In broken notes of sound,The voice of distant bellsFalls fitfully around,Borne o'er the rimy dells.Anon in wailing tonesIt breaks against the breeze,Or in sad accents moansAmidst the shivering trees.In fragments o'er the gladesIt falls, or floats aloft;Then trumulously fadesIn echoes low and soft.But other, nearer chimes,In laughing octaves run,In memory of old times.And what the days have done.Then changing, clang and wailUp in their prison high.And sob and groan and railAt their captivity.Ringing:—flinging wild notes everywhere!Clanging:—hanging discord in the air!Chiming:—rhyming words from brazen throat!Pealing:—stealing o'er the meadows and the moat!Dying:—sighing gently as a child!Floating:—gloating o'er their tumult wild!Swinging:—springing suddenly to life!Surging:—urging nature into strife!Laughing:—quaffing the sweet and eager air!Groaning:—moaning in a weird note of despair!{472}Yes, how they sigh,And seemed to die:But like expiring ember,At slightest breathThey leap from death,And wrestle with December!Oh, 'tis strangeHow they change,In rhythmus and in measure,Now tolling sad.Now almost mad,With throbbing pulse of pleasure.But not long thus,—the ringers soonWill catch the proper metre,Staccato first; then rippling tuneGrows every moment sweeter.Away, away, the music flies.O'er mead and wold and river,Arpeggio movement shakes the skies.And makes the belfry quiver.Away, away, the cheerful soundFlies with its Christmas greeting.And laughs along the icy ground.Where snow-drops pale are peeping.The crocus, hearing chimes of mirth.Puts on her brightest yellow,What cares she for the frosty earth.When peals ring out so mellow?The blackbird, in a love-lorn mood,Is pecking at red berries.But hark! those joy-bells make her foodAs sweet as summer cherries.In truth all nature hears the strains,With heart of honest gladness;They ring surcease of human pains,And ring—a death to sadness.They ring of friendship, and the graspOf hands in manly greeting;They ring the softer tender claspOf Love and Psyche meeting.They ring oblivion of the yearsWhose sunset was in sorrow;They drown in waves of sound, the fearsThat cloud the dawn to-morrow.{473}They ring the affluent table spread.They ring of that sweet maidenWho comes, with modest silent tread,With gifts for poor folk laden.They ring in tones more sweet than allOf hopes the Cross has given,And then their glad notes rise and fall.Like Christmas bells in Heaven.
"Papa,"' said Hester one morning, as she passed from the lawn into the library, and threw her arms round her father's neck, "papa, I am thoroughly resolved never to be married."
"Time enough, my darling, to think of that; but why this sudden resolved?"
"Because married women are so unhappy. Adelaide and Annie were has merry as crickets when they were single, and now how serious and unhappy they appear."
"Seriousness is not unhappiness. Age makes one sedate."
"Nay, but I am sure they are miserable, and I tell you I will not marry; so do not promise my hand to any one". And she put a very lovely one into her father's hand as she spoke.
"I will not, my dear Hetty; but you may live to alter your mind."
"I shall not, and I will tell you why. I have considered this matter very closely and I have discovered that a married woman is but a slave to a man. She must have no will of her own, no purse of her own, and though she has all the trouble and anxiety with the children, they are his—not hers—as soon as they begin to reason. I love freedom, papa; I will be no mere tool to any man. No art, no science, no refinement, no practical improvement can flourish in slavery; and the reason women have shown less aptitude for intellectual cultivation than men is, that they are mere slaves—domestic drudges, for the most part—with no higher interest than to procure food and clothing."
"Where did my Hester pick up Mary Wolstonecroft's writings?"
"Mary Wolstonecroft—who is she, papa?"
"A lady who advocates woman's rights, my love. I thought you had been reading her book."
"There is no need if all she says is that which I feel, namely, that all women are slaves. I learned this from simple observation. I wonder all women do not feel it so."
"Women are supposed to live in their affections; and those whom we love we serve willingly."
{474}
"Yes, but you know that soon becomes a mere supposition, even if it be not so at first. How snappish wives usually are! I notice it in the cottagers, in the tradesfolks; everywhere, where manners are not taught to enable one toshambefore company. And the husbands are surly, unmanageable bears; there must be something wrong in marriage to produce these effects so frequently."
"And what remedy do you propose?" asked Mr. Godfrey, greatly amazed.
"Nay, that I have not considered. I only know that something is wrong now, and that I will not marry 'till it is set right."
"Wait 'till you fall in love, my dear."
"Fall in love, indeed! What a ridiculous thing to do! No, papa, I intend no fall; that is just why I will not marry. I might admire and respect a man as my equal; I might even venerate him as my superior, if he were my superior in mind; but bind myself to him as a slave I would not. No Grecian hero in all antiquity could inspire me with love enough to commit a moral suicide."
"The Grecian women claimed no equal rights," said Mr. Godfrey.
"No; I marked that well, papa. History is a treatise on men—on their deeds, their daring, their wisdom, their improvement or retrogression. Now and then, as if by accident, a woman's deeds were recorded, but very rarely. Why this has been, I cannot divine. Woman ought, could, should, and must rebel. This is the age of freedom. Does freedom concern only half of the human race?"
"No; it concerned the horde of women who forced their way into the royal apartments at Versailles. My Hester should have headed the procession?"
"Now, papa, that is not fair. You know well I do not wish to countenance rude and vulgar proceedings. Only I do not see why woman should not cultivate her intellectual and moral powers, and march onward in the career of perfectibility as well as man."
"What is that long word you used, Hester?"
"Now, papa, how provoking you are! Have you not yourself taught me to cultivate every faculty to perfection, as a duty? Have you not often said that the world has yet to learn the results of an equipoised, many-sided development? That hitherto too strong a bias has been given, and that a one-sided training has made a one-sided character?"
"I have said this. Hester, but what is this to the purpose?"
"Why, perfectibility must mean the tendency toward perfection produced by this equipoised, by this many-sided development; and woman must be the chief operator in effecting this equipoised development, because woman is the exclusive educator of the young of either sex; and it is when young, when very young, that the germs are laid of ideas which perish not. Physiologists say that though character is modified afterward, the form is, for the most part, given ere the seventh year has been attained."
"It may be so, but what of that?" asked the father.
"Why, I think, then, that woman's especial vocation is to the study of this perfectibility: that is, how to procure a due development—how to teach the race to aspire. It seems to me that, generally speaking, the aims of the world are very grovelling and sensual. If we could once fire the race with the desire of reaching the utmost perfection of which there nature is capable, methinks a glorious work would be begun, and after ages might be brought almost to doubt of the misery that now exists, their own position would be so different."
"It is a glorious project," said the father turning to the animated girl, "but a difficult one; the world is large, and every one thinks his own ideas the right ones."
"I know it; but I know, too that that thought must not check an inspiration. Individuals have changed the face of nations before now. Had they suffered their enthusiasm to be checked by dwelling on how little one{475}person can do, nothing would ever have been done. An individual who feels an intense interest in any subject, and a full conviction that such a subject is likely to benefit his co-patriots, is bound to carry forward his views to the utmost of his power."
"You may be right—nay, the principle is right; but what can my little Hester do?"
"She can study and think and experimentalize and observe and have the benefit of her father's advice through all, if only he will give it her, if only he will put it out of his head that every girl is born to be married, and that a girl cannot think and act for herself, and cherish ideas of philanthropy and work for the public good."
"Lycurgus would not sanction this, my little Spartan girl."
"Perhaps not, papa; but times have altered. Legislators used to seek for a numerous population. Now, Dr. Malthus says the world is over-peopled."
"Why, Hester, I did not think these were subjects that you cared for at all."
"But I do care for them, papa—more, much more than you think; and what I ask of you is to forget that I am a girl, and let me think and study everything—political economy, social economy, natural philosophy, ethics, and aesthetics. I want to know how each of these bears upon the condition the race, to see what man might be. I want to know why man is created—to what he tends."
"Man is created to enjoy life, my child."
"Then why are so many miserable? Why have we disease, plague, famine, war, and bloodshed?"
"'These are partly the result of man's ignorance."
"And yet man has existed nearly six thousand years, and every kind of experience and teaching has been his; and philosophers, sages, religionists, lawgivers have been trying to instruct him, and he is ignorant still."
"You forget, Hester, that every individual that is born into the world is born ignorant and helpless; and yet every individual must realize instruction ere ignorance can be banished. Where you have an educated people to work upon, you may propound improvements and be understood, and then you will find instruments who will co-operate with you; but now look at the population. Occupied in daily toil, as the price of life, how can they comprehend high theories, or study experimental philosophy. If they go into it at all, it must be to take upon trust a few ideas, and they are as likely to take the wrong ideas as the right ones, by that means."
"And is there no remedy for this? Is all this toil necessary? It seems to me as if a great deal of unnecessary work is always being performed. Spartan frugality would disapprove of much of modern luxury; and is not half the toil for luxury merely?"
"Some of it is; but Spartan pride refused all toil, even for necessaries. The laborers of the present day do the work of the helots in Sparta. To work was beneath the dignity of a Spartan."
"And we have no helots in England now," said Hester.
"Would you wish to have?" asked Mr. Godfrey.
"No! Why should one part of mankind be sacrificed to the happiness of the other? I would have no men slaves, no women slaves. Let all be free and equal. If there is work to be done, let all do a portion, and let all have a portion of rest, or rather of leisure, for the improvement of the mental faculties."
"No man will work, unless compelled, at hard, daily labor. Those who have property are not compelled. How will you compel them? For instance, my neighbor, the blacksmith, has a wife and six children to support. He works from twelve to fourteen hours daily. His wife keeps no servant; she scrubs, washes, cooks, and attends to all herself. Now, you{476}and I, being people of leisure, should do half their work for them. Suppose you go and help the wife, and I go and help the blacksmith half of every day; they might then study perfectibility the other half."
Hester laughed. "We might do worse than that," she said; "but that would only be helping two individuals, whereas I wish to place society on a right principle. I no longer wonder at the French revolution. Had I to toil hard and to live hard, seeing all the while some few privileged beings do nothing at all but revel in luxury, I should be a revolutionist too; only I should not know how to set the matter right. One thing is clear from all history, luxury is an injury to the individual who uses it, and all states have been weakened when luxury has become common; therefore, father, I will make myself hardy, that I may not be corrupted in my own proper person."
And true to her resolution, Hester, regardless of public opinion, became simple in her habits. A hard bed, plain diet, an uncarpeted room, with singular plainness of dress, distinguished this young aspirant after perfectibility. Her mother would willingly have seen her dress in a manner becoming her station; but Hester "did not choose to make herself a peg on which to hang dressmakers' fancies. Clothes were for two purposes," she said, "for warmth and decency; when these two objects were attained it was enough." Her mother's remonstrances availed nothing, and her father laughed: the eccentricities of the spoiled child amused him, and daily he became more accustomed to gratify every wish that she expressed.
Hester was in earnest. She founded schools, she formed societies in which adult laborers might receive instruction in the evenings; she established libraries and promoted the scientific associations afterward more fully developed under the name of "Mechanics' Institutes." Hester visited the lowly that she might form an estimate of their real position, observe their improveable points, and cultivate these latter to good purpose; but the intricacies thickened upon her. She heard complaints that the poor were improvident and wasteful.
"How can that be," said she, "when a man pays rent, and provides fuel, clothing, and food for himself, his wife, and four children, out of wages at twelve shillings a week? How much does our mere board cost? twenty times that sum at least, and mamma is called economical. Oh! it must be a miserable life they lead on such a poor pittance as that! Papa, a man must have food; he gets it from the ground: he must have shelter; a few trees chopped down will give him that: he must have clothes; these also he can grow: why not place man on land where they can get these, rather than let them half starve at home?"
"It is being done in or colonies; but an emigrant's life, my Hester, would scarcely assist your perfectible theories. Every moment is employed in drudgery of some kind. A large proportion of the emigrants die of hardship."
Hester turned round impatiently, "Ever, ever an obstacle! Yet I will not give up. There must be a way of improving mankind, and I will find it yet."
These discussions were frequently renewed, but with little better success. On one occasion Eugene was present, and he said with a smile, "So you, too, are seeking the philosopher's stone, sister? I doubt you will not find it in exterior relationships or in material circumstance; evil is in the world—evil to a larger amount than you have any conception of, and no exterior arrangement will suffice to banish it. Set man free, as you term it, from the restraint of overlabor, without awakening the interior impulse to realize a higher life, and the chances are that the ale-house or gin-shop will be his school."
"But will not education affect this awakening?"
{477}
"Education on a right basis would undoubtedly do much, but not education on a selfish basis; not if the highest aim is to improve in temporalities, not if virtue is proposed as the best policy to forward earthly views. This would be merely teaching a system of selfish calculation that would make man neither wiser nor better, and consequently not happier."
"And what other motive would you suggest, brother?"
Eugene glanced at his father and hesitated. After a moment's pause, he said: "Some philosophers, and among them the divine Plato, have thought that within man dwelt an essence called a soul, and that its culture furnished motives superior to all others in enlightening man. There are other theories respecting the soul worth studying too, I think. That which has influenced Europe during eighteen hundred years has been the religion of Christ. Have you ever studied that, Hester?"
"No! I thought it was a superstition akin to, though distinct from, the ancient pagan mythology."
"You will not find it so." rejoined her brother, "or rather you will find it the opposite. Paganism is the worship of self, of sensuality, of self-aggrandizement, and of physical power. Christianity is the worship of spirituality; it triumphs over selfishness by divine love, and elevates the soul by the same influence above the paltry views emanating from an exclusive adhesion to man's lower nature."
Mr. Godfrey's lowering brow betokened a rising storm. Eugene made his escape, and Hester laid her hand on her father's shoulder, and said coaxingly, "Did you not say I might study every influence, papa, that has affected humanity? Why not study this of which Eugene speaks?"
"Hester, there is a serpent in the East which has the power of fixing his eye on the bird he marks for his prey, and his fascination is such that by merely continuing to gaze he draws his victim straight into his mouth."
"What of this, father?"
"It is so of superstition also; it strikes a chord in the human heart, which, once awakened, becomes restless evermore. Let it but once attract your notice, it fascinates, monopolizes every faculty, and the strongest minds have fallen victims to its baneful power of concentrating the attention. Let it alone, my child."
The illness of the Duke of Durimond became more and more serious. Adelaide's friends offered to join her, but she said the duke's mind required peculiar treatment, and that more company in the house might annoy him. From the time of his leaving England the duke's associates had observed a great alteration in his manners and habits. Whereas he was formerly the gayest of the gay, he now shunned society. Soon after his arrival at Vienna he had engaged an Italian servant of seemingly unusual education and seriousness, and him he admitted into his confidence; to him he entrusted the direction of his private affairs. When he returned home, at those different intervals we have mentioned, this servant accompanied him, and was treated by the duke less as a humble dependent than as a valuable friend. The man held aloof from the other inmates of the castle, and was waited on in his own apartment by the duke's express order. Now, when the duke returned home, he was accompanied not only by this Italian gentleman or servant, whichever he might be, but by two other Italian valets, very serious for their state in life, who waited on the duke and on his friend to the exclusion of the English menials who had formerly access to the ducal apartments.
{478}
The duke was a prisoner in his own room, rarely could he ever leave his bed. Adelaide came at stated intervals to inquire after the state of his health, and in all formality took her seat at his side. Madame de Meglior often accompanied her, and to the surprise of both ladies a request was urgently preferred that Euphrasie might be induced to pay daily morning visits to the sick chamber, at a time when none were usually admitted.
The duchess looked her astonishment, but the duke took her hand with more kindness and less of ceremony than usual, and said:
"Nay, do not be surprised, your grace; I am a poor man, now about to appear before my Maker. I need all the assistance I can get, and I have faith in the prayers of Euphrasie. The hour named for her is the hour of prayer: if you will come also, believe me you will be welcome."
"Prayer, what prayer?"
"The most solemn prayer that can be offered, that which accompanies the most holy sacrifice of the new law."
As the duke spoke, M. Martigni, the man of business we have spoken of, pulled aside a curtain which had been hung before an alcove opposite to which the duke's bed had been placed, and there a beautiful little marble altar, appropriately adorned, became visible. Adelaide gazed in mute surprise.
"What am I to infer from this, your grace?"
"That at the last hour, I, a miserable sinner, dare to hope pardon from an outraged God, because he sent his Son to die on the cross for me! O Adelaide! the gods of this world, as your father so justly calls them—the gods of this world, pride, lust, sensuality, love of power, and ambition, but rise to reproach us when we draw near to our end. Long, too long did I resist my sweet Ellen's lessons! I felt, indeed, that something within me said we could not utterly die; but I was leading a life for self—I could not see the truth; but at last, late, too late I knew my duty. Adelaide, for two years past I have been reconciled to the Catholic church!"
"It is to attend Mass, then, I presume, that your grace desires Euphrasie's company?" said Adelaide.
"It is," replied the duke; "if any will accompany her, they will be welcome."
But this the duchess took especial care to prevent. She whispered to Madame de Meglior, as they quitted the apartment:
"The malady has touched his brain; say nothing of what has happened."
This was the cause of Adelaide's reluctance to have more company in the house. On this account she declined alike the visits of the duke's relatives and of her own. She wish the matter to be kept a profound secret from all; and though she permitted Euphrasie to comply with the duke's request, it was on the express condition of her keeping the fact unknown. But such precautions as these, though feasible for a time, are useless in the end. The duke's disorder was of a painful, lingering, and variable nature. Sometimes he would be confined to his room, and even to his bed for weeks together, then he would rally a little, go into the adjoining sitting-room, and once or twice even took an airing in his carriage. No excuse could be framed, then, for excluding relations so rigorously. Mr. Godfrey became annoyed at the attempt, and at length, suspecting some latent motive, sent Eugene to the castle to find out the secret, if there were one.
Eugene, on his entrance, met and recognized Martigni, and by him was introduced into the duke's apartment before Adelaide knew he was in the house. He found the duke propped up by pillows and seated near the window. He greeted the young man cordially, though with a half reproach that he did not come before.
"I have been very ill, Eugene" he said; "sometimes I hardly thought to be alive till morning, and I wished to say a few words to your father about my wife, but none of you came near me!"
{479}
Eugene looked, as his felt, surprised. "We were given to understand that a visit from us would not be agreeable to your grace" he said; "and being hurt at the intimation, especially as the exclusion lasted so long, I came to-day to ascertain the cause."
"I gave no such intimation, I wished for no such exclusion, rather the contrary; but perhaps Adelaide—I think I divine the cause; you must excuse your sister, Eugene. Perhaps she is more annoyed than she showed to me. To me she is ever polite, but doubtless she is annoyed; perhaps it is natural that she should be so," and the duke hesitated.
"Annoyed! At what, may it please your grace? You cannot think that 'annoyed' is a term applicable to my sister's feeling at your illness?"
"No! no! not at my illness, no! But, Eugene, I have spent a long life of vanity before the world, and ere I die I should like the world to know what perhaps the duchess would fain conceal, that I repent of my iniquities, that I thankfully before the chastising hand that has laid me low, that I prize my sufferings as the greatest blessing, as a token that God has not forsaken me, though for so many years I forsook him. Eugene, I am a Catholic!"
"God be thanked!" involuntarily escaped from the young man's lips, as his hand was clasped in that of the duke, and tears started to his eyes, "God be thanked!"
The door opened and the duchess entered. At one glance she understood all, and that her surmises of Eugene had also been correct.
"The duke is better to-day," she coldly said. "We have had a long time of anxiety, but perhaps even yet he may rally and be himself again."
"I dare not flatter you, sister," answered Eugene. "His grace's looks are not those of a convalescent."
"No! no!" said the duke. "No health for me again. Suffering, perhaps, for a long time yet, but no health; but I know not why my illness should induce your grace to lead so lonely a life as you have lately chosen. Let me beg of you to surround yourself with your family; Eugene says they wait but your bidding."
Adelaide colored. "I fear the disturbance will be too much for your grace's repose."
"Not at all, not at all; the house is large, many might be in it and I not hear a sound. I should be gratified by knowing that you had friends with you when I depart. Send for your friends, I beg of you. Eugene, perhaps you will write to Mr. Godfrey in my behalf, to inform him of my wishes?"
"I will, your grace."
And the family came; and still Adelaide tried to conceal from her father a secret which was already known to Eugene. She scarcely hoped to be able to do so long; but the annoyance to her was so excessive that she could not bring herself to speak of it, and she hoped others would decide, as she tried to decide in her own mind, that the duke's intellect was affected. But then Eugene! he was smitten with the same mania! She felt sure of that, though no words had ever passed on the subject.
* * * * *
"Mr. Godfrey," said the duke, when at length there was an interview between the two—"Mr. Godfrey, tell me what you wish me to do more for your daughter. A handsome jointure is secured to her; the estates are entailed; but tell me anything else I can do to promote her happiness, and it shall be done."
This was the spirit in which the invalid conversed, and in which he executed all that was proposed to him for Adelaide. She had no cause of complaint, and his manifest care of her softened that haughty heart a little. Had he not been a Catholic she could have been grateful to him; but she was the more irritated at this fact, that now she dared not set up the plea of imbecility to account for it, for that{480}plea would have invalidated the newly drawn up documents in her favor; all her hope consisted in concealment.
Eugene was often with the duke, who at length ventured to speak to him on a subject which caused him great mental anguish. He had never been able to trace Ellen, nor to transmit to her any pecuniary aid. He suspected, indeed, that the Catholic bishop could have afforded him information, but he was inflexible in refusing to do so. A considerable sum of money had been set apart for Ellen's use, and a fortune provided for the boy. "Perhaps," said the duke, "after my death the bishop might enable you, Eugene, to trace the mother and child, and induce them to accept the provision. Will you undertake the commission?"
"Most willingly," said Eugene.
"When I am dead, let it be," said the duke. "Ellen will take nothing from me living—when I am dead she will be more easily persuaded. I know she must wish a high education for her son. She will not, I hope, refuse assistance for that. But even if she does, I have settled his money separately, that he may be sure of getting it. Tell Ellen, too, that I died a Catholic; I know she has long prayed for this; and tell her that I rejoice now that I have no child save hers, my only son. Let strangers take the estate that had so nearly wrecked my soul. O Eugene! none but Catholics can understand the benediction pronounced by our Lord on poverty! The possession of power, of wealth, of glory, fan our egotistical feelings, and lead us more and more astray. I think I should not dare to trust myself with them again, had I still power to use them. And I thank God I have not the power, lest the temptation should again prove too strong for my virtue."
The duke lingered on for months, long months. How tediously did those months pass to the Godfrey family—to the duchess in particular—to all, save Eugene. In the sick-chamber he passed most of his time. To Adelaide's joy, her father had not yet discovered the fatal secret. He was so busy, acting for the duke, transacting business, arranging tenantry, etc.; and then he spent long hours in the glorious pagan temple, the gods of which he had taken care to secure as Adelaide's personal possession, and for the reception of which he was building a large hall at the jointure-house, that when the castle they now inhabited should pass to the heir-at-law, he might be able to take possession of these trophies of art at once.
Such was the friendship and delicacy of the man of the world! The summer passed, the winter came, and a wintry change came over the invalid. One evening he called his wife, his friends, his domestics, every inmate of the house, into his presence, and, one by one, begged their forgiveness for every uneasiness he had caused them, for every bad example he had set them, and begged of them to pray for him as for one who was about to appear before God, to give account of a mis-spent life. To Adelaide, and to her father, mother, and sister, this appeared like a well-acted scene; but the domestics, nay, even Madame de Meglior retired in tears.
Night came. An oppression was over the household. None cared to retire to rest, and yet none dared again approach the duke's apartment. Mrs. Godfrey sat in Adelaide's room that night while Hester was with Madame de Meglior. Euphrasie was missing, but, as usual, was forgotten. Even Mr. Godfrey partook in some measure of the excitement. He had asked the physician that evening more anxiously than usual, how the patient was; and though the response had been, "Somewhat better," he, with the household, did not give it credence.
He paced his chamber, lay down on a sofa, rose, and paced it again; looked at his watch—one, two, three, four o'clock; how long the hours were that night! He opened his door, walked out, and paused at the door of his daughter's room. He heard speaking,{481}gently he tapped, his wife opened the door to him; neither she nor the daughter had been in bed.
"Any news? whispered he.
"No! All is quiet in the duke's chamber."
"I will go and see," he said.
He passed through the whole retinue of domestics in the galleries. Not one had gone to bed, yet all were hushed; not one had ventured to make inquiries at the sick-room door.
Mr. Godfrey passed silently on, his foot-fall was scarcely heard. A dull sound as of low continuous speaking came from the duke's apartment. The door was not locked; he turned the handle gently and went in without rapping. What a scene met his view! Candles were lighted on the altar. Beside it, rapt in prayer, knelt Euphrasie. The stranger, Martigni, robed in the sacred vestments, was in the act of placing the Holy of Holies upon the tongue of the dying man, whom Eugene was tenderly supporting in his arms. The sick man sank back on the pillow as the priest left him, and the prayers continued; Mr. Godfrey paused. A sensation of wondering anger stole over him, yet he waited for the benediction of the priest. Eugene was on his knees by the bedside. The ceremony over, Mr. Godfrey approached him, shook him, and in a harsh whisper said:
"Boy, what mummery is this?"
Eugene rose. The sick man opened his eyes. A bright smile broke over his features. "No mummery," he faintly said.
Then again there was a pause, and a gasping for breath, and the eyes closed. They opened again: "Jesus have mercy; Mary help," were the last words he uttered, and he died.
It was no time for explanation. Mr. Godfrey retired. On leaving the chamber he became aware that imprudently the door he had left half open had partially revealed to the domestics, now assembled without the chamber, that something unusual was taking place within. To their questions, Mr. Godfrey replied: "He is dead." And instantly the chamber was filled with weeping mourners. Good, kind, and liberal had been the master they had lost, and he was much beloved. To their wonder they beheld the altar on which stood the unextinguished candles. Before it knelt the priest, chaunting, in a very low voice, the office for the dead, which was responded to by the Italian valets kneeling beside the bed. Euphrasie had disappeared, but on the bed lay the corpse, one hand grasping the crucifix. They stood rooted to the spot at the strangeness of the scene. They had not yet satisfied their wonder when the duchess entered. She cast one look on the bed; then approaching the priest, said:
"You will please to quit this chamber as soon as convenient, and disencumber the room of these useless toys."
Eugene sprang to her side. "Sister," said he, "in the name of Heaven, do nothing rashly. Leave these things to me; to me give your orders; on my honor they shall be obeyed."
The duchess bethought herself one moment. "Clear the room of these, then," she said, pointing to the wondering domestics.
Eugene obeyed.
"Now," said the duchess, "let there be an end of this foolery. In an hour I will send those hither whose duty it is to tend the dead. By that time let no vestige remain of this offensive foreign trumpery; and let these strangers quit the house."
The tone was too decided to be disputed; the commands were obeyed; and so successfully did Mr. Godfrey assist his daughter in giving the lie to the reports that were spread through the neighborhood, that it came at last to be considered as an established fact that the whole scene of the death-bed was got up by a concerted plan of the Italian valets, who hoped in this way to convert their master at his dying hour, and the duke himself being insensible made no opposition! Thus can the "great ones" of the earth oft condescend to lie, though they would{482}challenge a man to a duel who dared to question the nicety of their honor.
For many days the duke lay in state in his ancestral hall; from far and near crowds came to gaze on the gorgeously fitted up apartment, hung with emblazoned hatchments, encircled round with all the trappings of woe. Eugene had quitted the house at the time of the duke's decease, in company with the foreigners his sister had commanded to depart. He reappeared on the day of the funeral, and requested to speak with his mother. To his surprise he found her haggard and worn, and traces of excessive weeping were on her countenance. She greeted him kindly, made him sit down beside her, took his hand in hers and held it, but wept instead of speaking. Eugene was puzzled and alarmed, for all agitation was unusual with his mother. They were alone together, yet the silence was not broken. After awhile a servant came to say that the procession was forming for the funeral, he supposing that Eugene came expressly to attend it.
"Shall I go, mother?" said Eugene, but his mother held him fast, and shook her head.
"It would be better not," she said; "they might be bitter even on a day like this. No, Eugene, do not see your father yet. Go home, I will be there in a few days. We will talk matters over, and all will be right again. Your father and Hester will remain a short time with Adelaide. But you and I will go home. Do not stay here now, but meet me tomorrow at the post-house ten miles from this. I will be there at ten o'clock. I will stop the carriage for you to ride home with me."
Eugene wonderingly assented; and as she seemed anxious to get him out of the house, he left as soon as the vast cortege had disappeared.
Crowds of nobility, crowds of gentry, crowds of tenantry accompanied the corpse as it was borne to the family vault. A collation was afterward spread for the guests; they partook of it, went home, and in less than a month were eager in paying court to a new duke, and the late one was to them as though he had never been.
It was a strange and certainly not a very pleasant feeling to Eugene to find himself thus secretly, as it were, in his mothers company. Her agitation, however, had subsided. During the journey she was even cheerful at times, and she made not the slightest allusion to the subject which had disturbed her. On their arrival at home she busied herself more than had ever been her wont in domestic and tenantry affairs, and kept Eugene occupied in many ways. There was, he fancied, a tenderness in her intercourse with him that he had rarely observed before, though she had ever been to him a most loving mother. Some weeks passed, and then a letter came which made Mrs. Godfrey turn pale as she read it. Eugene, alarmed, rose and placed himself beside her. "Is anything the matter, dearest mother?" he asked.
"Yes, no, yes! that is, they are coming home."
"And who are they who cause you this alarm?"
"Your father and Hester."
"My father! he has ever love you dearly! Mother, my dear mother, do explain yourself!"
The poor lady laid her head on Eugene's shoulder, and wept. Eugene tried in vain to soothe her. At length he said, "May I see the letter, mother?"
"No, no; you will know its contents but too soon. Now, Eugene, answer me: have I not loved you well? have I not been a good mother to you?"
"The best of mothers," said Eugene, caressingly.
{483}
"Then you love me somewhat—you would do something for me!"
"Anything in my power, dear mother. I would lay down my life for you."
"It is not your life I want you to relinquish, foolish boy, but yourfancies. Your father has taken most serious offense at your religious demonstrations, and swears he will disinherit you unless you recant. Unfortunately, although some of the estate is entailed, much of it is not, and you will lose a princely fortune if you deny his wish."
"What does he wish?"
"That you renouncein toto, all Catholic friends and all Catholic opinions."
Eugene made no reply.
"Eugene, my only son, my best hope, my greatest joy, did it depend on me I would not shackle your freedom of action; Christianity, Mohammedanism, or any otherism, might be at your option. Your happiness is my desire, and whatever I might think of your creed, I would not let it stand between me and my love for you. But yet is not thus with your father. He will not suffer a Catholic in his house."
She paused; still Eugene replied not. She went on: "Eugene, you would not be the cause of my death! I feel you would not!"' and she threw her arms about him. "Yet these divisions will surely kill me; I dare not tell you how I have suffered during the last few weeks."
"I have seen it, dear mother, and though I only partly guessed the cause, I deeply sympathize with your unhappiness."
"Then you will remedy it?"
"I do not see how just yet. Thought must be free. I dare not bind myself to think at another's pleasure."
"But you need not declare your thoughts".
"Nay, mother, I must be free: free to think, free to act according to the dictates of my conscience. I learned this necessity from yourself, dear mother; do not now belie your own teachings. You told me ever to seek the truth, and to act upon it when found. I will not bind myself to follow another course, were a kingdom to be the purchase of the compromise."
"Or your mother's love, Eugene?"
"My mother will but love me better for practising the lessons that she taught me. I know my mother's principles, and I do not fear the loss of her love."
"Flatterer! but were it even so, your father is serious, Eugene. He will not see you again, unless you accede to his demand."
"When is he coming home?"
"On the day after tomorrow."
"Then I depart to-morrow; I will not encounter him in his present humor. Besides, I promised the late duke to execute a commission for him; it is time I set about it."
"And how will you live, rash boy?"
"Will he not continue my allowance to me?"
"I do not know, at least I do not want the question mooted just now. To prevent the necessity of it, I had a deed drawn up the other day which will supply you with necessaries till you return to reason." And Mrs. Godfrey took from her bureau a very business-like document, which proved to be a deed of gift of the principal part of the property settled upon herself and her heirs. "Use this," she said, "until right reason returns to you."
"My mother!"
"No words now; I did it to relieve my own mind, for I must consent to your departure. We will hope for better times, for I see I cannot change you at present."
The property thus settled on our young hero was but a modest portion for one educated as Eugene had been; yet to those numerous middle people who struggle daily with economy it would have seemed a fortune.