybody is admiring them.”

A beautiful road, almost as wild as a country lane, led between the river‐

bank and the flowery cliffs beside it, and here at evening all the youths

and maidens, and many of their elders in whom age had not chilled the love

of nature, used to walk soberly in the soundless path, or climb the

cliffs, or sit on the mossy rocks, or venture out on the rocks that

studded the stream. Not a pleasant evening but found people strolling

through this romantic avenue.

“Nowhere but in New England does nature dazzle, I think,” Mr. Schöninger

said. “See this maple‐leaf! It is a fine scarlet, and as glossy as a gem,

even when examined closely. And the elm‐leaf is as fine a gold. Everywhere

else the autumn foliage is dingy when looked at so closely. The sky, too.

Look at those long lines of fire that are beginning to stretch overhead,

and at the gathering crimsons! In half an hour the heavens will be as

brilliant as the earth. In Italy the colors are soft, like the colors in

an old painting; they have great depth and richness, but they lack the

fresh brilliancy of the skies in the New World. You must go to Italy soon,

Honora.”

This time the name was used without an apology.

“I have been thinking of it,” she replied quietly, and began to feel as a

stranded seaweed may when, after having lain awhile painfully on the dry

sand, it finds the bright sea slipping under it, and lifting it from its

hard resting‐place. Without a word of explanation she found herself

claimed and cared for.

“I wish to go there again as a Catholic,” he continued, “and see with the

eyes of faith what I saw before with the eyes of an artist. I shall always

admire most the Catholicism of America, or what the Catholicism of America

is going to be. It is more intelligent, noble, and reverent. It isn’t a

sort of devotion that expresses itself in tawdry paper flowers. Indeed, I

believe that America is destined to show the world a Catholicism morally

more grand than any it has yet seen—a worship of the heart and the

intellect, where children shall be delighted, and yet common sense find

nothing to regret. Still, Rome is the sacred city of the martyrs, the

popes, and the temples. I think we should go there in two years at

latest.”

He had spoken earnestly, and had absolutely forgotten how much remained

unsaid, so sure was he of her.

Honora’s glance of astonishment and incredulity reminded him. He bent a

little nearer, smiling, and said softly: “But we shall be married long

before that time, dear, shall we not?”

“It is the first I have heard of it,” Miss Pembroke managed to say with a

certain degree of composure, after a moment.

“You surely are not vexed!” he said quickly, beginning to fear that he had

assumed too much. “I asked you once in the proper, lover‐like fashion, and

you refused me, not because you were indifferent to me—you never said

that—but because you would not marry and would not love one who denied

your Saviour. That obstacle no longer exists. You did not imagine that I

had become indifferent to you? That is out of the question. Have I made a

mistake?”

“No; it is I who have made a mistake,” she answered frankly. “I was afraid

that you had given me up.” She hesitated a little, then, since he still

listened, added: “I am very glad that you have not.”

“Thank you!” he said.

They walked slowly up the road between the foaming river and the glowing

cliffs, praising the skies and the trees as they went, finding everything

beautiful, finding each the other more beautiful than all else. And when

the evening began to fade a little, they turned their steps, and went down

again with the river, filled with that deep and quiet happiness which

leaves nothing to wish for and nothing to tell.

The very next morning a little note was sped from Miss Pembroke to Sister

Cecilia with the following mysterious announcement:

“My _Novena_ has succeeded perfectly! I will come very soon and tell you

all about it.”

Since the matter is settled, we may as well own at once that when Mr.

Schöninger first announced himself a Catholic, Honora had said to her

friend and confidant at the convent, “If I do not marry him, I shall never

marry any one”; and that the result of this confession was a _Novena_, in

which the young woman had asked that she might find favor in his sight.

“I told him about the _Novena_,” Miss Pembroke said when she made her

explanatory visit to the convent. “And I told him that you and all the

Sisters joined with me; and he bade me thank you for his part, and say

that he hoped you would never be sorry for having done so.”

But Honora did not tell how astonished and touched her lover had been at

this confession of what seemed to her the most simple thing in the world.

“I never thought of asking God for you,” he said; “and yet there is

nothing in the world so well worth praying for. I am a very ignorant

Catholic, Honora, in all except doctrine. You will have much to teach me.

But, then,” he added, smiling, “we have all our lives for that.”

“The only blot on my happiness,” Honora said to her friends, “is the

thought of Annette. A letter came from her last night which seems to shut

us all out from giving her either society or comfort. She evidently does

not wish to see any one she has ever known. She says that her time and

thoughts are entirely occupied.”

Annette Gerald was fully occupied. She was like one who stands at the head

of a long flight of winding stairs, watching another descend, and,

beginning to lose sight of the object of her attention, begins to follow

slowly, intent, at the same time, not to be too near or too far away.

It was necessary that she should keep Lawrence Gerald in sight without

attracting attention either to him or to herself. As a rich lady, driving

in her own carriage, she could not do this. She therefore gave up her

carriage, and moved to an humbler apartment, where she lived with one

servant. Still, the dainty elegance of the widow’s attire she had assumed,

fastidious in her choice, not consciously, but from habit, pointed her out

as of a different class from the people she went most among. To remedy

this, it was necessary only to be passive; and in a few months Roman dust

and mud and brambles had reduced her to a dinginess almost Roman, and she

could go unremarked, could see Lawrence about his work, digging in the

excavations, carrying stone and mortar for the masons, doing any rough

labor that offered. She could see him in the church, where he spent an

hour every morning; she knew that every Sunday he entered the same

confessional, and, as she could well guess, told the same tale to the

priest, who, when his penitent left him, leaned forward and looked after

him with a sad and earnest gaze. More than once, late in the evening, she

had looked up from the street where her close carriage stood waiting, and

seen, out on the corner of the open roof, to which no one but he had

access, his form drawn clearly against the transparent purple of the sky,

and, after waiting as long as prudence would allow, had gone away to her

lonely apartment, leaving him there in company of the marble angels that

clustered about the church front, and the blessed bells, and whatever

invisible spirits God should will and his own soul invoke. Never did she

see a light in that lofty window; and, after a while, it occurred to her

to ask the reason of the _padrona_, who often came to the church in the

hope of receiving money from the lady.

“He never will have a candle,” the woman said. “I think he is very poor.

And he never drinks wine or eats meat. And, _signora_, he is growing very

pale.”

That night Annette Gerald extinguished the candles in her own apartment,

and never lighted them again. She could weep and pray without light. The

next day she dismissed her one servant, and thenceforward waited on

herself. No ease or elegance must her life know while his was passed in

such poverty. He ate the dry, sour bread of the poor; she ate it too. He

discarded every luxury of the table; she also became an ascetic. If she

put wine or fruit to her lips, tears choked her, and she set them aside.

As he went down, so she followed him, unseen, weeping pitifully, watching

constantly, loving utterly.

Without suspecting it, both became after a while objects of interest to

those about them. No dinginess or apparent poverty could hide their

refinement; and the extraordinary piety of both invested them with a

certain sacredness in the eyes of these people, who had walked and talked

with saints. The rude workmen ceased, not only to jest with, but to jest

in the presence of this man who never smiled, or spoke without necessity,

whose pale face was for ever downcast, and who, in the midst of Italian

indelicacy, carried himself with the refinement of an angel. In the long

noon rest of the hot summer days they withdrew from the place where he

threw himself down, faint with fatigue and the heat, and left him to that

solitude he unmistakably desired. Only little children ventured near the

“penitent,” as he began to be called, and smiled wistfully in his face,

and kissed the hand that now and then gave them a _soldo_.

Once, as he lay asleep on the grass, in the shadow of a ruined arch, an

artist, who was just returning home from a morning’s sketching in the

Campagna, paused to look at him. The other workmen lounged about at a

distance, some asleep, some eating their noon luncheon of dry bread,

others smoking and talking. This one seemed laid there apart for a

picture. Thrown carelessly on his back, with his hand under the cheek

turned a little aside, and the hat dropped off, his form and face were

fully seen. It was not the form and face of a plebeian. The elegant shape

was not disguised by its faded garments; the beauty of the face,

delicately flushed with heat, and beaded with perspiration, was even

enhanced by the unshorn and untended beard and the confused mass of

clustering hair; and the expression of calm melancholy, which was not

obliterated even by the unconsciousness of sleep, did not belong to a

common nature.

The artist drew softly nearer, and opened his portfolio, too much engaged

to give more than a passing glance to a woman who stood by the arch. With

a rapid pencil he sketched his subject, trying to catch that hovering

sadness and the weary bend of the head.

Drawing back presently to see if he could add anything to his sketch, he

perceived that the woman who had been standing by the arch was at his

side, watching his progress.

“Don’t let the shadow run off so,” she said, looking at the sketch, not at

him. “Show how the sunshine comes, close to his feet, so that he has only

a step to take to reach it. And do you see how those yellow flowers lean

against his hair in the form of a crown? Put them in too; and the group of

workmen yonder, and a corner of the excavation, with that beautiful

pedestal half uncovered. As you have it, it is only a pretty poem without

meaning; give the whole, and it will be a tragical story.”

The artist looked intently at the lady while she spoke. Surely she must be

the sister of the sleeper! Their two faces would do to stamp on a coin,

the man’s profile showing beyond the woman’s.

“Finish the sketch quickly before he wakes,” she said. “I will pay you

whatever you want for it. Some day I will have you paint it. Don’t forget

the red poppies at his feet. And can you see, can you show, that there is

a blister on his hand?”

Wondering much at this strange sort of poor people whom he found himself

among, the artist obeyed.

“But I want to keep the sketch,” he said. “I will make a copy for you, if

you will come to my studio for it.”

“Certainly not!” she exclaimed, and for the first time looked at him with

a clear and haughty gaze. “You have no right to keep it, for you took it

without permission. It would be dishonorable and intrusive of you to show

that to any person. We are not _contadini_!”

The artist rose and bowed.

“Madam, allow me to present my sketch to you,” he said with equal pride.

“Some day you will know, and then you will no longer be offended,” she

said calmly, and took the sketch from his hand just as the sleeper stirred

and began to awake. “And now, I beg you never to notice him again, or

mention him to any one till I come to you for the picture.”

And so three years passed away, and there came an Easter morning such as

Easters used to be in the days when the pope was King of Rome, and there

was one city in the world where the business was religion.

Who can forget the scene, having once beheld it—the sky built up of

sapphires, glitter on glitter of such blue as the queen of heaven might

make her mantle of; the full, warm gold of the sunshine looking the sad

ruins in the face till they smile, and revealing its hidden rainbows now

and then, as the foamy columns of fountains sway in the light breeze, and

catch it unawares; the birds, with long, pointed wings, that cut the air,

and seem inebriated with the delight of flying. Then the crowd in the

piazza of S. Peter’s, the millennial mingling of rich and poor, royal and

plebeian, making in all a scene to be witnessed nowhere else.

“How familiar, yet how new!” said a lady who stepped from her carriage at

the barrier. “It is all I could wish! I am glad, Max, that we did not come

sooner to Rome. I would rather my first sight of it should be a festal

one.”

This lady was richly dressed, and the black lace of her large Spanish veil

was drawn back from a face like a fresh lily.

She was instantly addressed as _principessa_ by all the beggars about.

“I am sorry I cannot give you the title, Honora,” her husband said, and

smilingly dropped a coin into each outstretched hand. “So nothing

disappoints you? I thought it would be so. Now, we must not linger

outside.”

“Let us go slowly up; and please do not speak to me,” Mrs. Schöninger

said. “No, I do not want your arm now. I must enter S. Peter’s the first

time praying.”

They went slowly up the ascent, Honora with her hands clasped, and her

eyes dilating as they entered the grand vestibule. Then Mr. Schöninger

lifted the heavy curtain, and she crossed the threshold.

At that first step into S. Peter’s a Catholic feels as though he had

touched the beating heart of mother church.

The crowd pressed in; but still another crowd remained outside, keeping

their places for the papal benediction, and listening for the silvery

burst of trumpets inside which should tell that the risen God stood on the

central altar of Christendom.

Among this crowd was a group, for which they made way, as it crossed the

piazza and approached the steps. Yet it was only two poor laborers who

supported a sick man between them.

The thin and transparent face of this invalid, bathed now in the

perspiration of weakness, showed that he was worn by consumption or by a

long and exhausting fever. He was so weak, indeed, that his two assistants

supported him in their arms; and when they reached the stone posts at the

foot of the steps, he knelt there, and leaned against one of them, almost

insensible.

A lady, following closely behind, wet her handkerchief in cologne‐water,

and handed it over his shoulder to one of the men, but did not herself

speak to them. He revived a little at that, and, still leaning against the

central post, remained fixed in prayer.

A whisper began to creep among the poor people about. Some of them had

seen this man, and knew what they conceived to be his story, and they told

it in intervals of listening to the strains of heavenly music faintly

heard now and then from the church.

“He is a penitent,” one whispered, “and has been doing penance here as a

laborer, though he is so rich—so rich! Some say that he killed his own

mother; but who knows? The beautiful _signore_! Look at his face! She must

have provoked him; and perhaps she was a very wicked woman. Ah! I could

tell stories of mothers. They are not all like the blessed Madonna.—There

are the trumpets! Alleluia! alleluia! Blessed is he who cometh in the name

of the Lord!—And so this poor _signore_ has been living a hard life, and

is about to die; and he has come at last to get the Holy Father’s

blessing. He would not ask for it before. But, indeed, he might, for he is

as holy as the blessed Labré, though he sleeps in a bed and works for his

living, instead of begging it. The pale _signora_ who stands behind him is

his sister. She has been in Rome all these years, watching over him,

without his knowing it. See! she stands out of his sight now. He worked up

to a week ago, and then he fell one day in a faint. She was near by, and

called a carriage to take him home. And since then she has had a room in

the same house, but told the _padrona_ not to let him know. She is rich,

for all her poor clothes. She puts something into every hand that is held

out to her. See the way she looks at him!—Ah! there they come.”

Mass was over, and the crowd in the church came pouring out. It was with

difficulty that Lawrence Gerald’s protectors could keep his place in that

pressure. But that he had revived, they could not have done so. With the

first intimation that the moment for which he had so long waited was at

hand, he had roused himself, and exerted his whole strength. Upright on

his knees, with his arms clinging to the post against which he leaned, he

fixed his eager eyes upon the balcony where the Pope would in a short time

appear. He saw nothing else, not even two familiar forms and faces

directly in front of him, which he could scarcely have seen even then with

indifference.

“My God!” exclaimed Honora Schöninger, and clung to her husband’s arm.

“Look, Max! It is Lawrence, and he is dying!”

Mr. Schöninger drew his wife aside. “It is no time to recognize him now,”

he said. “And there is Annette behind him. Poor fellow! poor fellow!”

Annette pressed close to her husband, ready to catch him if he should

fall. She knew that he had had an exhausting day. He had risen at early

dawn to hear Mass and receive communion, though not really able to leave

his bed, and had afterwards spent his remaining strength in the first

careful toilet he had made for years. After having so long heaped every

indignity on his own body, to‐day he had seemed desirous of treating it

with respect as the temple of God. He still wore the dress of the laborer,

but his face was shorn of its ill‐tended beard, his hair brushed once more

into silken waves, and his linen snowy white. And more exhausting than

these efforts had been the excitement of mind under which he labored, and

his fear lest in some way he should miss the benediction he so longed for.

“I want to be placed directly in front of the balcony,” he had said,

“where I can see the Pope’s face. I shall recognize his face at once. Who

knows but he may look at me? If he should, then I shall think that at last

God looks at me.”

The crowd hushed itself, as the golden cross came in sight, and after it

the crowned and mitred heads, all in white save one. And that one, under

its glittering tiara, wore a crown of snowy hair dearer to Catholic hearts

than gold or jewels. On this central face the eyes of the sick man fixed

themselves with a wide and imploring gaze, and his hands stretched

themselves out, as if to beg that he might not be forgotten.

“Do not fear!” Annette whispered in his ear. “The Holy Father knows all

your story, and pities you; and there is one standing beside him who will

remind him that you are here. He will know just where you are.”

To the waiting and trembling penitent this was like a whisper from his

good angel. He associated no other thought with the voice.

The silence deepened till nothing could be heard but the swift wings of a

bird flying over the piazza, and the soft “zitti! zitti!” of the

fountains, and the heart that each one in that vast crowd felt beat in his

bosom.

Surely that mild and blessed face was turned his way! the penitent

thought. Surely, surely, the Holy Father had looked at him, searching the

crowd one instant with his eyes, and finding him!

Then a single voice was heard—the only voice in the universe, it seemed.

“May the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, in whose power and authority we

confide, intercede for us with the Lord.”

“Amen!” chanted the choir, as though the world had found voice.

Again the single voice:

“Through the prayers and merits of blessed Mary ever Virgin, of blessed

Michael the archangel, of blessed John the Baptist, of the holy Apostles

Peter and Paul, and all the saints, may the omnipotent God have mercy upon

you, may all your sins be remitted, and Jesus Christ lead you to eternal

life.”

“Amen!”

“Indulgence, absolution, and remission of all your sins, space for true

and faithful repentance, hearts ever contrite, and amendment of life, may

the omnipotent and merciful God afford you.”

“Amen!”

“And may the blessing of the omnipotent God, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,

descend upon you, and remain with you for ever.”

“Amen!”

Every stain was washed away! Full and strong the blessing flowed, a divine

river from the throne of God himself! On its tide were borne away, not

only guilt, but the memory of guilt; not only fear, but the remembrance

that fear had been. Supported in the arms of his wife and attendants, and

of the old friends of whose presence he was unconscious, Lawrence Gerald

lay back with his eyes half closed, and a smile of such peace and ecstasy

on his face as could only come from God. His soul was gliding sweetly away

on the echoes of that last amen.

The military bands began to play, the guns boomed from Sant’ Angelo, the

bells of S. Peter’s rang out with a joyful clash on the air, and all Rome

broke into music over the resurrection.

And there was joy before the angels of God over one sinful soul redeemed.

The End.

Madame Du Deffand.

“Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not of love,” the poet

tells us. And women too have died, and worms have eaten them, but not of

_ennui_, although Mme. du Deffand for nearly fourscore years woke the

echoes of Versailles and Paris with the pitiful lament: “I am bored! I am

bored! I am dying of _ennui_!” If she eventually did die of it—which we

stoutly deny—a malady that took eighty years to kill its victim can hardly

be called a very cruel one. The vivacious, gossipping, wearied old lady

contrived to extract a very reasonable amount of amusement, even of

excitement, out of the existence whose wearisomeness she was for ever

denouncing; and it is only fair to add that she contributed a very goodly

share of amusement to other people. This renowned heroine and victim of

_ennui_, Marie de Vichy‐Chamroud, was born into this wearisome world in

the year of grace 1697, of a noble family of the province of Burgundy. The

De Vichy‐Chamrouds were richer in parchments than in lands; so it fell out

that Marie, young, lovely, accomplished, and teeming with wit, was

condemned to marry an old man, and, what was still more terrible, a

wearisome old man, who had not a single taste in common with her.

Immediately on leaving the convent where she received what in those days

was considered a liberal education, the beautiful young lady was presented

to her future lord. If she bored herself as a young girl, free and happy,

and with life before her, what must she have done as the wife of a

querulous, stingy old man? All the revenge that was in her power Marie

took. She bored her husband as much as he bored her, until at last, in

sheer desperation, he agreed to give her an annuity, and let her go her

way without him. As Marquise du Deffand, free and comparatively wealthy,

the young wife began a new era. She opened a _salon_ which soon became the

centre of the wit and fashion of Paris. All that was eminent in war, arts,

sciences, literature, and folly came there, and tried to chase away her

eternal _ennui_. Amongst her many admirers, the President Hénault occupies

the most conspicuous place, both from the dignity of his own character and

the enduring nature of their mutual attachment. Hénault was one of the

most remarkable men of his time. He was educated by the Oratorians, and

had early the inestimable advantage of enjoying the advice, and almost the

intimacy, of Massillon. He counted the scarcely lesser privilege of early

personal acquaintance with the great poet Racine. As soon as he had

completed his studies, young Hénault was introduced at court, where he at

once made a favorable impression. “This is not to be wondered at,” says a

chronicler of the times; “for, in truth, he was a youth of gracious parts,

gay, witty, amiable, a good musician, and gifted with the art of making

light and graceful verses.” While the Duchesse de Maine held her brilliant

court, Hénault was a constant presence there, and one of its principal

ornaments. He was so universally beloved that it was popularly said of

him: “There is a man who has more friends than he can count, and not a

single enemy.” And this lucky man was the devoted admirer of Mme. du

Deffand for over fifty years.

He attained considerable fame as an author, and not the least remarkable

feature in his works is that their authorship was vehemently contested,

not only during Hénault’s life, but for many years after his death. Most

of his books were first published anonymously—a circumstance which, in

their early career, may have explained the doubts concerning their origin.

But the _Abrégé Chronologique_, which Hénault regarded as his best,

appeared with the author’s name at the outset, and this, strange to say,

was the one which the world refused longest to believe was his, and

persevered in long attributing to the Abbé Boudot. A copy of the book was

found, in the _abbé’s_ own writing, amongst his papers when he died, and

this is the only piece of evidence on which Hénault’s detractors built

their obstinate denial that he was the author of the _Abrégé_. Admitting

that this fact looked suspicious, the book itself from first to last bears

the stamp of Hénault’s composition in the most unmistakable manner; the

choice of the subject, its style and treatment, all point emphatically to

him as the author, while there is abundant explanation of the accidental

presence of the compromising copy amongst Boudot’s papers. Hénault was in

the habit of employing him to copy out his compositions. Voltaire, in one

of his letters to the president, recommends the _abbé_ as a very clever

copyist, and also as a useful person to make researches for him at the

Royal Library; and Grimm also recommends him for the same purpose,

informing Hénault that Boudot had employment at the library, and was in

charge of the literary and historical department. A man who held this

subaltern post, and was treated as a mere scribe by such authorities, and

who never pleaded guilty to writing even a pamphlet in his life, is, to

say the least, a very unlikely person to be the author of such a work as

Hénault’s _Abrégé_. Mme. du Deffand and Grimm, who both liked to sharpen

their wits pretty freely at the president’s expense, never for an instant

doubted the reality of his authorship, or suspected that any one had had a

share in his books.

Unlike so many of his distinguished literary contemporaries, Hénault was a

practical Christian. “His piety,” says the Marquis de Agesson, “was as

free from fanaticism or bitterness as his books were from pedantry.”

Mme. du Deffand, who spared her friend on no other points, spared him on

this. She never laughed at his religion. On that score alone he was safe

from her irony and sarcasm. She even openly commended him for challenging

Voltaire’s impious vituperation of the faith; and in her own

correspondence with the infidel philosopher she speaks almost with

enthusiasm of the clear intellect, the pointed wit, and irresistible

goodness of his antagonist. When he was past eighty, Hénault wrote

privately to Voltaire, imploring him, in the most touching terms, to

retract some of his diabolical satires on religion; and this letter,

which, unhappily, we know remained without effect, was found amongst

Voltaire’s papers after his death. He, on his side, strove to win over

Hénault to the “enlightened school,” and with artful flattery and subtlest

sophistry urged him to change certain historical passages in the _Abrégé

Chronologique_ which strongly vindicated the influence of Christianity.

But the Christian writer withstood these blandishments. In a literary

point Voltaire contributed in no small degree to the reputation of

Hénault, whose style he praised with creditable candor. It is strange to

see the lively and bored old _marquise_ holding steadily the friendship of

these widely dissimilar men. Diderot, D’Alembert, and Montesquieu were

also _habitués_ of her brilliant _salon_. But none of them could do more

than give her momentary deliverance from her life‐long enemy—_ennui_. She

went on boring herself, in spite of the perpetual cross‐fire of _esprit_

that the brightest wits of the age kept up around her, and she bored her

friends almost to exasperation by the unceasing repetition of the

complaint: _Que je m’ennuie! Que je m’ennuie!_

At the age of fifty‐four a terrible misfortune befell the _marquise_. She

grew blind. It was soon after this that she became acquainted with Mlle.

de l’Espinasse. The sprightliness and the energy of this young girl were

an immense consolation to Mme. du Deffand, and cheered her for a time in

that “eternal night,” as she pathetically described it, in which she now

dwelt. But they did not agree for long. After living happily together for

some few years, they quarrelled and separated. It is impossible to say

whose fault it was. Each had violent partisans, who accused the other, but

proved nothing. Mme. du Deffand was undoubtedly difficult to live with, as

all people are who draw exclusively on those around them for amusement;

but she was old and she was blind, and it is beyond doubt she was a kind

benefactress to her young companion, and that, at the moment of

separation, she wrote a most touching letter to her, asking forgiveness

for all she had done inadvertently to pain her, and urging the young girl

to remember how cruelly she was afflicted both by blindness and by

_ennui_. To this Mlle. de l’Espinasse returned a curt and ungracious

answer. Nor did she imitate the kindliness of speech of her quondam

employer, who always spoke of her ever after their quarrel with the utmost

good‐nature and forbearance.

Just as her home was resounding to these domestic discords, Mme. du

Deffand made the acquaintance of Horace Walpole. They were spontaneously

pleased with each other. Mme. du Deffand would have probably been still

more so, if she could have foreseen how triumphantly this new friendship

was destined to rescue her memory from oblivion. We know more of her and

her _salon_ through the voluminous correspondence that passed between her

and that prince of gossips and most brilliant of scribblers than through

any other source; although she comes in, it is true, for more ridicule at

his hands than eulogy. He constantly reproaches her for making him the

laughing‐stock of Paris and London by her absurd affection, and coarsely

tells her he does not want to be the hero of a novel where the heroine is

a blind octogenarian.

This correspondence was published at the beginning of the century, and was

hailed as a valuable addition to the French literature of that period. On

reading it, one feels transported into the society of the fascinating

women and accomplished men whom it so cleverly depicts. Mme. du Deffand

passes in review the authors and actors of her time with a graphic power

of delineation rarely equalled. Unsparing in her criticism, she is in some

instances no doubt too severe, and occasionally even unjust; it is

nevertheless acknowledged that in her literary judgments she is rarely at

fault; they are marked throughout by discrimination, taste, and delicacy.

Horace Walpole made Mme. du Deffand’s acquaintance when she had become

quite blind; on his being presented to her, she drew her hand over his

face, in order to ascertain whether he was plain or handsome, and what his

age was. Her touch had acquired such sensitive delicacy in course of time

that it enabled her to calculate people’s ages and looks with the greatest

accuracy. In quite the latter years of her life Mme. du Deffand, who had

never been avowedly an unbeliever, although practically so, turned her

thoughts to religion, and sought in the teaching of the faith those

consolations to her _ennui_ that wit and philosophy had failed to secure

her. She announces this change of sentiment, with her usual frankness, in

one of her letters to Walpole. Her biographers throw but little light on

the subject. La Harpe alludes to her having had many interviews with the

celebrated Jesuit, F. Lenfant—an episode which is dismissed by Mme. du

Deffand herself with the remark that “the Père Lenfant was very clever,

and that she was much pleased with him.”

The Père Lenfant who is thus incidentally introduced to us in the memoirs

of the lively French woman was one of the countless noble and touching

victims of the Revolution—that raging torrent that drowned so many gentle

voices in its roar. He was gifted with an eloquence that drew around him

all the lovers of rhetoric and the most able men of his day. The poet

Young heard him, and was so struck by his power and pathos that he

entreated a Protestant clergyman of his acquaintance to go and hear him;

the latter did so, and embraced the faith. Once, on coming out from a

sermon of the Père Lenfant’s, preached at S. Sulpice during Lent, Diderot

exclaimed to D’Alembert, who had been drinking in every word from

beginning to end, with his eyes riveted on the preacher: “It would be hard

to hear that man often without becoming a Christian.”

When the order of the Jesuits was disbanded in France, the Père Lenfant

was thrown upon the world. He was then forty‐seven years of age. The

decree which despoiled him of his religious garb could not rob him of its

spirit. He continued his good works and his apostolate with fervor and

wisdom. Several crowned heads tried to win him to their courts, but in

vain. The son of S. Ignatius held steadily aloof from the tempting snare.

He preached indefatigably at all times and places, at Lunéville, Vienne,

Versailles, wherever he was called; and everywhere the great and the

learned flocked round his pulpit. His contemporaries describe the effects

of his eloquence as electrical. He captivated his hearers, not so much by

the magnificence of his language, as by the pathos of his voice and the

force of his own faith. Père Lenfant preached the Lent of 1791 before the

court; but on refusing to take the oath of the clergy to the civil

constitution, he was obliged to withdraw. Shortly afterwards he was taken

prisoner and condemned to death. On being brought before his judges, the

people cried out that his life might be spared, and, yielding to the

cries, his jailers let him go; before, however, he had got free from the

crowd, a woman called out: “There goes the king’s confessor!” At these

words the thirst for blood, that had seemed for a moment satiated or

suspended, rose up anew. The mob set upon him like tigers. The Père

Lenfant uttered only words of love and forgiveness, and, raising his hands

to heaven, exclaimed: “My God, I thank thee for allowing me to offer my

life for thee, as thou hast offered thine for me!” And with this gracious

sentence on his lips the Jesuit father fell and expired under the blows of

the murderers.

This little sketch of the Marquise du Deffand would be incomplete without

a passing mention of the author of the _Esprit des Lois_, who was one of

the most distinguished of her numerous friends.

Her letters to Montesquieu have been preserved; they are, however, much

less interesting than those to Walpole, and consequently much less known.

Mme. du Deffand could be a staunch friend, though she was often a trying

one; she proved herself such to Montesquieu. Amongst other good offices,

she cleared him from the charge of avarice which was laid at his door so

generally. History revoked the verdict, it is true, but only when the

subject of it was gone beyond the reach of earthly rehabilitation.

Montesquieu’s exceeding modesty and desire to have his benefits known only

to the recipients was the real, and perhaps the only, cause of his reputed

avarice. One example of his delicate generosity we cannot refrain from

giving.

He was in the habit of visiting Marseilles to see his sister, Mme.

d’Héricourt, who resided there. During one of these visits he happened one

evening to be lounging on the quay; the weather was sultry, and it

occurred to Montesquieu that he would take a boat, and have a row on the

sea. His attention was drawn to a young man who was looking out for a

customer. He hailed him, and got in. As soon as they were out a little at

sea, Montesquieu perceived that his boatman was a novice at the work, and

rowed with difficulty. He questioned him, and learned that he was, in

truth, a jeweller by trade, and a boatman only on Sundays and holidays, in

order to gain a trifle towards helping his mother and sisters, who were

working to procure 4,000 crowns to ransom his father, who was a prisoner

at Tetuan. Montesquieu was deeply touched by the story. He made a

resolution on the spot, but said nothing. Before landing, however, he got

from the boatman his father’s name and the name of his master. On parting,

he handed him his purse, and walked away rapidly; great was the delight of

the young man, on opening it, to find that it contained sixteen golden

_louis_.

Six weeks after this the captive suddenly appeared in the midst of his

wife and children. He saw, by the astonishment mingled with their joy,

that it was not to them he owed his liberation; but the surprise and

gratitude of all were increased on his telling them that not only was his

ransom paid, but likewise his voyage home and his clothing; and, over and

above this, a sum of fifty _louis d’or_ had been handed to him on

starting. The young boatman no sooner heard this fairy tale than he

bethought him of the generous stranger who had presented him the purse and

expressed such sympathy on hearing of his sorrow. He determined to seek

him. For two years he did so, but in vain. The name of the benefactor to

whom he and his owed such a sweet and magnificent debt of gratitude

remained an impenetrable mystery. At last one day, while walking in the

streets of Paris, he suddenly encountered Montesquieu face to face; the

young man fell upon his knees, kissed the hand of his benefactor, and

entreated him to come with him to the home he had blessed, and witness the

joy that he had brought back to a desolate family. But Montesquieu feigned

ignorance and surprise, declared he knew nothing of what the young man was

talking about, and at last, wrenching his hand away abruptly, he

disappeared in the crowd, nor did his pursuer succeed in finding him

again.

This action would never have been discovered had not Montesquieu’s

executor found among his papers a memorandum in his own handwriting,

stating that he had sent 7,500 francs to Mr. Main, an English banker at

Cadiz; on the latter being applied to for information, he replied that he

had given that sum, by the order of M. de Montesquieu, for the ransom of a

man named Robert, a Marseillais, detained as a slave at Tetuan. Inquiries

were set on foot, and the Robert family told the rest.

This touching incident was made the foundation of many dramatic pieces. If

it did no more than clear a noble character from the unworthy charge of

heartlessness and avarice, the world would have been the better for its

discovery.

Cain, What Hast Thou Done With Thy Brother?

By Ernest Hello.

From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.

By way of preface, I will relate a true story given by F. Agathon, a

priest of the Monastery of Ruba, and preserved in the _Lives of the

Fathers of the Desert_.

F. Agathon says: “One day I descended into the valley of Ruba to find the

holy solitary, F. Pémeu, as I wished to consult him on a subject that

weighed heavily upon my mind. We conversed until late in the evening, and

then he sent me into a cavern to pass the rest of the night. Now, as it

was winter, and the cold extreme, I was nearly frozen. The next morning,

when the old man came in to see me, he asked: ‘How have you passed the

night, my son?’

“ ‘Father,’ I answered, ‘I must say, in truth, I passed a terrible night,

on account of the extraordinary severity of the cold.’

“ ‘And I did not feel it at all,’ he replied.

“These words filled me with astonishment, as he was nearly naked, and I

said: ‘I beg of you, father, to tell me how that could have happened.’

“ ‘For the reason,’ he answered, ‘that a lion came and lay down beside me,

and kept me warm. But nevertheless, my dear son, I can assure you that I

shall be devoured by wild beasts.’

“ ‘Why do you say so?’ I asked.

“ ‘Because,’ he replied, ‘when I was a shepherd in our country (we were

both from Galatia), I would have saved the life of a traveller, if I had

accompanied him; but I did not show him that charity, and he was devoured

by the dogs. Therefore I shall most certainly meet with a similar death.’

“And it really happened as he said. For three years afterwards he was torn

to pieces by wild beasts.”

I.

Dear Marie, cease to think of me; all is ended; I am lost. I do not tell

you what will become of me; I know nothing myself. I only know that

yesterday I received the fatal blow, from which I cannot recover.

I had just finished the last picture, of which I have so often spoke to

you—The First Glance. It is the portrait of a young man, who awakens and

looks around him, as though he saw everything for the first time.

Some of my friends thought the picture splendid, but added that it would

not sell well, as my name was unknown to the public.

After innumerable attempts, all equally unfortunate, I showed it yesterday

to a very rich amateur—Baron de Brienne. He examined the picture, thought

it remarkable, and then asked if I had often exhibited my pictures.

On my replying in the negative, his expression changed.

“I thought,” said he, “I did not know your name. You must make yourself

known. This picture has great merit, and this sketch also,” he added,

throwing a rapid glance at my other picture just commenced—you know it,

Marie—Cain after his Crime—“but, in fact, you are not known,” he

concluded.

“But, sir,” I replied, “I am endeavoring to make myself known.”

“Well,” continued the baron, “you have talent, that I acknowledge; but I

doubt if it is the kind of talent that will be appreciated by the public.

If I bought your picture, I would be asked where I found it. As it stands

there, it has a certain value; but if you were dead, it would be worth a

hundred times as much, and perhaps would soon find purchasers, possibly

myself among the first. You see I can’t change the world. So it is with

men; they will pay the most ridiculous price for objects of art whose

worth is guaranteed by a signature, but will not bother themselves to talk

up unknown talent. I,” he added with a happy smile, “recently gave a

hundred thousand francs for a picture which I do not place above yours;

but it was a Murillo! I am a modest man, and always side with the

majority. The majority is always right, and, for my part, I am not vain

enough to think I know more than the entire human race. Make yourself

known; everything is in that. Make yourself known; put your pictures in

the exhibition; receive medals and decorations. But, above all, die; your

pictures then will be worth so much gold. You see you are talking to a

practical man, who don’t believe in neglected genius. _Au revoir_,

monsieur. You really have talent; more even than that, I do not hesitate

to say you have genius. _Au revoir_.”

This, Marie, was my last adventure. All the others were similar. I will

spare you any further details. I have told you in a few words what in

reality was a long agony. But despair is brief; it has not the courage to

dwell on separate facts; it sums up the causes, and only shows the

effects.

Now, my dear Marie, you know what happened yesterday. The day before there

came another gentleman, who had not the time to examine my picture as it

deserved. This he explained to me for two hours without looking at the

picture. He really had no time; for example, every morning he visits his

stables from ten to twelve, and in the afternoon rows on the lake from

four to six.

As for Baron de Brienne, when he left, he assured me he held my talent in

the highest estimation; that he would like to have a gallery of pictures

all painted by me, as it would probably one day be very valuable; later,

my pictures would sell splendidly, and he could make money by the

operation.

If there is ever to be a later day for me, I shall find him, when I will

no longer need him, and he will be the first to show me honor.

Adieu, Marie. I was so sanguine, so buoyed up with hope, it needed all

this time—all this precious time, of which these gentlemen had so little

to waste—to bring me where I am now.

I think the baron saw despair in my face, for he used a singular

expression on leaving which I had not provoked by any remark.