{176}
"Is also well, I hope and believe," said Eugene; "but she leads so secluded a life, even in our large family, that it is difficult for those about her to speak with any degree of certainty concerning her."
"Indeed! She is probably scarcely recovered from the shock of her father's terrible death."
"Perhaps not; but I do not thinkthatis the sole cause of her seclusion: she is essentially contemplative, and the things of this world interest her but little. What her ideas are, I do not know, for she seldom speaks of them, but I think they would be worth the knowing."
"Probably so," replied M. Bertolot "She is a pure soul, beautiful and good; of whom we may almost affirm that she scarcely knows what sin is."'
Eugene looked at the speaker in surprise. "What sin is! What is sin!" thought he. "Is it aught beside the consequence of error? and how can we escape error if we cannot light on truth?" His puzzled look was perhaps his best reply.
"You do not credit me," said M. Bertolot; "you think, and justly, that all men are sinners; yes, indeed, all, all are so, I spoke but by comparison: it is rare to find so pure, so simple a soul as is that of Mademosielle de Meglior; though not sinless, as none can be, she is a consistent aspirant alter heavenly lore, ever keeping her heart fixed on the only true source of light and life: at least she was so when I knew her."'
"She is tranquil and contemplative," said Eugene, "and when she does speak, often startles us with the originality of her sentiments; but when you spoke of her as not knowing sin, it was the expression that astonished me. People in polite life do not often speak of themselves, or of their friends, as sinners."
"No!" said M. Bertolot; "excuse me then, the expression came as naturally to my lips as to my thoughts. I intended no offense."
"Nor did you give any: on the contrary, I should be glad to know from you the principle of Euphrasie's mode of action, if without violating confidence, you can tell me what it is. She is actuated by motives not comprehended by those with whom she lives."
"I can give you no other explanation than that I suppose her actuated by the purest principles of religion. As a child she gave promise of this: all her thoughts and ideas tended upward. Does she continue so?"
"I never heard her speak of religion," replied Eugene; "she sometimes speaks very sublimely, though very laconically, of truth being the one thing to be cared for."
"Ah!" said M. Bertolot, "is it thus she veils herself? But with her truth, and the worship of the author of truth, must go together. I know Euphrasie from childhood. I know how she struggled with her naturally vehement spirit, until, even as a child, she obtained the mastery. I remember, too, the explanations she sought for most earnestly, of why our evil tendencies remain to molest us when we become members of Christ. All that the child learnedonceshe pondered over, and oftentimes surprised her teachers with her comments."
"I doubt it not: her remarks are ever original. I have often felt quite anxious to know the basis of her actions."
"Nay, have you not said already, that it was the love of truth? Her every thought tends that way, and she early discovered how liable the practical recognition of metaphysical truth is to be impeded by human passion. Hence, from childhood upwards, she has been accustomed to watch over herself, and to check the indulgence of any emotion that would form a 'blind' between herself, and the object of her adoration. She is young yet, but I venture to say she will pass by the age of passion unscathed.*
"Do you mean that she will love?" asked Eugene.
{177}
"Nay, that I cannot exactly affirm," replied M. Bertolot; "but I think she will never be governed by any passion—be it love, pride, fame, or ambition. I think she has laid the true foundation in obtaining the mastery over her feelings; and though she is naturally affectionate, I am not sure that she would be happy now, if bound by human ties. She has accustomed herself to live an abstracted life; she would scarcely be at home in domestic duties."
"Nay, I hope such is not the case!" exclaimed Eugene, more warmly than he intended, for his latent feelings toward Euphrasie ever and anon betrayed themselves; and while he scarcely confessed it to himself, interest in her style of thought colored the course of his own ideas.
M. Bertolot dexterously turned the conversation by reverting to a former subject. "It were well for mankind," said he, "did they consider how much passion and prejudice warp the mind, even in the consideration of abstract truths. Few, very few, keep their own intellects open for the reception of any such foreign ideas as would contravene their previous conceptions. Fewer still, give their neighbors credit for such power to look at facts impartially. This is an attestation that passion reigns rather than justice. Methinks the old system of Pythagoras, subjecting youth to moral training as a necessary preliminary for bringing the intellectual faculties into harmonious play, were not a bad precedent for this unruly age."
"It would scarcely go down now," urged Eugene.
"Indeed no!"' said M. Bertolot. "The master says it would seem but a ridiculous phrase in this all-disputing age. All faculties, whether of mind or body or soul, seem now confounded. Positiveness usurps the place of reason, and the mere child is allowed to question, instead of being compelled at once to obey. If the world goes on with this principle in action twenty years longer, we shall have little men and women in plenty, but no children left, and then woe to the generation that succeeds: a generation untrained and undisciplined by wholesome restraint, with intellects prematurely developed without the adjunct of self-government, which only moral training can impart. What a world it will make! Methinks its inevitable tendency is to undue animal preponderance. It is frightful to think of!"
"I was just making the same remark to Professor K——," said Eugene; "but though I see the evil, I cannot discern the remedy."
"It is indeed difficult to compass the remedy," said M. Bertolot, "the departure has been so wide. Men have ceased to distinguish between the result of mere human intelligence and that of a loftier lore, and they now use the intellect as the slave of the only good recognizable in their system,i. e.of bodily ease or pleasure. Practically men ignore the soul and its high destiny. Hence the disorder of the times. Animalism is essentially selfish, and animalism is the tendency of modern times—refined, veiled, adorned, with much of intellectual allurement I admit, but nevertheless animalism thorough and entire."
"I have thought of this before," said Eugene, "but my ideas are as yet vague and undefined. I want data to go upon some firm ground on which to plant my feet. The guesses of philosophers content me not."
"Nor should they, my young friend, since, as you say, they are but guesses, without a sure foundation. But have you heard of nothing beyond philosophy? Has it never occurred to you that the creative intelligence has revealed himself to the creature of his formation, and that through that revelation we are informed of that which it interests us to know—of our own soul, of the object of our creation, and of the final destiny of man?"
"I have heard of religion certainly," said Eugene, "but I cannot say I ever studied it or practised it."
{178}
"No? Then no wonder you are dissatisfied. Your mind is evidently seeking for truth. Nothing but the great truth can satisfy it. Study dispassionately the evidences of the truth of the great Mosaic history. Contemplate the grand position of our first father, Adam, receiving instruction from God himself concerning the mighty mysteries of creation, not only of matter and of material forms, but of bright intelligences created to glorify and adorn the court of heaven, and who fell from their sublime position. Study man first, fresh in perfection from the hand of God, living as thefriend of God, communing with his Maker in the garden of Eden. Appointed by him to rule o'er all inferior nature, the entitled Lord of the Creation, the master of animal existences, and superior in his own person to much of material influence. Think what it must have been to walk with God, and have divine knowledge infused into his soul, as also all such material science as would befit the founder of a mighty race to transmit to his offspring, over whom he was to reign as prince, father, priest, and teacher; and then consider what it must have been to find suddenly that source of knowledge dried up, the door of communication closed, power weakened, intuitions dimmed, and labor imposed as the price alike of happiness, knowledge, and of that supernatural communication which had been man's best and highest privilege: the solution of these problems will give you the key to many difficulties which perplex you."
"There are modern theories which agree not with these premises," said Eugene. "These trace man from the savage upward."
"Yes,' said M. Bertolot, "the mutum et turpe pecus[Footnote 36] of Horace has found, if not admirers, yet professed believers in this age.
[Footnote 36: Dumb and filthy herd.]
A theory contrary to analogy, to evidence alike of history and tradition, has been assumed, and wondrously has found asserters too. All mere animals are observed to be born complete—their instincts, their organization serve but the individual; and though accident may train an individual to feats beyond his fellows, yet there is no appearance of new organs being formed to be transmitted to its race. Now, these modern progressionists, who go back to the time
'When wild in woods the Noble Savage ran,'
deprive man of his soul, assimilate him to the brutes to make him perform what brute nature never did perform, namely,createfaculty. Men have lives to laugh at the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, but methinks the doctrine of the progression to bodily beauty from monkeys without tails; of barbarians to civilized man without aid, is to the full as absurd; to say nothing of that comprehensive power of contemplation which enabled Newton to demonstrate the order of the universe, it would be very difficult to understand how abstract ideas could be latent in the soul of a monkey waiting development. Besides, by the theory of progression, during the time of which we have record, say six thousand years, men should be steadily on theimprove—both as to arts, science, moral government, legal government,self-government, and bodily development; but we do not find it so. The ruins of Babylon, of Thebes, and of other great cities built soon after the flood, attest architectural skill among the ancients such as is hardly aimed at no. Callisthenes found astronomical tables reaching as far back as within a few years of the deluge, in the Temple of Belus, when he accompanied Alexander the Great on his expedition to the East. And many arts have been lost altogether that were well known to the ancients. The half-barbarian Copt erecting his hut amid the fallen pillars and statuary of ancient Thebes, the Mameluke riding recklessly and savagely amid the pyramids, that still remain to puzzle the assertor of progression even with the mere mechanical difficulties of the machinery used for{179}raising such immense stones to such a height and in such a plain, so distant from any known quarries. These are hut poor indications of the race advancing, though individual nations, worked on by a regenerative influence, may appear to make, nay do make, great improvements in all respects."
"Do you, then, think that man's tendency is to degenerate?" asked Eugene.
"Not necessarily, by any means," replied M. Bertolot; "but in proportion as he departs from the centre of unity, from the truths once imprinted on the soul of Adam, thence to be transmitted for human guidance, it will, I think, be found so."
"But," said Eugene, "is Adam's religion yours? Surely he was not a Christian."
"If not in name and with the same outward rites, yet in reality he must have been," replied the mentor. "There is but one truth, and the difference between his creed and ours was that he looked for a Redeemer to come. We believe in him as having come."
"But was Adam's religion that of the Jews, then?" asked Eugene.
"In creed and in spirit, yes. In form and observance it differed, because the Jews had typical forms specially given to them, alike to commemorate their deliverance from Egypt, and to typify their delivery through Christ from sin. They were living amid idolatrous nations, and the safeguard of a special ceremonial was needful to them."
"And save in the fulfilment of their expectation, is the Jewish creed Christian?" asked Eugene.
"As far as it goes it is; the Christian revelation is a fuller development of the old tradition, a clearer exposition of God; it destroys nothing of the past revelation, it fulfils and expands. The Jews were the preservers of the great tradition, transmitted through the patriarchs to Noah, and by him, through his sons, to the race it large. The tradition became corrupted by the majority; yet it is found in some form or other mixed up in all mythologies; and what deserves remark is, that the further back we trace mythology the purer it becomes. The early records of all nations tell us of purity, discipline, and sacrifice to secure purity of morals, and teach of justice after death, of good and evil spirits, and of the interference of the deity to check man in his career of evil. Men seem at first not so much to have denied the true God, as to have associated other gods with him, and to have changed their worship from seeking such spiritual union as would render them 'sons of God,' to adoration of the creator and upholder of physical power, physical grandeur, and physical beauty. Atheism, and the lowering of man's nature to that of a mere mortal animal, is an invention of modern times, and has for the most part only been held by men satiated, as it were, by a spurious civilization."
"I am but little versed in the Bible," said Eugene, "but I have heard learned men assert that all the education, so to speak, of the Jewish nation was of a worldly character; and that though there are passages of Scripture containing allusions to the immortality of the soul, yet that doctrine was nowhere definitely asserted, but that, on the contrary, all the rewards and punishments promised, or threatened, were of a temporal nature."
"And yet no one disputes that the Jews did, and do believe the soul to be immortal, as also that they believed, and still believe, in the traditions concerning the fallen angels, the fall of man, the promised redemption, and many others. These doctrines, promulgated to all the world, were kept intact by Abraham and his descendants; and it is a very general belief that they were renewed in their purity in the soul of Moses, during that long communion vouchsafed him on Mount Sinai. The material law for exterior conduct he wrote down; but the spiritual themes which formed the staple of the expositions given by the rulers and doctors of the synagogue{180}and which were only figured by the material types, were probably deemed by the holy lawgiver too sacred to dilate upon in writing. If, after that forty days' sublimation, his spirit was so triumphant that he was fain to veil the glory of his face, we must needs suppose that not the mere written law, or setting forth the ritual of their worship, occupied his whole attention, but that his spirit expanded beneath the graces vouchsafed to him, and that he was, in a sense, made partaker of those spiritual truths which lie concealed from more materialized minds."
"These facts deserve attention, at any rate," said Eugene; "can you refer me to authorities within my reach?"
"Indeed, I know not what your resources are, and my own books I have lost. My memory, too, serves me but treacherously on controversial subjects; but I think if you will turn to Grotius de Verit. Christ, you will find him quoting Philo Judaeus in proof of the similarity of the Christian doctrine with the Jewish."
Eugene handed the book to his friend, who read the passage, of which the following is the translation:
"We have still to answer two accusations with which the doctrines and worship of Christians are attacked by the Jews. The first is, that they say we worship many gods. But this is nothing more than a declaration thrown in hatred at a foreign faith. For what more is asserted by the Christians, than by Philo Judaeus, who frequently represents three in God, and who calls the reason, or word of God, the name of God, the framer of the world, neither uncreate, as is the Father of all, nor so born as are men (whom both Philo and Moses, the son of Nehemanni, calls the angel, the deputy for ruling this world); or what more than the cabalists assert, who distinguished in God three lights, and indeed by somewhat the same names as the Christians do, namely, of the Father, of the Son or Word, and of the Holy Spirit. And I may also assume that which is confessed by all the Jews, that that spirit which moved the prophets, is not created, and yet is distinct from him who sent," etc., etc.
"But," said the old man, starting up and closing the book, "I am forgetting myself; I came not here to deliver a lecture on theology, but to inquire after my former friends. Excuse an old man's garrulity. Adieu!"
"Not yet," said Eugene; "your conversation interests me much; do not go yet."
"Yes, for to-night I leave you; if you permit me, however, I will return on another day. Meantime, I would suggest to you one important reflection. When Almighty God had created all things, and pronounced them good; when he had formed man from the slime of the Earth, and rendered him the most perfect of animals, man was not yet quite complete; and the completion, what was it? No angel had command to fulfil that wondrous office, nor was it by word that that mysterious power was called into being: but God breathed, and man became a living soul. The soul of man is, then, the in-breathing of the divinity —immortal in its essence, God-like in its affinities. Quench not its trembling impulses, when it bids you look upward in love and confidence; but pray—ever pray—fervently, confidently, perseveringly." This he added with a half-smile, which revealed to Eugene who had been his former monitor. He then abruptly quitted the room.
The Duke of Durimond and his fair bride prolonged their tour among the lakes and mountains of the "land o' cakes" until autumn begun to show the fallen leaf. Hester was not a little disappointed at this—she was impatiently expecting a summons to{181}meet her sister at the dacal mansion, and she thought the period unnecessarily delayed.
At length the wished-for invitation came, and father, mother, sisters, brother, aunt, and Euphrasie were called upon to welcome the young duchess to one of the costliest and most elaborately finished palaces in England. Hester shouted in glee as the carriage entered the mile-long avenue of stately trees that formed the approach to the ducal dwelling. The bevy of liveried servants that awaited their approach at the hall-door, the quiet, respectful bearing of the gentlemen servants out of livery who waited within to escort them to the suite of rooms prepared for their reception—all this was charming! delightful! only a look from her parents presented the merry girl from dancing round the house in ecstasy. The entrance-hall itself was sufficient to send her into raptures. The beautiful marble of the floor, the large fires burning on each side, the triple row of balconies, raised one above another, on the three sides within the hall, betokening the communication of the upper stories with the rest of the house by some unseen means, and displaying the full height of the edifice, crowned as it was by a beautifully carved cupola, into which sufficient skylight was artificially admitted to display to advantage the figures of the rosy Aurora accompanied by her nymphs, scattering flowers on her way as she opened the gates of morning, which subject was skilfully portrayed on the ceiling. They passed through this, the outer hall, to another, which contained the magnificent staircase leading to the apartments opening on the balconies described. To Hester's joy the entrance to their suite of rooms opened on the first of these, and she could look up to the painted ceiling and down to the marble floor, and gaze, unrebuked, on the colossal figures of bronze which appeared to uphold the balconies.
How happy Adelaide must be, mistress of so gorgeous a palace! And Adelaide was there at the door of the apartments to greet her mother and her mother's friends. What was there in her manner to damp at once the ardor of Hester's enthusiasm? Grace, kindness, and dignity were there! and yet Hester was not satisfied; a chill came o'er her unawares as she returned her sister's kiss. She mastered herself, however, sufficiently to express her admiration of the splendid hall.
"Oh, that is nothing," said the young duchess, with a faint smile. "His grace will introduce you to his hall of sculpture and to the picture gallery by and by, and then you will be really pleased. I believe royalty itself cannot boost such master-pieces as Durimond Castle."
"So I have heard," said Mrs. Godfrey; "but where is the duke, my dear?"
"He was unexpectedly occupied when you arrived, mamma, but doubtless he will be here to welcome you immediately."
There was a constraint and melancholy about Adelaide's manner that struck the whole party, and their pleasure was more than a little damped as they entered the magnificent apartments prepared for them.
"Here," said the hostess, "you can be as private as in your own house when you wish it; and when you desire society you will generally find some one either in the library, or in the conservatory or drawing-room."
"Have you many guests?" asked the Countess de Meglior.
"Your friend, the Comte de Villeneuve, came with us from town; he is not here to-day, though I think the duke expects him to-morrow. He is absent on some business; there is a strange gentleman closeted with the duke just now, for whom apartments are ordered; he is a foreigner, I think; the duke seems to have business with him. He will be our only visitor today."
{182}
Just then the bell rang to warn the guests it was the dressing hour. Valets and ladies' maids were in attendance, and though only to join a family party, state-dresses were in requisition.
Adelaide retired to make her preparations, and the visitors, amid the luxurious surroundings, felt oppressed with a sadness for which they could scarcely account, and which they cared not to express, even to one another.
The duke met them in the drawing-room before dinner, and his gay manner in some degree dispelled the gloom that had crept over the party. He inquired kindly after Eugene.
"Eugene, from some cause or other," said Mrs. Godfrey, "keeps away from home altogether. He spent his long vacation at the lakes, and has again returned to Cambridge. He has taken a studious fit, I suppose, and must be allowed to gratify if ."
"And does he not, then, intend to honor us with his company?" inquired the duke.
"Oh, he will run down for a day or two ere long, I dare say. He must see Adelaide, of course; but when, he does not exactly say."
Adelaide did not appear displeased to hear this. She turned to her husband and asked what he had done with his visitor.
"He would not stay, he had an appointment to keep, so we must make up for all deficiencies ourselves."
The dinner passed away stiffly enough, and as the season was too late for a walk afterward, the gentlemen, following the then national custom, passed a considerable time over the bottle, discussing the politics of the day. It was late in the evening ere they joined the ladies. They found them in a large conservatory, which was illuminated in honor of Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey's arrival; and in this flowery retreat sundry self-acting musical instruments were hidden, which, from time to time, sent forth, as it were unbidden, melodious sounds and tuneful harmonies, which, vibrating amid the flowering shrubs that formed an artificial spring within the glass enclosure, contrasted pleasingly with the "fall of the leaf" that made all nature desolate without.
"Art conquers nature here," said Mr. Godfrey, as he entered the enchanted scene. "We might fancy ourselves in a fairy palace now. What says my Hester to this?"
"Oh! this is beautiful, indeed! Music, moonlight, love, and flowers are it 'A glorious combination,'" said Hester, pointing to the moon, which shone brightly through the windows; but her voice had lost its usual animation as she made the quotation, for a feeling passed over her heart, as if one ingredient, and that precisely the most important one, was wanting; she could not be satisfied that "love" presided in this abode of beauty and of grace.
The next morning the state rooms of the house were inspected. The duke was the great patron of the fine arts, and taste shone forth in every part of the stately edifice that was exposed to view.
The picture gallery and the hall of sculpture were celebrated far and wide, particularly the latter. Nor were the figures promiscuously arranged that decorated this scene of art; on the contrary, much care had been expended to form one harmonious whole. On the dome which formed the ceiling was painted ancient Saturn devouring his offspring as they rose into being, and beneath this centre-piece were painted the war of the Titans against Satan on the one side, and the war of the giants against Jupiter on the other. Thus far the ceiling. In the midst of the marble floor stood the mighty Jupiter, armed with his thunderbolts, majestic in strength and grand in intellectual sensualism. Beside him, grouped symmetrically and appropriately, were the legion of subordinate divinities—Venus, attended by the graces; Apollo, radiant in beauty; Hercules strangling the serpents while he was yet in the cradle; the Muses in various attitudes, with appropriate symbols of office. Scarcely a god, goddess, or demigod{183}could be named who was not here represented. Types of beauty—sensual, intellectual, and physical; types of grandeur and of tenor; types of mystery, beneath the veiled figure of the Egyptian deity, Isis; types of knowledge and of artistic skill were there. All that man bows before and worships when the sense of the supernatural is shut, and he learns ofselfto deify his own passions, was here, other delineated on the walls or chiselled out in the sculptural forms. It was ft Pantheon dedicated to all the gods of human sense, refined by beauty and grace, and polished by artistic merit of the highest order. Unbounded and unfeigned was the applause elicited from the party: hardly could they satisfied themselves with gazing on these perfect forms: even the lack of drapery seemed scarcely a drawback. Euphrasie, indeed, retired, but she was so strange habitually that her absence was hardly commented upon; and but for the smile that went round the circle as she left the hall, might have been deemed unobserved.
"The true gods of the earth are these yet." said Mr. Godfrey, when the door had closed behind the young French girl, "and the race has sadly degenerated since their worship was abandoned."
The young duchess and her sisters looked up in mute wonder at the speaker, but the duke cried, "Hear, hear!" and the elder ladies tried to look wise and responsive.
Mr. Godfrey continued: "That is god to a man which his mind worships and reveres, and which to the extent of his power he strives to imitate. Julian, the Roman emperor, understood this well. He felt (what time has proved true) that the human frame must degenerate when its proportionate and due development ceases to be the primary object of the legislator. He saw that when, instead of these glorious physical powers, there is substituted a pale, emaciated figure nailed to a cross for the glorification of an ideal good, that all nature's teachings must become confused, and a fake romance lead to decay the powers that heretofore were so beautiful in their proportions."
"Surely, papa, you do not believe in paganism," said Hester, wonderingly.
"Yes and no, Hester. In the fables of the personal divinity of Jupiter, Venus, and Minerva—No! In paganism as the expression of a grand idea, well suited to man's capabilities, and to his nature—Yes! You must not confound the hidden meaning of the myth with the outward expression. The uninstructed multitude will always look to the outward, and believe the fables as facts, whatever religion they profess, and often times they penetrate no further; but the learned look through the myth to the meaning, and the meaning of the pagan myth is,—Cultivate physical strength, in union with intellectual power, worship beauty, study and contrast nature. Destroy infirmity: it is the most humane way, and the most just way. Do not perpetuate disease. Let all ill-constituted children die. Let the conquered—i.e., the weaker—serve; it belongs to the strong to rule. To develop the physical frame duly, Lycurgus caused even the young women to wrestle publicly, without drapery of any kind. Our more fastidious tastes cramp the form of our women, and distort the figure; and, worse than this, our perverted theology distorts their intellect, and makes it afraid even to look at the human form. Again, I say, Julian was right. The Christianity he forsook has caused not only the degeneration of human power, but has substituted false ideas of good. The real has given place to the ideal, and a sickly, romantic, sentimentalized race has taken the place of the hardy heroes of antiquity."
And Mr. Godfrey bowed profoundly to the deities before him.
{184}
The duke laughed and clapped his hands. "Well said, Mr. Godfrey, well said. I hardly knew till now, how great a benefactor I was to the human race when I collected these statues. Hitherto I have thrown open my house but once a week for the public benefit. Henceforth I will direct my steward to allow instructions oftener in this temple of the true gods of the earth. By the by, I believe there is a very good chance of restoring this gone-by worship, if, as you say, it consists in the exaltation of physical power. Science, in its diffusion, is fixing men's minds on material agencies, very much to the exclusion of superstitious ideality. We have only to throw in a vein of the love of beauty, and much will be effected toward bringing back men's minds to the natural worship, here so beautifully symbolized."
"I believe so," said Mr. Godfrey; "but, meantime, how much evil has been effected by letting in upon the race so many delicate constitutions! How shall we restore the hardy races that peopled the earth, when these mighty types of glory ruled the populations?"
"Indeed, it is difficult to say. Men have accustomed themselves to a false estimate of mere vitality, as if life without enjoyment were worth the having. We shall, I fear, find it difficult to persuade English mothers to destroy their diseased and crippled children for the good of the public, or to train their daughters in the gymnasium."
"Would you seriously wish it, my lord duke?" asked his wife.
"I hardly know. We are all trammelled more or less with the feelings our mothers instilled into us. I think Lycurgus a great man, and perfectly reasonable. Had I been born a Spartan, I think I should have thanked the gods for it, but now—"
"Now," interrupted Mrs. Godfrey, "you are more nearly a Sybarite. I know of no one whom a crumpled rose-leaf disturbs more easily than yourself."
"Nay, Mrs. Godfrey, theargumentum ad hominemis hardly fair; but, after all, I suppose we must admit that character is geographical and chronological, besides being modified by individual circumstance. I think freely, but I am scarcely free to change my character; so in legislating I must legislate on public grounds for others. It does not follow that I can keep the law I deem it fitting to make.
"But if you cannot keep it, how can others?" demanded Annie.
"Well asked, my fair sister—asked not only by you, but by others also, and therefore is it that we must practically legislate not as we think best, abstractedly, but as nearly best as can be carried out. So, as the people are not yet ripe for ancient Spartan laws, we must be content yet a while to diffuse the principle that physical development, physical beauty, and physical power are the legitimate objects of human worship. When we have accustomed the people to adopt these views, the rest may chance to follow. Meantime, I see De Villeneuve coming up the avenue: excuse me for an instant;" and somewhat to the surprise of the party, the duke bolted through the open door that led on to the grounds to meet his friend, who dismounted when he saw him coming. In deep conference they slowly approached the house. There was a cloud on the duke's brow, but he shook it off as he entered and gayly introduced his friend.
"I am afraid De Villeneuve hardly admires these divinities, Mrs. Godfrey; let us adjourn to the drawing-room."
"Nay, defend yourself, M. de Villeneuve; you will not plead guilty to not loving art?" said the lady addressed.
"No, indeed, dear madam, his grace is only avenging himself for my criticisms. I suggested to him the other day that he might get up another temple of modern art as a supplement to this, and he felt piqued, I suppose; yet I have found him many times standing rapt before a Madonna."
{185}
"The gentlemen decided this morning that these were the true gods of the earth, and that Madonnas and Crucifixions were false, unreal types, and to be discouraged."
"Not possible!"
"Nay, it is true, they were voting a return to paganism."
"But you, ladies," said M. de Villeneuve, "you, ladies, were not of that mind, surely?"
"I don't know," said Hester, mischievously, "papa was very eloquent In lauding ancient institutions."
"But," said the comte, turning very earnestly to her, "he did not tell you how woman was treated in the olden time, before Mary'sfiatrepaired the fault of Eve. Women, intelligent, beautiful women, owe everything to that divine Mother; and if they cast off their religion it is because the misery is hid from them which the sex was subject to formerly."
"There is no necessity just now of making it more clear," said Mr. Godfrey drily.
"No," said the comte; "and yet when I see the tendency of the age, I often feel that it would be safer did our ladies know the truth. Eve's fault should at least bring knowledge when knowledge is necessary to truth. Woman could not help but be fervently religious, did she know from what an abyss of degradation Christianity has raised her."
Mr. Godfrey turned impatiently to the window. "It is splendid weather for riding," said he; "suppose we order the horses."
But why was Adelaide so sad? Why was the young duchess apparently most constrained when with her husband? Why, on the contrary, was he, as usual, gay, cheerful, and animated? These were questions for a mother's heart to ask, and yet, uneasy as she was, Mrs. Godfrey asked them not. She dared not seek the confidence of her daughter, lest aught should be betrayed which it were better she should not know. She knew that the confidence of a married woman is sacred even from a mother, in all that appertains to her husband; and what other secrets could Adelaide have?
Several days passed, and no clue to the enigma was discovered. Parties of pleasure were formed, the grounds were traversed, the library ransacked—literary, scientific, nay political excitement created for the amusement and entertainment of the guests; but no familiar, confidential chit-chat gave occasion to the disclosure of the secret which it was evident was weighing on Adelaide's mind.
One morning, however, Mr. Godfrey shut himself up in the library, in order to search through some volumes for a passage he desired, and his daughter entered, turning the key in the door as she did so. Mr. Godfrey looked up. Adelaide was pale and trembling. He took her hand and led her to a sofa. In a few moments she partly recovered; yet it was in a faltering voice that she asked:
"Father, is a marriage with a Roman Catholic valid?"
"Valid? Yes, I suppose so; why not, my dear?"
Adelaide became still more pale, but did not answer.
Mr. Godfrey was alarmed. "How does this concern you, my child?" he asked.
"Why—why—the duke is then married to another lady," faltered she.
"Impossible!" said the father. "Impossible! he would not—dare not do such a deed. You have been imposed upon, Adelaide. Tell me the story, and the authority for it."
"Did you hear of a woman fainting, almost under the carriage-wheels, on the morning of my marriage, father?"
"I did; what of it, my child!"
{186}
"That woman believes herself to be his wife! She followed us, and confronted the duke in Scotland in a narrow glen. She watched day and night to speak to him; her watching was noticed, pointed out to me, and one day as he was returning home I saw her start up from under a hedge and stand before him. He evidently sought to avoid her, but she would not be avoided; she held him by the skirts of his coat till he consented to speak with her. Unperceived by both I stole near them; I heard her claim him as her husband; I listened in vain for his denial; I heard him urge her to go home; I heard him say that he would satisfy her another time—that it should be all right if she would only quietly depart; and I heard, too, her indignant refusal to depart until he had told her his true name, and where he was to be found. 'To me,' she said, 'you have called yourself Colonel Ellwood, and my boy has borne that name!'"
"'Let him bear it still,' replied the duke.
"'But is it the right one? is it yours!' she shrieked.
"'I am the Duke of Durimond,' answered he. She fell fainting at his feet. Unthinkingly, I pressed forward to succor her, thus revealing that I had overheard the conversation. The duke started, and said, 'This is no scene for your grace; if you will send an attendant from the house yonder to wait on this poor stranger, it will be kind of you.' I did as requested, but the agitation of my feelings caused an illness which detained us a long time in Scotland. I did not like to inform you of my illness then. The duke would have been kind, but I liked not to see him near me. Once or twice he tried to explain to me that the whole was a mistake, but I asked him not to mention it. When we came to London he again tried explanation, but I told him all explanation must be to you. He endeavored in vain to shake my resolution, and at length brought me here and sent for you. A lawyer was with him in London several times, and a Catholic priest was closeted with him the day he arrived. I suspect this unhappy business was the cause of their visits, but I have asked nothing. We have held little communication with each other since that unfortunate recognition in Scotland."
"My poor child!" said the father "and was this your honeymoon?"
Adelaide laid her head on her father's shoulder, and wept.
"But why do you think the woman is a Roman Catholic, Adelaid?"
"He told me so one day, and therefore, he says, the marriage is not valid."
"Perhaps it is so, Adelaide."
"But if it is so, she believes herself his wife, and she is pure, good, innocent; it is written in her face."
"My poor child?" again ejaculated the father.
How long they sat sorrowing silence they heeded not. Each felt that whichever hypothesis were true, married or not married, there was bitterness enough. At length the sound of voices in the hall warned Adelaide to seek her own apartment. Mr. Godfrey went immediately to the duke.
"My daughter has been with me this morning, your grace," said he, in solemn, deliberate tones.
"Ah yes! Well—Mr. Godfrey—well—your daughter is not quite well, I fear."
"She is seriously unhappy, I am sorry to inform you, my lord duke."
"Unhappy!—ah!—well, well; she has taken a youthful in discretion of mine somewhat too sorely to heart; but you, Mr. Godfrey, know that those little affairs are common enough to men of the world."
"My daughter speaks of a previous marriage, your grace."
"Pshaw! some few words she heard have been made to signify too much. Adelaide is my wife, my duchess. Let her be satisfied on that point."
"It is just on that point she is not satisfied—it is just on that point that I now require to be satisfied."
{187}
"How can I satisfy you save by denying any other marriage?"
"Has no ceremony ever passed between your grace and another woman who claims to be your wife?"
"No legal ceremony, upon my honor as a nobleman."
"No legal ceremony; some kind of ceremony has taken place, then?" said Mr. Godfrey.
"If not alegalone, then none which concerns you. Be content, Mr. Godfrey, daughter is indisputably a duchess."
"I am not content, my lord duke; I must see this other claimant to the ducal coronet," said Mr. Godfrey, rising.
"By heaven, you shall not!" answered the duke, rising as suddenly; "you shall not—indeed you shall not. No, my poor Ellen, no: injured you have been, but at least I will save you from insult."
"Methinks your grace's words are strange ones to the father of your ride," said Mr. Godfrey. "Is the peace of your mistress to be preferred to that of your wife?"
"Let us understand each other, Mr. Godfrey," said the duke; "and to do that, I must caution you not to say one word in disrespect of the person you falsely term my mistress. Listen: Fifteen years ago I met a being, lovely, tender, innocent; before one personating a Romish priest I called her wife; she knew not, until now, the title was not legal; for fifteen years I have, as a simple gentleman, sought her society when weary of ambition and of the selfishness of the world; for fifteen years have I, at such intervals as I could steal away from grandeur and false honors, found repose and happiness in the society of that gentle, that unworldly being. Children have been born to me and died, all save one, a noble boy—one whom I would gladly train to deeds of glory, were it that—O Ellen, Ellen!"
"And with such feelings as these, my lord, you dared to lead my daughter to the altar?" indignantly demanded Mr. Godfrey.
"Yes, and why not?" replied the duke. "Your daughter suffered no injury. You sought for her notlove, but a coronet, and that she has now. Let her enjoy it. I acted not the hypocrite. I promised what I gave—power, rank, grandeur, and respect; these she has: what cause is there for complaint?"
"But why, if a peerless beauty were already yours, why seek another bride, my lord? Why not have made the lady of your love your duchess?"
"Because—because—I knew not her value at first. At first it was her beauty that attracted me; then her virtue kept me true to her, and I loved her unworldliness, her want of ambition. To have made her a duchess would have spoiled my dream of being loved for myself alone. Besides, Ellen is a Catholic, a sincere one, and never would she consent that a child of hers should be brought up in the paganism of these times."
"But why, I must yet inquire, why, with these feelings, did your grace marry at all?"
"Why? did I not want a duchess in my halls? a pagan heir to my Pantheon, sir? To whom were these gorgeous collections of heathen idols, these entailed estates, these titles, honors, to descend? Ellen's son could not inherit all, even were he legitimate. His Catholic feeling would turn aside in disgust from much, and English law would exclude him from office or dignity in the nation. Had I lived anywhere but in England, perchance my child had risen to compete with the highest."
"He and his mother still hold, evidently, the highest place in your affections. And is my daughter for ever to play second part in your heart, and this incomparable miracle of goodness the first?"
"Your daughter, sir, is to reign supreme, the imperial queen of the Parnassian deities. Juno-like, she treads her path o'er high Olympus; all bow to her, and Jupiter himself shall treat her with reverence, save when she{188}intrudes upon his private moments. She has bargained for wealth, and power, and pomp, and influence; she has them: let her be content. Love was out of the 'bargain;' it is useless now to contend for it, as if it were her due. But for my Ellen, you misjudge her, if you think that, with the knowledge she now has, she would ever admit me to her presence again. I do not even know how I can induce her to accept a maintenance from me—from me, who would have died to save her, yet who have caused her such bitter pangs! Oh! I could stab myself from sheer remorse!"
And the dark shade that passed over the features, now convulsed with mental agony, showed that the words were not ones of mere expression.
Mr. Godfrey paused, yet was his anger not subdued; he had not deemed that the duke had so much of human feeling in his composition. Worldly and courtly as he seemed, who could suspect go strong an undercurrent of deep and passionate emotion?
That this should be there, and not felt for his wife! Mr. Godfrey did feel this an injury; though, as the duke said, love had not been in the bargain.
The long pause was at length broken by Mr. Godfrey's saying: "Your grace must excuse me, but, for my daughter's sake, I must insist on obtaining evidence that this marriage, which you admitdidtake place, was not legal. If I may not approach the lady myself, who can procure me the evidence I demand?'"
"I know not—unless—stay; I would willingly make one more attempt to secure Ellen's acceptance of a provision for her child. Hitherto she has rejected all mediation: not only the lawyer, but De Villeneuve, and a bishop of her own church, have solicited her in vain to listen to such an idea; a lady—a Catholic might be more successful. You have in your family one seemingly as pure and good as Ellen's self—one holding the same holy faith; if she will consent to undertake the mission, I will confide to her the secret of Ellen's residence. De Villeneuve will escort her, but I doubt if she will gain admittance; none have yet succeeded who went from me."
"You mean Euphrasie, I presume?"
"I do; if you can trust to her report, I shall gladly make her my ambassadress to treat respecting the future provision to be made for mother and child."
"I will see her on the subject."
"Tis well; good morning, Mr. Godfrey."
How little do we know of the inward feelings even of those with whom we fancy ourselves intimate! Here was the cold, heartless man of pleasure, so-called by the world, so thought of by his father-in-law, a prey, when left to himself, to the most violent emotions of grief for the loss of Ellen. Had it been possible at that moment to redeem her affections by the sacrifice of earthly grandeur, there is but little doubt that the sacrifice would have been made, for the loss of that sweet solace had never been contemplated as a necessary accomplishment to this marriage. For fifteen years he had kept his incognito in her society as Colonel Ellwood, and as Colonel Ellwood he meant to visit her still, and to indemnify himself in her sweet society for the heartlessness and cheerlessness of the ducal mansion.
This dream was at an end; he's incognito had been discovered, and at once all intercourse was over. The gay and courtly duke felt as if all interest in life had suddenly vanished from the earth. His outward demeanor appeared, indeed, unchanged, at least to superficial observers, but those who looked beneath the surface could detect a latent disdain for all things; and if the same pursuits still seemed to engage his attention, it was from habit, or from want of occupation, not from any relish for the pursuit itself.{189}Little did the world suspect that his gay and polished manner covered a broken heart, and that the munificent owner of countless rangers, the haughty scion of a long line of ancestors, was pining away beneath the blight which had destroyed is happiness, and was eventually to destroy his life. But we must not anticipate, rather let us return to our theme.
Euphrasie heard with surprise and pain of the position of her young friend Adelaide, but was most unwilling to undertake the negotiation proposed; it was only at M. de Villeneuve's reiterated assurance that it was a great work of charity which she demanded of her, that she at length consented.
On their arrival at the village, some hours' journey distant from London, and further yet from the duke's residence, M. de Villeneuve requested Euphrasie to proceed from the hotel alone to Ellswood cottage, as his presence would be suspicious, and probably prevent her gaining admittance. A dark-haired, bright-eyed boy was playing in the garden before the cottage; he came to the gate on seeing a stranger approach, and as he held the gate in his hand, he said, before Euphrasie addressed him:
"Mamma is very ill, no one can see her today."
"I am very sorry to hear that. Has she been ill long?"
"Yes, ever since she took a long, long journey, and came back so tired. She went to find papa, and did not find him," and the child's voice dropped to a whisper: "I think papa is dead, but I must not tell her so."
"Why do you think so, my dear?"
"Because he would never stay away so long if he were alive; he never did before: and when he did stay away he used to leave mamma lots of money; now she has no money at all, and she is going away from here."
"Where is she going to?"
"I do not know; but she says she must work, and that I must work now for my living; so I know she must be very poor."
"I want to see your mamma. They say she is very kind. Tell her I am a stranger—a French girl; that I seek kindness from her."
"Are you poor, too?" asked the little boy.
"Yes, very poor, indeed," replied Euphrasie.
"Then I will ask mamma if you may come in; mamma loves the poor."
When the boy returned he was accompanied by an elderly woman, bearing the appearance of an upper servant. She addressed Euphrasie respectfully: "Mrs. Ellwood can see no one to-day, miss; can you send in your business by me?"
"Not very well, my business is personal; shall I be able to see her tomorrow?"
"It is impossible to say, but you can call and see; to-morrow you may be able to find some one who will see you in her stead; she sees no one herself, but she expects a friend to-night who manages her business for her."
With this answer she was obliged to be content: she returned to the hotel where M. de Villeneuve awaited her. "This is a bad business," he said; "I have been here twice before with no better result, she will not see strangers."
"You have not seen her, then?"
"No! I have only heard of her, she is almost adored here for her deeds of kindness and charity. I never knew of a case which excited my interest so much; it was on her account, not on the duke's, that I assented to pay this place so many visits. God only can console her!"
* * * * * *
There was a sound of carriages in the night, a very unusual thing in that secluded village; and in the morning early, again there was the sound of wheels. M. de Villeneuve strolled to the end of the street; he shook his head on his return. "We are altogether too late," he said; "the people{190}say that she is gone; and many are weeping, for she was dearly loved."
"Shall we not go to the house?" asked Euphrasie.
"There is no harm in making the inquiry, but she is not there."
It was even so: Mrs. Ellwood had departed, fearing that if she remained there she should be constantly subject to intrusion. In the parlor into which they were shown, Euphrasie found one whom she was little prepared to see: it was M. Bertolot. A general grasping of hands and affectionate recognition took place; and then the old priest inquired their business. "The bishop sent me here," he said, "because he could not come himself, and because the poor lady entreated the utmost secrecy; but what brought you here?"
M. de Villeneuve took up the word: "We came from the duke; his grace thought our young friend here might find admittance, though we were all refused."
"His grace need not dream of any such thing; the wrong he has done is not such as embassies or money can rectify. The lady is a true-hearted, noble woman, a sincere Catholic; the message that she has left for him is simply that 'she forgives him, and will pray for his conversion; but if ever he loved her, she entreats that he will never more pursue her or send to her.'"
"But how is she to be supported?"
"She trusts in God, who is a husband to the widow, and a father to the fatherless. The duke's money she will not touch; it is no use to press the matter, she has a woman's instincts, and that is often better than a man's reasoning."
"You are severe, father, but this is a case to make you so; may we not know where she is gone to?"
"No! you may not even know you saw me here; say only you saw her agent, who gave you her message, and would not tell you her residence. Never let the duke or the Godfrey family know that the bishop sent me here."
"You may depend on us, father. But is this all that we are to say to the duchess? You know the question has been raised respecting the validity of the marriage."
"The bishop examined that himself; he would have been glad to prove it a true one, but the scamp who married them was a disguised young spendthrift, who did not know how to keep out of a debtor s jail in any other way than by taking that wicked fee; if Mr. Godfrey is uneasy on that point, he can apply to the bishop, there is his address."
When M. de Villeneuve and Euphrasie returned to Durimond Castle with the result of this mission, they found Adelaide far less placable than the more deeply injured Ellen had expressed herself by her message. She assented indeed to do the honors of the castle, toreignsupreme, but she insisted on a virtual separation as the price of her continuing to wear the title of the Duchess of Durimond.
The duke was in no humor to contend with her; perhaps even he was as well pleased to have it so. He was careful to surround her with all imaginable tokens of deference and respect, and told Mr. Godfrey he would see what time would do to soften his haughty Juno. Soon after he accepted the office of ambassador to a foreign court, and thus left his wife at liberty to queen it o'er her vassals at her pleasure.
Meantime we lay before our readers the sad history which occasioned all this commotion.