{597}
While wandering by the mountainsAnd musing by the streams,I asked myself if ever thusMy life would pass in dreams.I gathered the little pebblesThe waves threw on the sand:The rippling waters seemed to say,"There is a better land!"And while thus my steps were straying,Above, in azure far,I saw a beacon's streaming light—The glorious evening star!My soul, enraptured, then exclaimed:"Hail, beauteous star of even!Wilt thou, while speeding into dawn,Bring me the will of heaven?"I watched it in its onward course,Until its golden glowWas lost behind the western clouds.And left me wrapped in woe.I struggled hard to free my soulFrom brooding thoughts of care.Till morning broke, when, with the star,These words fell on the air:"No more let earthly passion move.Nor wearied hopes bemoan,A life that has a God to love,A heaven to call its own!"The star had kindled hopeAnd raised my soul in prayer;The clouds that rolled betweenForetold a life of care.I bowed my head, and humbly knelt,Submissive to his will.Who, when the waves were troubled most,Said, "Peace!" and all was still.
{598}
The summons to London was on the business of cutting off the entail to the estates as proposed at the beginning of the last chapter. Mr. Godfrey, whose love for Hester certainly approached to dotage, had decided to gratify his darling's wishes; and to avoid future confusion, had decided to allow her to come of age at eighteen, and to enter on the enjoyment of the estates he destined for her, subject to an annuity for himself. To give the matter a semblance of justice, he proposed to pension off the rest of the family in the same manner, thus settling their claims to the property during his life, as after his death. What was wanting to this plan was Eugene's acceptance of a present annuity in the stead of his inheritance at death.
The proposal made to him was by no means a liberal one, considering the wealth of the family and the expectations in which he had been reared.
"Three thousand pounds a year for life, now, instead of fifteen thousand in reversion to descend to my posterity; the proposal is preposterous," said Eugene, "especially as I was always given to understand that I might look to receive a sum equal to that on my coming of age, which I shall do in three weeks' time."
"That promise was conditional, young man," said Mr. Godfrey, somewhat sternly; "conditional at least by implication; could I have foreseen that you would have disgraced my family, it would not have been made."
"Disgraced!" ejaculated Eugene.
"Brother," interposed Hester, anxious to avoid any expression of excited feeling, "you have renounced the position my father ambitioned for you; you cannot hold office under government; you cannot become a member of Parliament; you cannot act as a magistrate; [Footnote 173] or take any useful part in the work of society. Surely three thousand pounds a year will supply all your personal wants."
[Footnote 173: At the time of which we write the civil disabilities for all dissenters from the English Establishment, and for all Catholics, were still in force in England.]
"You have assumed a great deal, my good sister; a great deal more than you can prove, I think. If I understand this matter rightly, it these yourself who are be to benefited by this arrangement. You want to experimentalize, to found a new Utopia; surely I might do that at least as well as a woman."
"No, for you believe not in the principle. Money in your hands, just now, would sink; you might build churches or convents, but forward the progression of the race you would not. A bare-footed Carmelite ranks higher in your estimation that a man raised by talent and industry to a position surrounded by means of enjoyment. Now, my father objects conscientiously, and his immediate ancestors would also object to appropriate the both of his property to a phantasm. He offers you a maintenance superior to the property your theory upholds. Be consistent; try your own principle of renunciation, of poverty, if you so like to term an annuity of three thousand a year. The allotment which will be termed mine is in my eyes, and in in my father's, an investment for the good of society, of which I am but a directress. Give to the world that which the world claims,{599}take the portion you have chosen in which the world has no share—spirituality. Conscientiously my father has strained a point to offer you so much, for he looks upon the promotion of your views as injurious to the human race."
There was a long pause, a long silence; then Eugene said, "I must take time to consider; my signature would not be of any avail until I am of age, and it wants three weeks to that time. In a month's time I will give you an answer."
Eugene, after a vain attempt to see his mother, returned to the town in which Euphrasie resided. He was now determined to have the interview he had so long vainly sought for. On that interview greatly depended his future determination.
He did not call on her at her mother's abode. He waylaid her as she was returning home from giving her lessons; with a few earnest words induced her to permit him to lead her into a secluded grove where often he had mused on her perfections, and there, at length, he took courage, and poured forth, as much by gesture as by words, his long pent-up tale of love, so hidden out of reverence, a reverence which now gave way to the anxiety of placing her in a more suitable position than the one she at present occupied, although still falling short of that which she was calculated to adorn.
Euphrasie listened with profound attention; certainly not coldly. She fully appreciated the young man's devotion, she fully believed his tale. Even tears filled her eyes as he proceeded; but she was long in answering.
"May I take this silence for consent, dear Euphrasie?" said Eugene.
Euphrasie shook her head. "No, indeed, you may not, my kind friend," she said. "I am silent because I know not how to express my sense of your worth, of your kindness, of your disinterestedness, in fitting terms, and accompany my words with a refusal. What you propose can never be. Another vocation is mine. Yet believe me that my gratitude, my friendship, my esteem, are, and ever must remain, your own. I thank you earnestly for the long forbearing and silent sympathy which I have ever received from you."
"Your tones are solemn, Euphrasie. You are not one to act a part, and say no when you mean yes. You have seen this proposal possible, you have weighed it; is it indiscreet to ask in confidence your reasons?"
"Is not all explained by the words, another vocation is mine? May I not recall to your memory the explanation I once gave at Durimond Castle?"
"But, Euphrasie, in this country, where Catholics are barely tolerated, you can scarcely be a nun."
"I think, indeed, that at present there seems little likelihood that I shall be what the world calls a nun; but I am none the less certain that I am called to serve God by following the three evangelical counsels."
"But as a married woman, Euphrasie, surely you could serve God also. Marriage in the Catholic Church is exalted to the dignity of a sacrament, and I would respect your self-imposed duties not only of devotion but of charity also. I would share the cares you now bestow on my aunt's comfort, and—"
"I believe it, Eugene, but it cannot be. I dare not resist the voice which forbids me to bind myself by human ties. We are Catholics, Eugene; we know that a vocation is something real; that not to respond to it is to endanger salvation, is to risk the abstraction of that grace which is of all treasures the most valuable."
Eugene replied not. There was a long pause. Euphrasie was agitated beyond her wont, and was glad to avail herself of a seat fixed beneath the shade of a tree. Eugene rested his forehead against the tree. Suddenly he seized her hand and pressed it to his lips, but he spoke not. The warm tears were pouring down his{600}cheeks. Oh! it is agonizing to behold a strong man weep. No woman at least can see it unmoved; still less Euphrasie, who beneath an impassive exterior bore a feeling, tender heart. Scarcely less affected than himself she took his hand in both of hers, and faltered out: "Eugene, my friend, my brother, the day will come when you will rejoice at this hour's decision, and make it the subject of your earnest thanksgiving. No Catholic can have witnessed your noble struggle for truth, your disinterestedness, your magnanimity, without feeling that for you, too, God has a noble mission in store. As yet you are scarcely conscious of what you would lose were you to fetter yourself by human ties. Your studies as yet have occupied the intellect somewhat exclusively. Controversy was necessary while you were assuring yourself of the grounds of faith, of the reasonableness of the creature's trusting to the solemn promise of the Creator, of the unerring infallibility of the church founded by Christ, and sustained by his holy spirit. Your learned research, conducted in simplicity of spirit, has led you to the temple of truth. You have entered, but as yet its most wondrous teachings are to be unfolded, to be contemplated, to be realized in practice. Your soul is too noble to content itself with the things of earth; your heart needs pure, exalted realities to love, and those it will find only here." (She took from her bosom a small ivory crucifix, which she placed in his hand as she spoke). "Everlasting love speaks to you from this cross, my beloved friend. Leave other studies for awhile to contemplate its lessons in all its bearings, and a divine rapture will fill your inmost soul; you will live in him only who is life and light and love, and your heart will need to pour itself out for him, through him, in him. Suffering for Christ will become blissful, and your whole being will shape itself to one aim, his will, whom to serve is to find the truest happiness on earth, as it is also the only happiness in heaven! Oh! dared I speak to you, Eugene, of what it is to love God, and to feel his love for us within our souls, you would not need consolation then. But God himself will speak to you and instruct you in his wondrous love, and you will be happy beyond your utmost imagination."
Euphrasie spoke as one inspired; and it was so rarely that she made any speech of considerable length, that the effect was greatly increased. Again there was a long pause, Eugene gazed on the crucifix, pressed it to his lips, then hit it in his bosom. At length he said: "Euphrasie, I can but submit. I will do my best to follow the beautiful course you have described for me. But ere I leave you, since since leave you I must, may I ask one favor?"
Euphrasie signified assent.
"It is this, then: You have called me friend brother. May I hope, then, for a brother's privilege, a friends affection? I will never again asked for more, if you will promise me these. But let your brother be of use to you, dear sister, confide to your friend your plans, and give him the happiness of helping them forward. Let there be no estrangement between us, Euphrasie."
"There shall be none, I promise you, save such as prudence demands. Your nobleness, your disinterestedness, claim my admiration, and I promise you, my brother, to inform you when i need your proferred aid. But you must forgive me if, for a while at least, I converse with you only through the medium of our mutual friend. Let our excited feelings have time to subside into a more reasonable frame ere we meet again, Eugene. And now may the holy Angels have you in their keeping. Adieu."
She was gone ere Eugene could reply. Hid among the foliage, he had not the courage to follow her, and in spite of his resolves the remained desolate.
What now were to him the chances of heirship, the thoughts of transmitting his name to a long posterity?{601}At the end of the month Eugene signed the deed which deprived him for all time of a fair estate. An additional motive for his doing this was found in the reflection that he had no right to be depriving his mother of her private property. He returned the deed of gift to her as soon as he received the proposed annuity. There were no bells rung, according to the custom from immemorial ages, when the heir of the Godfrey family came of age; there was no feasting, no rejoicing among the tenantry. All was silence and gloom, it was as if the very air were hung with a funeral pall. Mrs. Godfrey seemed stricken to the heart. But when the transactions became known which disinherited Eugene and appropriated an unfair proportion of the estate to the youngest sister, all the family were roused. Vexed as they were at Eugene's religious demonstrations they were not prepared to give Hester so exclusive a preference. Mrs. Godfrey, especially, felt the transaction as most bitterly unjust. She yearned for Eugene's presence, and it was not permitted her. Scarcely could she tolerate the sight of Hester in the house. Her melancholy increased. Alas! poor mother!
Hester was now made rich. Her doting father settled on her not only the Yorkshire farms, but also other revenues, that she might be provided with capital to carry into execution her philanthropic plans. Hester was endowed with many brilliant qualities. She was, as it were, "born to reign." She perfectly understood her own dignity, perfectly realized her own power of intellect, was well aware that both her father and his man of business were her tools, and she managed accordingly with intuitive prudence, not permitting Mr. Godfrey to perceive how entirely he obeyed her bidding. Under these circumstances she might fairly hope for success. Large iron factories on the one hand, and large cotton factories on the other, were erected on a scale calculated to employ many hundred hands, and to bring into extensive operation the new steam-power that then absorbed scientific attention. Mr. Godfrey was delighted, for it brought him into frequent contact with the most scientific men of the day. The operations necessarily attracted public attention, and Mr. Godfrey as director of the scientific operations, with Hester as deviser of a new scheme for rendering the "populations" happy and progressive, were continually besieged by a concourse of visitors, eager to understand the new "idea."
Hester's arrangements were on a magnificent scale. She started on the principle of mutual co-operation united to division of labor. Instead of separate dwellings for her employés, she had large boarding-houses built. These were provided with halls, refectories, baths, lecture-rooms, reading-rooms, libraries, and, lastly, schools, which in those days were rare for the laboring population. For since the suppression of the monasteries and convents, the schools in which the good religious had taught the children of England to love God and their neighbor had been shut up, education had fallen to a fearfully low standard in this sect-divided kingdom.
Hester was a severe disciplinarian, with little compassion for the weakness of human nature. She intended her people should become intellectual; and when she shortened the hours of labor, expressly to give time to cultivate the mind, when she hired lecturers and bought books, she felt herself aggrieved that these were not responded to. Her people were well fed at a common table; they were well sheltered and accommodated; why should they not be intellectualized? How discouraged she felt when she found she was speaking in an unknown tongue to{602}the adults among her operatives. They hardly considered short hours a benefit when they were compelled to sit and listen to subjects in which they took no interest. "A glass of ale and, a pipe of 'backy would do a poor body far more good than all this preaching, and 'tain't to save our souls either." There were other difficulties in this commonwealth; the young men and women were on different sides of the building, and certain rules were laid down to secure good conduct, but these rules were very difficult to enforce, and the dismissals for disorder became frequent. The operatives began to call the place a jail. Hester would not yield, but she turned more strenuously to the children. Here she had better success, and she spent days and weeks in providing for the better education of these little ones. "The elder ones are already formed," she argued, "but we will give these young ones better tastes, better habits, and they will become intelligent and happy."
M. de Villeneuve was a frequent visitor at these institutions, for the character of Hester interested him greatly, and he was constantly endeavoring to draw her attention to the motives that actuated her people, and to the probabilities of their producing lasting results.
"Tell me," said he, "how is a knowledge of the material law to produce happiness? We know that a steel knife cuts flesh; will that knowledge reconcile one to the loss of his arm when the sturgeon has cut it off in the most masterly manner?"
"No," said Hester, "but perhaps a knowledge of the material law might have prevented the necessity of cutting off the arm at all. Much of disease is caused by ignorance. To banish pain needs a wide acquaintance with the whole range of laws which govern our being. To know and practise one law and neglect another would but result in pain."
"You will require a life of scientific research. I see; and after all, as we all begin with ignorance and helplessness, we must suffer some pain during our apprenticeship. For instance, you cannot teach an infant to cut its teeth painlessly."
"But because we cannot do everything, shall we do nothing?"
"That were a sweeping conclusion; it is not necessary to go so far as that. But might it not be wise to examine the principle of actions when we attempt to regulate for others on a new system? Your exterior arrangements our splendid; your laws rigidly moral; but will you ensure their being kept? What motive do you propose?"
"I have expelled those who, after suitable remonstrance, would not conform," said Hester.
"A very effective proceeding, my kind hostess, but it is just possible that eventually such a practice might create a desert. The motive power of perseverance comes from within. The desire must be in the heart, the understanding must approve, the will must accept, the deed must co-operate, and until you have secured this motive power, your arrangements rest on an insecure basis. You cannot force men to choose good; you cannot make them studious by providing a library, or moral by denouncing the penalties of immorality. You must subdue passions, excite tastes. Can mere knowledge of physics do this?"
"There is other knowledge besides mere physics—classical knowledge."
"And will classical knowledge do it? Will reading Virgil and Horace tend to evolve moral power?"
"Why not? Knowledge is power!"
"Then why are so many of the educated sickly, unhappy and immoral?"
"Because they do not act upon their knowledge; they are idle and dissipated and worthless. The frivolities of the young men 'de bon ton' were always disgusting to me. But then they are not really educated; they may have been to school, but they have learned nothing useful, nothing of the material world."
{603}
"But" said M. de Villeneuve, "how does the knowledge of the material world affect man's existence as a moral agent? The laws which regulate materiality leave and impress of invariability upon them—a want of power to change themselves, at any rate. They are obedient to a will to which they appear insentient. This is true not only of inert, stolid matter, not only of vegetable life, but of animals, even of those wondrous developments of instinct which approach so near to reason that they are scarcely distinguishable from it. The highest mere animals are creatures of circumstance—circumstance ruled, indeed, by appetite and instinct, but not by recognition of a higher law, not by any consciousness of affinity to a higher state of existence. Therefore, you can tame them by an appeal to their appetites; you can rule them by providing for their animal natures; you can subdue them if you bring to bear on them a force stronger than their own. But, surely, we may assume that man is more than a mere animal. He has inborn affinities to higher natures which force cannot subdue, and which rise superior to animal temptations. These affinities may be starved out, it is true, by not providing them with their own fitting nutriment, which is not the food of the body. They may be crushed or restrained in their development by overloading the soul with extraneous objects; but in proportion as these powers are starved out or crushed out, the man sinks, the animal rises. And theanimalman is, I assure you, a very ferocious kind of beast, and nonetheless so for having intelligence developed; rather is he dangerous in proportion."
"You would not, then, developed intelligence?"
"On the contrary, I think it the highest and holiest task in which a human being can be employed. I rejoice in all the plans that tend to raise the race; I applaud your benevolence in forming these establishments, although I feel that you are preparing for yourself a disappointment."
"But why?"
"Because you have begun on the wrong principle. It is good that you have begun at all to see the principle acknowledged that man is man, and not a mere machine to win riches for the few; that principle emanated from selfishness in the beginning, but selfishness will not root out selfishness. I admire your idea principally because it proves your own zeal, your own earnestness, your own capability of sacrificing yourself for others; even the disappointment impending will be fraught with good if it do not discourage you from seeking the true principle, which I hope it will not do. Faith in man is easily overset, because man can fall of himself, but of himself he cannot rise."
"You believe, then, as I do, that a new era is dawning on mankind, and that the laborer must be protected and enlightened?" said Hester.
"I do!" said M. de Villeneuve.
"Yet you do not believe that my schools and arrangements will make him happier?"
"Will you forgive me if I say I do not?"
"You are an enigma; I cannot make you out," said Hester.
"How did man fall into the degraded state in which the masses are?" said M. de Villeneuve. "We have proof of intelligence enough in the founders of Babylon, of Nineveh, of Thebes, and of Egypt."
"Some men must have known something, I think," said Hester, "but they seem to have kept their knowledge very carefully to themselves, and made slaves of those to whom they did not impart it. Knowledge was very much an affair of class or rank. The populace was brutish, if accounts are true, and kept in order by sheer force."
"And when that force pressed too hardly, they fled and became the founders of the savage life. Such is the probable course. And what power, think you, elevated the mass, even to the extent in which we see them now? for, debased as they may be, they are{604}far above the races that did the same work in ancient times; nay, the laborers of Europe are far above the slaves of Asia. What has caused the difference?"
"The march of intellect," said Hester proudly.
"Supposing that granted for the sake of the argument, what caused 'the march of intellect?' what gave the impetus to raise the 'toiler for bread' in the scale of humanity?"
Hester could not answer. The comte continued:
"I believe it to be that very influence which 'the age' is seeking so earnestly to destroy. Man's selfishness oppressed his fellows, overpowered his faculties, laid them to sleep so effectually that the rich and great were acknowledged by the crowd to be of another order, of another scale of being, to be judged of by another standard, to be weighed by another measure. The gospel came: to the poor it was preachedpar excellence; it was a call of the Father to his downtrodden children, an appeal to their hearts, their affections, a loving invitation to them to come, as children of the most High God, to claim their inheritance of lofty faculty, of high intuitions, of exalted aspiration. The understanding enlightened through the heart changed by slow degree's the face of nations; the slave disappeared from the christianized lands, the leaven worked from the interior to the exterior, life became protected, the rich and the poor, equal before God, became equal before the law also; civilization of heart produced civilization of manners among the masses. The greater involved the lesser. Men's intellects were awakened, roused to action, and then followed the old story over again; they forget how they had obtained these gifts, and from whom, and they are applying them to selfish purposes, to animal gratification. But liberty is the gift of the gospel, liberty emanating from emancipation of the understanding by means of the soul. If we would preserve the gift, we must observe the conditions."
"Do you really think 'liberty' a good?" asked Hester.
"True liberty is one of the greatest of blessings," said the comte; "but you will find it difficult to give 'true liberty' on earthly grounds alone, it would so easily degenerate into license. Now the repression of license by force is a restraint to which men unwillingly submit, and easily engenders tyranny, so that, unless license is restrained by the spiritual sense, liberty is in continual jeopardy; it is difficult to believe it can be lasting."
"And you think the spiritual sense necessary to liberty?"
"I do; how else can lawlessness be restrained without force?"
"Surely intellectual enlightenment ought to suffice. Common-sense even tells us that some restraint is necessary, that the moral law must be observed."
"It may tell us so, but does it give the power to execute its bidding?"
"It should do so."
"It should, and would, if man's being were in harmony. All laws, physical, mental, and spiritual teach in different forms the same truth; the material is a manifestation of the spiritual, of which the intellect demonstrates the beauty and the necessity; but power to develop the spiritual facility does not reside either in the intellect or in matter, it belongs to a higher source, and without the will is powerless. Therefore is it, I prophesy disappointment for you; for I see no provision made to destroy selfishness, and promote a higher life."
"There is none needed," interposed Mr. Godfrey somewhat abruptly; "we teach what we know. As for mysticism and matters we guess at but do not know, we leave the people free. If they need religion let them choose one, or make one for themselves."
The asperity with which this was said closed the conversation for that time.
{605}
Hester continued her plans, though less firm than before in the conviction that the spread of intelligence would annihilate evil. She watched the results with an anxiety intent on discovering the exact truth. She tried more and more to enforce morality. She studied the influences by which children are won to good behavior. She thought love was the governing principle of the little folks, and that her indulgence would excite love. Rewards were profusely given, and a system of excitement acted upon. This produced certain effects in calling forth intelligence, but the children became selfish and fond of ease and dissipation in a manner she had not looked for.
With her young people she had scarcely better success. There was no religious restraint, and their morals soon betokened that some restraint was called for. Then, again, Mr. Godfrey's opinions were pretty well known, and itinerant lecturers held forth on the unreasonableness of the marriage tie, on the necessity of easy divorce, and other topics of like nature that placed Hester in great perplexity. It was not a subject in which she as a woman could properly interfere, and her father shrugged his shoulders, and passed them by with the remark, "These are not matters that can be interfered with, they are altogether conventional."
What could Hester do? She was in great perplexity.
Meantime we must return to Lady Conway. Time passed on and she became the mother of a little girl, and after another interval of a little boy also. At this latter event Sir Philip's joy was great. The bells rang, bonfires blazed, every festive demonstration was called into play to welcome the heir to the estate. All the father's affection seemed showered upon him. The misunderstanding between himself and his lady had never been thoroughly put to rights, for Alfred still continued to keep awake in Sir Philip's mind the suspicions he had aroused. Had Annie been of a meek and gentle temper, she might very soon have convinced her husband how far she was as yet removed from religion of any kind, although conscious of secret influences creeping over her. But Annie thought herself aggrieved, and disdained conciliatory measures; and by degrees, under the insidious influence to which he was exposed, Sir Philip began to assume a high tone of marital authority which gave his wife continual provocation and rendered her situation almost unbearable. Daily he assumed more and more the reins of domestic government, until at last it could scarcely be said that the ordinary jurisdiction which a woman exercises over her household belonged to Annie. She felt this keenly at first, but the birth of her little girl came somewhat to reconcile her. She spent much time in the nursery, and recreated herself with books. She tried not to notice the arbitrary manner and haughty bearing of her husband, for, high-spirited as she was, she thought it undignified to live in a perpetual jangle. So, gradually, the married couple learned to live in different ideal worlds, though they continued under one roof and to society appeared as usual. But this did not suit Alfred Brookbank. His hatred went deeper than this, and he set himself seriously about attempting to destroy what little was left of domestic comfort. The birth of the young heir soon furnished him with grounds. None were more warm than he in offering his congratulations, and in making continual inquiries after the well-being of this young scion of an ancient race. Indeed, the interest he seemed to take in all that affected Sir Philip's happiness was extreme. One would have said that he lived but for the pleasure of serving him. Sir Philip, on the other hand, became daily more wrapt up in this specious man, and daily congratulated himself on having secured so invaluable a servant.
{606}
"Sir Philip," said Alfred one day, after meeting the infant in its nurse's arms during a business walk over the grounds, "that is a splendid boy! I need not ask a man of your wisdom if you have made provision that he should be brought up a staunch and loyal upholder of the Protestant interest."
"Time enough yet, my worthy friend," responded the baronet, "the child is not six months old."
"But before six months more, Sir Philip, he will begin to receive impressions, and early impressions are of immense importance. You remember, doubtless, that when the treaty of marriage was on foot between the ill-fated Charles I. and Henrietta of France, the question was mooted respecting the education of the children, and it was finally settled that for the first seven years they should remain under the mother's influence, and afterward be brought up Protestant. They result was that, in the long run, the early impressions prevailed. Charles II. certainly received the Romish sacrament on his death-bed, and his brother James sacrificed his crown to his papistry. I imagine that the first impressions are almost indelible, and we never know when first impressions are made."
"But all my people are Protestants," said Sir Philip.
"And has Lady Conway renounced her predilection for the papists?" asked Alfred. Sir Phillip's brow lowered.
"Forgive me if I go too far," continued Alfred deprecatingly. "The inroads made by these people who came to seek English hospitality on being driven from their own homes, are too alarming. Awhile ago it would have been an insult to suspect a well-bred person of such folly; but when we see such talented young men as Eugene Godfrey led away, it puts us on our guard against future encroachments. I for one should be sorry to see the heir apparent of Sir Philip Conway an upholder of bigotry, or in image worshiper."
"I would see them in his grave first," thundered out the baronet. "But there is no fear; at least I see no immediate cause of apprehension. But the matter shall be look to. My son shall be watched over, depend upon it".
Sir Philip's mother was still living, and with her a sister of his, and old maid, who was a little too much of the puritanical school to suit her brother's taste. But now he thought these ladies might assist his views. He paid them a visit, and in strict confidence laid his difficulty before them. He was not satisfied, he said of Lady Conway's opinions. She went to the English Church occasionally, but he did not consider her a member of it at heart. He wanted his children to be interviewed from the first with strict Protestant ideas. The little girl was now two years old, and though the little boy was but a few months old, there was no telling how soon impressions might be made, so he intended to have a nursery governess of the right sort at once. This the ladies undertook to look out for, and when found to accompany the treasure themselves to the household. Annie's annoyance was excessive. Neither the dowager Lady Conway nor her daughter was intellectual or high-minded, and now that they came to take the management of the nursery out of her hands, and place a stranger there whose office was to watch herself in her intercourse with her own children, their presence became unendurable. Mrs. Bedford, the new governess, was in herself a quiet, unobtrusive person, faithful to her duties, and of gentle manners; but she had been selected on account of her unmitigated horror of popery, and it had been whispered to her that Lady Conway was not a little tainted with its delusion, and this made her more constrained in manner and less deferential than she would otherwise have been.
{607}
It was in vain that any pleaded that she was quite capable of directing her own nursery, that this new inmate was equally unnecessary as unwelcome to her. Sir Philip was immovable; and to prove how intent he was on having his own way, he dismissed the nurse, who had attended both children most skillfully, merely because she had not shown herself sufficiently respectful to the new-comer. The children cried after their old friend, and the little girl clung to her dress, to beg her not to leave her. It was useless. No one is more obstinate than a fool in power. That wife and children were unhappy was nothing to Sir Philip now. His will was law, and to his rule of iron all must submit.
Some months after this they were sitting at table when the letters were brought in. Among them came one directed to Annie. Sir Philip opened it (it was now his custom to open his wife's letters), read it, and handed it to her, with the words:
"Dear me, I am very sorry, I suppose you must go immediately." The letter was from Hester. It stated that Mrs. Godfrey (who had been for years out of health) had latterly become much worse, that she was constantly asking for any, and the physicians said she must be humored in every wish, that her reason, if not her life, depended on it. Annie was therefore requested to come without delay.
"How soon can I have the carriage," inquired any of her liege Lord.
"As soon as you can get ready, of course," answered Sir Philip.
"And the children?" faltered Annie.
"Mrs. Bedford will take care of the children, and I shall be at home; make yourself easy about them."
But Annie would have liked to take the children with her; they would interest her mother at times, and in that large mansion could not be in the way; but her heart seemed crushed, she dared not express her thought, and she departed without remonstrance.
She found her mother even more depressed then she anticipated. Mrs. Godfrey had ever been tenderly attached to her children. Their happiness had been her fondest care, and a melancholy settled upon her as she found her hopes disappointed. The haughty Adelaide seemed quite changed from the time when she was a joyous girl at home. Annie, though still affectionate to herself, seemed pining away under some secret unhappiness. But the darling of her heart—her son, whom she loved with the whole force of her character, in whom were united alike joy and pride—why was he banished from her sight? That Mrs. Godfrey was sorry for her son's Catholicity there was no doubt; certainly she was mortified at this unexpected result of her fine intellectual training; but the love she bore this her only son far overpowered both sorrow and vexation, and she bitterly felt his prolonged absence, and had often endeavored to shake Mr. Godfrey's determination in this regard. Some little passages had even occurred between herself and her husband on the subject. "She could not understand," she said, "why a person should be persecuted for his religion. When Mr. Godfrey told his children to think for themselves, did he mean that they were to think as he did, on pain of expulsion? Was not Eugene good, dutiful, noble, and generous? Why was he treated like a criminal? Had he been aroué, like so many young men of his standing, it would have been called 'sowing his wild oats,' and every allowance would have been made for him. Why could they not treat this vagary as intellectual wild oats, and give him time to recover?" Mr. Godfrey tried to pacify her, but in vain; illness succeeded. "She must see her son," she said.
Mr. Godfrey was a little too resolute. He did not even give her tidings of him when he summoned him to the lawyers. It was by sheer accident that she discovered they had met; and when she discovered the result of that meeting her indignation was terrible. She could not bear to{608}have Hester in her sight. She would not accompany her and Mr. Godfrey to Yorkshire. She stayed at home alone whole months. Years past; Eugene went abroad, and in the disturbed state of the continent his letters miscarried. It was long since she heard from him. A paroxym ensued. Her mind became affected. Mr. Godfrey was sent for. A gentleman experienced in diseases of the brain was invited to reside in the house. But in vain. The malady increased, and her calls for Eugene and for Annie became so frequent and so terrific that all hope of keeping the matter a secret seemed at an end, and the doctor insisted that the persons she called for should be sent for. Annie came forthwith as we have seen, but Eugene's address was not known.
On entering the room where her mother set in company with two strange nurses, Annie was struck with the wildness of her manner: her hair was disordered and hung loose over her shoulders; it was far whiter than when Annie had seen it last, and her eyes were restlessly looking round the room. She sprang up at her daughter's entrance, threw herself on her neck, and burst into tears, "O Annie, Annie! are you come at last? I have a strange illness upon me; I do not know how to bear myself; but yon will not let them hurt me, you will take care of me."
Annie was not prepared for this greeting. She could only clasp her mother's hands, caress her, make her sit down, and try to keep down the swelling in her own throat. Suddenly Mrs. Godfrey broke from her, and standing up laid her hand on Annie's shoulder, saying: "Where is Eugene?"
"I do not know, my dear mother."
"Not know! Are you all leagued against me? What share in his inheritance had you?"
Annie looked as she felt, surprised. She had heard of the transaction only when it was over, but she answered soothingly, not wishing to bring forward exciting ideas. But Mrs. Godfrey was not to be Sue; all night she raved of Eugene; when Hester approached, she sprang from the bed and attempted to strike her; Mr. Godfrey dared not trust himself within her hearing. "Thief, traitor, knave, rascal, villain", and other opprobrious epithets were bestowed on him and his fondling. The doctor was not to be shaken in his opinion that the only hope lay in finding Eugene and bringing him to her bedside. But where? They had no clue; his lawyer only knew he was gone abroad and would probably not return for months. In the hope that some one might be more successful, they at length resolve, to Mr. Godfrey's intense vexation, to have inserted in the London and local papers a notice to the effect that "We are sorry to announce the serious and dangerous illness of the Hon. Mrs. Godfrey, at Estcourt Hall. Should this meet the eye of her eldest son, now on his travels, his family request him to return without delay."
This advertisement luckily was pointed out to M. Bertolot very soon after it appeared at Cambridge, and he hastened to forward it by a courier to Eugene, who, traveling by post (those were not days of railways), arrived at Estcourt Hall within three weeks after Annie had taken up her residence there. The old butler who answered the ring at the gate bowed a solemn but speechless welcome, and with a significant gesture conducted him, not through the usual entrance-hall, but by a side door, up-stairs, till he came to Annie's apartment, which communicated with the sick-chamber. Here he wrapped, and on Annie's appearance left the two together without a word.
Eugene entered and sat down. "What is the matter?" He said. But Annie answered not; her looks were those of one too wretched to weep.
Eugene repeated his inquiry, and then she softly whispered: "O! Eugene, she has gone out of her mind!" Eugene covered his face with his hands.{609}It was a long time ere either could speak again. At length Annie rose on tiptoe and opened the door communicating with the invalid's apartments. His mother was lying quietly on the sofa, muttering at intervals. Eugene approached and listened. He thought he caught the sound of his own name. He went nearer and knelt beside her. The sick woman knew it not, but her arm laid itself restlessly around his neck, and as his hot tears fell on her cheek she kept repeating in her sleep the words, "Eugene, my dear Eugene!" Singularly enough, when she waked she evinced no surprise at finding him there. It was as though she knew it intuitively, or had expected it. Perhaps it was the prolongation of her dream. She did not greet him as a stranger, or speak as if long months had passed since she saw him, for question him as to his occupation or place of abode. She waked, but was as if still dreaming of him. She found him there, where she had so long wished him to be, quietly asked him to hand her a glass of water, took it from him contentedly, returned the glass, kissed him as he bent over her, and sank into along, tranquil sleep, from which she tranquilly and apparently refreshed, but still taking Eugene's appearance as a matter of course which called for no expression of surprise.
The physician now insisted on this state of contentment being left undisturbed. He had long wished Mr. Godfrey and Hester out of the house on account of the excitement they produced in his patient; he now insisted that they should not be seen, heard, board named in the sick-room; "in fact," he said to them, "if it were convenient, it would be better you should retire from the house until Mrs. Godfrey can herself be moved. A paroxysm now might kill her. Spare her that, and I hope she will recover. This illness appears to have been occasioned by mental anguish and evidently her son only has the power to soothe her." Hester was deeply moved; Mr. Godfrey was angry, but he hid his vexation. "He would wait a day or two," he said; "if Mrs. Godfrey continued to improve, he would take Hester to Yorkshire, where their presence was greatly needed."
He was, however, so much irritated that he would not see Eugene, in spite of his entreaties conveyed by Annie. Meals were served up to him and Hester in a separate room, and he now appeared only anxious to get away. Hester was, however, almost heart-broken. She had not been allowed to speak to Eugene; but the night before their departure, after Mr. Godfrey had retired for the night, she sent a note to him containing these words only: