The third centennial celebration of the introduction of the English liturgy into Ireland—the 51st year of the union of the two national churches—would have afforded an excellent opportunity of taking stock, humanly speaking, of the progress made in a hundred years. But no one thought of suggesting an appropriate celebration of the great event, and so, unhappily, the precious opportunity has been lost. We shall endeavor, however, to supply the want of such a comprehensive retrospect; and here, for the first time, we find the facts and figures of Mr. Godkin's book of considerable service to the subject. From the House of Commons debates of the year 1834, Mr. Godkin gives the following sketch of the arguments and illustrations used in support of "the Church Temporalities Act:"
"Lord John Russell, Lord Howick, and Mr. Sheil, while fully admitting that an establishment tends to promote religion and to preserve good order, contended that it ought not to be maintained where it fails to secure these objects, and that it must always fail when, as in Ireland, the members of the Established Church are only a minority of the nation, while the majority, constituting most of the poorer classes, are thrown upon the voluntary system for the support of their clergy. Concurring with Paley in his view of a Church Establishment—that it should be founded upon utility, that it should communicate religious knowledge to the masses of the people, that it should not be debased into a state engine or an instrument of political power—they demanded whether the Church of Ireland fulfilled these essential conditions of an establishment. They asked whether its immense revenues had been employed in preserving and extending the Protestant faith in Ireland? In the course of something more than a century it was stated that its revenues had increased sevenfold, and now amounted to £800,000 a year. Had its efficiency increased in the same proportion? Had it even succeeded in keeping its own small flock within the fold? On the contrary, they adduced statistics to show a lamentable falling off in their numbers. For example. Lord John Russell said, 'By Tighe'sHistory of Kilkenny, it appears that the number of Protestant families in 1731 was 1055, but in 1800 they had been reduced to 941. The total number of Protestants at the former period was 5238, while the population of the county, which in 1800 was 108,000, in 1731 was only 42,108 souls. From Stuart'sHistory of Armagh, we find that sixty years ago the Protestants in that country were as two to one; now they are as one to three. In 1733, the Roman Catholics in Kerry were twelve to one Protestant, and now the former are much more numerous than even that proportion. In Tullamore, in 1731, there were 64 Protestants to 613 Roman Catholics; but according to Mason's parochial survey, in 1818 the Protestants had diminished to only five, while the Roman Catholics had augmented to 2455. On the whole, from the best computation he had seen—and he believed it was not exaggerated one way or the other—the entire number of Protestants belonging to the Established Church in Ireland can hardly be stated higher than 750,000; and of those 400,000 are resident in the ecclesiastical province of Armagh.'"—pp. 153.
Now, for the maintenance of this church of 700,000 out of a population of 7,000,000—this church of a tenth of the people—there were then and now are held in mortmain of the best lands of the kingdom, above 600,000 acres. We are told by the poet:
"A time there was ere England's woes beganWhen every rood of ground sustained its man."
The Irish soil is not so nutritious; still, even there, every acre stands for a soul saved or to be saved, according to "the doctrine and discipline" of the united church.In addition to the lands and their revenues, there are also certain supplementary parliamentary grants not to be despised even by light and worldly-minded persons. Mr. Godkin enumerates, in his introduction, several of these:
"It may be desirable to add some more precise information on that subject. There was a return made to Parliament, dated 24th July, 1803, and signed by the then Chief Secretary, Mr. Wickham, who certified that it was made up from the best materials in the chief secretary's office, and believed to be nearly accurate. From this return it appears that the number of parishes in Ireland then was 2436; of benefices, 1120; of churches, 1001; and of glebe-houses, 355. This represents the state of the establishment in the year 1791."From 1791 to 1803 the Board of First Fruits granted the sum of £500, in 88 cases, for the building of churches, making a total of £44,000. During the same period the Board granted £100 each for 116 glebe-houses, making a total of £11,600."From a parliamentary return, ordered in 1826, it appears that within the present century the following amounts have been voted by parliament up to that date: Gifts for building churches, £224,946; loans for building churches, £286,572; total, £511,538, for building churches in twenty-five years."During the same period gifts were made for glebes, £61,484; gifts for building glebe-houses, £144,734. Loans were granted for the same purpose amounting to £222,291, making a total for glebes and glebe-houses of £428,509. Thus, between the year 1791 and 1826 the Establishment obtained for churches and glebes the sum of £940,047. The number of glebe-houses in 1826 was increased to 771, and of benefices to 1396. The number of cures with non-residence was 286." [Footnote 49]
[Footnote 49: The following additional figures (from theUnionto the year 1844) are given on page 96:For building churches,— £625,371For building glebe houses,— 336,889For Protestant charity schools,— 1,105,588For the Society for Discountenancing Vice, etc.— 101,991]
And, on the other hand, the celebrants of the third centenary, if they had thought of holding one, would have learned from Mr. Godkin (himself a resolute Protestant of the Unitarian school, and an ex-reverend) of the alarming increase of popery of late days even in the very capital of English authority.
"Indeed, the progress of the Roman Catholic Church in this city is astonishing, and has no parallel perhaps in any country in Europe. In 1820, there were in Dublin only ten parochial chapels, most of them of an humble character and occupying obscure positions. There were at the same time seven convents or 'friaries,' as they were then called, and ten nunneries, which Mr. Wright described as 'religious asylums where the females of the Roman Catholic religion find shelter when deprived of the protection of their relatives by the hand of Providence.' [Footnote 50] Now the loveliest daughters of some of the most respectable and the best connected Roman Catholic families leave their happy homes and take the veil, sometimes bringing with them ample fortunes—devoting themselves to the work of education and the relief of the poor as 'Sisters of Mercy,' 'Sisters of Charity,' etc.
[Footnote 50: Wright'sDublin, p. 174.]
"There are now thirty-two churches and chapels in Dublin and its vicinity. In the diocese the total number of secular clergy is 287, and of regulars 125; total priests, 412. The number of nuns is 1150. Besides the Catholic University, with its ample staff of professors, there are in the diocese six colleges, seven superior schools for boys, fourteen superior schools for ladies, twelve monastic primary schools, forty convent schools, and 200 lay schools, without including those which are under the National Board of Education. The Christian Brothers have 7000 pupils under their instruction, while the schools connected with the convents in the diocese contain 15,000. Besides Maynooth, which is amply endowed by the state, and contains 500 or 600 students, all designed for the priesthood, there is the College of All Hallows, at Drumcondra, in which 250 young men are being trained for the foreign mission. The Roman Catholic charities of the city are varied and numerous. There are magnificent hospitals, one of which especially—the Mater Misericordiae—has been not inappropriately called 'the Palace of the Sick Poor'—numerous orphanages, several widows' houses, and other refuges for virtuous women; ragged and industrial schools, night asylums, penitentiaries, reformatories, institutions for the blind and deaf and dumb; institutions for relieving the poor at their own houses, and Christian doctrine fraternities almost innumerable. All these wonderful organizations of religion and charity are supported wholly on the voluntary principle, and they have nearly all sprung into existence within half a century."—p. 94.
Such is the latest presentation of facts in relation to "Ireland and her churches." Of Mr. Godkin's book (we don't know whether or not he is still calledReverend) we can only say that it is very fairly intended, and shows great industry in the accumulation of materials. From some statements in the historical introduction we most decidedly demur; but the valuable collection of facts in the second part, under the head "Inspection of Bishoprics," and the manifest desire to do, and to inculcate the doing of, justice to men of all churches, throughout the whole book, must bring in every true friend of Ireland the author's debtor.
"My burden is light"
The Disciple."Dear Lord, how canst thou say'Tis light,When I behold thee on the wayTo Calvary's height,Fainting and falling 'neath its heavy weight?Ah! no. For me thy burden is too great."The Master."Good child, thou dost mistakeThe burden I would have thee take.The cruel loadThat crushed me down on Calvary's roadWas thine,Not mine.What lighter burden can there beThan that which Love would lay on thee?"The Disciple."Kind Lord, how foolish is my speech!I mark the truth which thou wouldst teachTo my cold heart.Love all the burden bears of others' woes,Beyond its might;But of its own on them it would imposeOnly a part,And makes that light."
The Disciple."Dear Lord, how canst thou say'Tis light,When I behold thee on the wayTo Calvary's height,Fainting and falling 'neath its heavy weight?Ah! no. For me thy burden is too great."The Master."Good child, thou dost mistakeThe burden I would have thee take.The cruel loadThat crushed me down on Calvary's roadWas thine,Not mine.What lighter burden can there beThan that which Love would lay on thee?"The Disciple."Kind Lord, how foolish is my speech!I mark the truth which thou wouldst teachTo my cold heart.Love all the burden bears of others' woes,Beyond its might;But of its own on them it would imposeOnly a part,And makes that light."
The farm-house occupied by the Lees, Henry and Margaret, was an old-fashioned, plain brick building. It stood at right angles to a country road which formed a short cut from the turnpike (leading from the city of C—— to Hamilton, the county-town of Butler county, Ohio) to the mills down on the Miami, passing through Mr. Lee's property and by his garden-gate. The house was some fifteen or twenty feet back from the road, and built one room deep three sides, with an old-fashioned garret across the whole of the main building. A wide brick pavement ran from the gate opening into the road past the front of the house to another gate opening into a private lane, leading from the barn and stables, a hundred yards or so back of the house, to a creek some distance in front, which had been dammed up to afford a convenient watering-place for the farm cattle; another brick pavement, not quite so wide, encircled the rear and sides of the house. A broad gravel walk led from the back hall-door to a gate, which, with a hedge, separated the grassy yard from the vegetable-garden, up through that to the barn; another path led from the front-door down between broad grass-plats of grass, studded with evergreens and fruit-trees, over a rustic bridge that spanned a deep ravine, to some stone steps leading down to a spring, which, with the space around and the hill behind, was paved with stone, beneath which the water ran a few feet, then spread out into a creek fringed with willows. On the right of the path from the bridge to some distance behind the spring was a cherry orchard; on the left an open knoll bordered with flower-beds and shrubbery, and occupied in the centre by a rustic summer-house.
In front of the farm-house on the edge of the grass-plats was a row of locust-trees. The parlor was at the end of the house toward the road and to the right of the hall; to the left of that was the dining-room; and on the left of that again the kitchen, not fronting evenly with the rest, but leaving space for a porch running to the end of the house, into the end of which a door opened from the dining-room.
It was Christmas eve, 18—. A lovely, clear moonlight night, rendered brighter by six or eight inches of snow that had fallen the day before, and now lay glistening like diamond-dust in the rays of the full moon. No sound disturbed the silence save the occasional crackling of a branch or twig among the trees, and one or two passers-by on horse-back or in wagon, trudging merrily homeward; for though the railroad had long since made a much shorter route from the city to the mills and Hamilton, Mr. Lee had not retracted the permit to pass through his farm, and the road still remained open.
The parlor windows gave out a brilliant light from the candles burning on the mantle-piece and the Christmas tree, that blazed between them and the wood fire on the old-fashioned hearth. A group was seated round it.Harry Lee, with just a shade of care on his joyous face and a few threads of silver through his thick brown hair, sat opposite the front windows at one side of the hearth; at his side, with her arm resting on his knee, seated on a low ottoman, was a young girl, his niece, Florence Athern; from the lamp on the table a little behind her the soft light fell on the masses of golden hair that covered her well-shaped head, and on the pages of a richly illustrated book, the leaves of which were held open by a hand perfect in its size, shape, and texture; and her face, as she raised it from time to time, in answer to a caressing nod or motion of her uncle, was very lovely, with a tinge of sadness in the light of the soft blue eyes and the curve of the sensitive lips. Opposite these two sat Margaret Lee. Younger than her brother, but old before her time, her sad face was still interesting, though it could not be called handsome. At her side was a younger sister, whose whole attention was given to the three children seated on the floor in the space before the fire, eagerly examining the gifts just taken from the Christmas-trees. Her husband sat on the other side of the table, on which was the lamp, looking over a book of engravings, and trying, from time to time, to restrain the uproar made by the juvenile group. Watching the children while her hands were full of gifts that had fallen to her share, stood an old colored woman, short and fat, and dressed in a neat black dress, while on her head she wore a false front of crinkled black hair and a black lace cap. Her kind old face beamed with enjoyment at the children's pleasure.
The room was furnished handsomely and with taste. One or two portraits and paintings of merit hung on the walls, and over the mantle-piece was a picture of the Nativity, wreathed with holly, and before which two wax candles were burning.
No one heard the step that approached the house; no one saw the wan but handsome face that was thrust close to the panes for a few moments. A tall, well-dressed man stood there looking in, then turned away with a sound like a sob and a sigh and covered his face with his hands. "It is she, my child, my darling; but I am not worthy, O God! I am not worthy!" He did not look in again, but turned and walked down the path leading to the spring, murmuring, "Fifteen years, and so little change in outward things. The same trees, the porch, the door-steps, only that snow-ball and these ailanthuses grown into large bushes, and here and there a flower-bed where there had been grass; but she—ah! how has my darling passed these years that have been so dreary to me?" Just then the kitchen-door opened, flooding the porch floor, the steps, and portion of the walk with light. One of the workmen came out, and the stranger drew himself closely behind a pear-shaped evergreen. "I hope," he thought, "the fellow will not bring a dog with him. He has a bucket in his hand, and may be going to the spring; in that case, I have no escape, for the snow will betray me if I move!" But the man said good-night in a German accent, and, whistling to the Newfoundland which had come out with him, and now stood snuffing the air toward where the stranger was hiding, turned and walked the length of the porch, down the steps at the end, past the pump and smoke-house, out through the gate into the back lane, and so up to the barn. "So," said the stranger, "he has gone to feed the horses for the night, and I am safe."He walked slowly down across the bridge, and stood for a few moments on the topmost step leading to the spring; then went down there, and kneeling on the stones at the edge, scooped up some water in his hand and drank; then rising and brushing the snow off his clothes, he retraced his steps and once more gazed in at the parlor window. It happened that the old colored woman had just picked up the youngest child in her arms, and, followed by the others, was moving toward the door, her face turned full to the window, when she made an exclamation and nearly dropped the child she held. "Why, Tamar," exclaimed Miss Lee, "what's the matter?" "Oh! nothin'," replied the woman, "spec this colored pusson gettin' nervus, dat's all. Come long, chicks, to roost." And she left the room without affording a chance to the group round the fire to see her face, which bore a frightened look. But the children, busy with their happy prattle, did not notice it, neither did the nurse who was waiting for them. As soon as she had seen them snug in their beds, with stockings duly hung, and night prayers said, she started to return to the kitchen. Her mistress heard her, and came into the hall to speak to her, preceding her through the dining-room and across the space on the porch between the dining-room and kitchen doors, much to her satisfaction, to the latter department, to make some necessary arrangements for breakfast. On Miss Lee's return to the parlor, a game of whist was proposed, in which the four elders joined, leaving Florence to the quiet enjoyment of her book. After a rubber of three games, a motion to retire was made by the sisters; and Henry Lee, turning to Florence, said, "Well, Puss, is it not time to give up your book? Half-past eleven, my pet," (looking at his watch,) "and we must be up early, you know, to be ready for church, and dinner at Uncle Joe's to-morrow."
At last the brother and sister were left alone, and stood looking at one another for a few moments; then Mr. Lee spoke: "It must be done to-morrow. Who shall do it—you or I?"
"I think I had better, Harry dear. Women can deal better with women in such a time, although I know your tender, loving heart, and do not doubt it."
"I am glad, Mag, you will take it on yourself, for I feel a very coward in the matter."
"Oh! yes, it is better that I should; but I will not tell her till night—I will not mar the happiness of her Christmas till I cannot help it."
"As you will; and now good-night, I must go and see that matters are all right for the night. You say Anthony has gone up?"
"Oh! yes, some time ago."
"Well, good-night!" He left the parlor, and getting a lantern from the closet under the stairs, lit it, and started to the barn.
It had been the custom in this family, since Anna Lee married, that she and her husband should spend Christmas eve at the old homestead, and return to their own house in Hamilton, with her brother, sister, and niece, on Christmas morning. The early Mass was too early for them to hear it, so the clergyman was willing to give them the holy communion as soon as they had spent a sufficient time in preparation on their arrival. After making their thanksgiving, they adjourned to Mrs. Mohun's house for breakfast. Then, after High Mass and a Christmas dinner at Mrs. Mohun's, the two Lees and Florence returned to "The Solitude."
This programme was carried out as usual on this Christmas day, and the evening found the three sitting quietly in the parlor round the fire-place, with no noise of children's prattle to distract their attention.On pretence of letters to write, Mr. Lee left the women alone with a glance at his sister. No face was flattened against the windows tonight, though old Tamar refrained from looking toward them.
Florence occupied a low seat between her aunt and uncle; and when the latter left the room, Margaret laid her head gently on the young girl's shoulder, and drew her toward her, saying:
"Florence, dearest, your uncle had a letter yesterday from Arthur Hinsdale. One to you came by the same mail; but on reading that directed to him, your uncle decided not to give you yours till he or I had told you something which you must know before you can answer it. Here are both the letters, dear; you can read them in your own room when I have finished. You have often asked," she continued, as Florence took the letters in silence, "to be told something about your mother and father. To-night I will tell you." A hardness came into her voice as she spoke that made the girl look up in surprise. "We lived, till your mother married, in the northern part of the State of New York, among the mountains, where people from the city came every summer to spend the hot months. My father was wealthy, but cared for no life but that of the country, so we saw nothing of the fashionable world, beyond the glimpse caught in the summer. My mother was an invalid, and cared for little beyond her own health; and Anna, who was then a child ten or twelve years old, your mother, and I did pretty much as we pleased. Harry was away at college at Fordham, and, when at home in the vacations, was our constant companion in our rides and walks.
"One summer a party of gentlemen from Philadelphia came up to the Adirondacks to fish. Our farm and house was not far from the spot where they encamped, and we met them several times in riding. Your father was among them." Here she paused, as if choking back some strong feeling, and Florence, slipping on her knees, wound her arms around her, resting her head against her. "Your mother was very beautiful," continued Margaret, threading her fingers through the young girl's golden hair lingeringly, as though she saw a resemblance that she loved to trace, "and it is not to be wondered at that she should have attracted attention. After several accidental meetings, he, your father, took advantage of some trivial accident, the dropping of Florence's whip, or something of the kind, to speak when, one day, we came upon them suddenly. From this it was easy to make an excuse to visit the farm-house with some of his friends. My father was a man of cultivation and education, though he chose to bury himself from the world, and liked the young men. After one or two visits, he invited them to the house freely, I need not tell you the old, old story, dear. Before the time came for the visitors to break up their camp, Paul Athern was engaged to my sister. Florence was but sixteen; Paul said he was nearly twenty-one; and my father insisted that they should wait two years, and there was to be no regular engagement for one year. This was at length agreed to with great reluctance by, by—your father. He also, being a Protestant, made all the necessary promises that your mother should be allowed the full enjoyment of her religion.
"Well, the winter passed quietly as usual, and toward spring a cousin of my mother's wrote, inviting us to pay her a visit in New York. We had once before visited her when I was fourteen and Florence twelve; so remembering the former pleasure, we were quite eager to go, Florence particularly seemed anxious.Tamar's mother was our cook, and had been my grandfather's slave before slavery was done away with in New York. Tamar, a girl of my own age, was our waiting-maid and humble companion andconfidante, and was to go with us. After a good deal of hesitation—for he seemed to feel a presentiment of evil—my father consented, and we went to New York. Our visit was nearly over, when, one day, on coming home from a walk with my cousin, I found Florence in the drawing-room with Paul Athern. She looked guilty, and blushed when she saw my look of surprise; but Paul greeted me with great apparent pleasure, and an easy grace that covered whatever confusion he may have felt. That night, when alone in our room, Florence said, 'Mag, was I very, very wrong to let Paul know I was here? I did want to see him so much, dear. Oh! youdon'tknow how I have craved a sight of his dear face!' I could not resist her gentle pleading, so did not blame her very much; but told her I must write to father, it was the right thing to do and I must do it. The answer to my letter was a peremptory order for our instant return home. We, or I, had no idea of disobedience, and so prepared to return at once. The day before we were to have left, Florence was particularly affectionate, and seemed not to wish to be left alone. I had some last errands to attend to, and leaving Tamar and Florence busy with their packing, went out for two or three hours. I returned to find the trunks packed, but neither Florence nor Tamar was in the house. My cousin said Florence kissed her when she went out, saying laughingly, 'May be you won't see me again.' Tamar went with her, carrying her satchel. As evening drew on and they did not return, a great fear came over me, and Cousin Mary had difficulty in keeping me from rushing into the street to seek for them. At last, a ring at the door was followed by Tamar's rushing into the drawing-room. She threw herself at my feet, buried her face in my lap, and cried as if her heart would break. At last, when she could speak, Cousin Mary had great trouble to understand her broken sentences. As for me, I sat stupefied, filled with the one idea that Tamar had come back without Florence.
"At last the frightened girl's story was made out. Florence had taken her, on pretence of carrying her bag; but at Union Square, Paul Athern met them with a carriage, into which they got, and were taken to a hotel down Broadway, (the Astor House, we afterward found it was.) Here they were shown into a private parlor where there was a strange gentleman, who looked, Tamar said, like the minister at home who preached in the little country church near us. He bowed to Paul and Florence when they entered, and then walked over to the farthest window and stood looking out. Mr. Athern had to talk a long time to Miss Florence before she was willing to do something that he wanted her to do. At last he said something that seemed to frighten her, and then he made a sign to the strange gentleman who went to the door of another room opening into this, and opened it. Mr. Tremaine, one of the fishing-party of the previous summer, came in, and before Tamar knew what they were doing, she heard the strange gentleman say, 'I pronounce you man and wife!' Then Florence fainted, and they had great trouble to bring her to.Then they all signed a paper, and the gentlemen shook hands withMr. and Mrs. Athern, and left them. Paul, after a few words to Florence, followed them. As soon as they were alone, Florence threw herself on her knees and cried, 'Oh! what have I done? what have I done? Tamar, do you think my darling father will ever forgive me?' She sobbed and cried, but by the time Paul returned had become quiet. When he came, she asked for paper and pen, as she wished to write to her father. The letter was given to Tamar, with a note to me, exonerating the girl from all blame. Then Mr. Athern said it was time to start to the depot. Florence turned very pale, but didn't say a word, only got up and began to put on her things. Mr. Athern turned to Tamar and told her she was to go home and tell me and Cousin Mary that we would never seeMissFlorence again, but that Mr. and Mrs. Athern would be happy to see them on their return from their wedding tour. Then they went to the depot in a carriage, taking Tamar with them, trusting to her getting safe home after they had left, which, thanks to a kind Providence, she did.
"This news threw me into a brain-fever; and when I came to myself, eight weeks after, I was told how my mother had died of a heart disease at the shock of Florence's flight; how a letter had come from Germantown, saying how happy she was if only she knew her dear father had forgiven her; then another, full of grief at the death of her mother and my illness; how my father had sold the old house, and was waiting for my recovery to bury himself and his griefs in the far west. So the next fall saw us fixed out here; and Florence was told of the change, and that her father would never cross the mountains again. My father had not cast her off, as parents do in novels, but his displeasure and disappointment were very great, and he let her know it; his letters, few and seldom, were cold and formal, never again the fond, loving missives they had been during the short separation from him in her childhood. More than all, he grieved over the Protestant marriage; for it was a Presbyterian minister who had performed the ceremony, and Florence had never mentioned having had it performed by a priest. One day, the next summer, as I was sitting at the open door, I saw a carriage drive up to the gate, and a lady get out; in a moment I knew it was Florence, and calling Tamar, ran out to meet her, only to receive her fainting in my arms. Tamar helped to carry her in and lay her on the sofa. Father had gone to Hamilton; and before he returned, we had got her up-stairs, and all traces of her arrival done away with. I waited anxiously for him to come, and wondered how I should tell him; but my anxiety was useless, for he came in with a small glove in his hand, and his first question was, 'Where's Florence?' I had hardly time to tell him, when the door opened, and Florence herself was at his feet.
"I left them alone together, and when I returned, he had placed her on the sofa, and was sitting close to her, holding her hand.
"It was not till the next day that we asked about her journey, and then she told her story.
"Paul had never told his father of his marriage, knowing what different plans the old gentleman had formed, and weakly putting off the evil hour, dreading the scene that would follow. He often told Florence of the urgings his father used to induce him to marry a young lady of the fashionable world, and laughed as he compared his 'meadow daisy,' as he called Florence, to the 'hot-house plant,' that was his father's choice.They managed to get along on the handsome allowance his father made him, and Florence's share of my mother's fortune. One day the little cottage at Germantown was overshadowed by a stately carriage, and out of the carriage came an aristocratic-looking gentleman, who inquired for Mrs. Paul Athern. When Florence presented herself, her gentle beauty had no effect in melting his stony heart, for he did his work well. It was Paul's father. He told her of his plans for Paul, and how he had discovered their secret at last; and, with a cruelty I cannot understand even now, informed her quietly that that marriage was null and void; they both being minors, by the statutes of New York could not contract legal marriage without consent of parents or guardians. Florence heard him out, and then rose and said she would wait till her husband came home to know the truth. 'Your husband, madam, has taken my advice and gone to New York for a few days, and you will not have the opportunity of telling him what he knows already, and knew when, to satisfy you, he went through the mockery of a marriage.'" The listener tightened her hold on Margaret and hid her face; her aunt put both arms around her, and continued: "Here Florence lost all consciousness, and when she came to herself, she was alone. The afternoon was nearly gone; but she called her servant, made her help to pack her trunk, then sent her for a carriage, leaving a note for Paul with the girl in charge of the house. She drove to Philadelphia, waited quietly at a hotel till the next morning, then started for the west.
"My father's anger was fearful, all the more so that he was powerless. Florence was ill for several weeks after her return, and even after she recovered she never looked like herself. She came to us in June; in July came a letter to my father in Paul's handwriting, which he threw into the fire unopened. In October you were born, and in six weeks more your poor mother—died." Here she paused again, and bent her head close to the golden-tressed one pressed to her breast. "My father lived till the next fall, but never the same man. Harry came home from Fordham that summer, and took entire charge of the farm, my father caring for nothing but to carry you about and watch you. For two years we heard nothing of your father; and then the eastern papers were full of a great forgery that had been committed, and the forger was a son of one of the first families in the city. Florence, darling, need I tell his name? The trial proved his guilt, but he managed to escape, and one day we were surprised by his sudden appearance here. He came without any announcement, and walked right into the parlor where I was sitting sewing and Uncle Harry reading, while you were asleep in your cradle. Before we could recognize him almost, he asked in a hoarse voice, 'Where is Florence—where, for God's sake, is my wife?' Then a glance at my black dress and Harry's stern face as he rose to repel his intrusion, seemed to reveal all, and he sank on the floor in a deep swoon.
"We kept his presence in the house a secret from the men on the farm, and only Tamar knew it; fortunately, the house-girl had gone to Hamilton for a few days. He was quite wild for a day or so; and when he came to himself, Harry demanded an explanation, and he gave it.
"He had not known of his father's visit to Germantown till he returned from New York, where he had gone that day at his father's request, having written a letter to that effect to Florence, which must have reached the house very soon after she left it.He was kept in New York on some pretext or another for three or four weeks. His letters to Florence, of course, never reached her, and on his return home he was told by his father that he 'had seen his pretty plaything, and told her some home truths.' A fearful scene followed, when he left his father's house, swearing never to set foot in it again, and that he would be revenged. He did not know that the marriage was illegal, as he was under the impression that he was twenty-one, till his father showed him the record, and then he found his mistake; and, as of course he knew that no Catholic clergyman would perform the ceremony, the Rev. Mr. Bell was the only one who could be found to do it. He had searched for Florence, and written to her father; but, as I knew too well, had received no answer. His allowance being stopped, he suddenly found himself without a penny, and no business or business habits; so he could not come out here to us, and gradually sought forgetfulness in dissipation. At last, by the treachery of a friend, himself the guilty one, he was proved a forger so skilfully that there was no getting over it. He swore solemnly that he was innocent, and felt sure his innocence would one day be proved. He did not stay long, being anxious to get out of the country and the clutches of the law. You were a great comfort to him, dear, during his short stay, but he had to leave you. In fifteen years, Florence, we have heard or seen nothing of him, and his guilt is still believed by those who have not forgotten the circumstances. Now, my darling, you know why I told you this ere your uncle gave you Arthur Hinsdale's letter." The young girl made no answer save a shiver that ran through her frame as she clung closer to her aunt. For a full hour they sat thus in silence; then Harry Lee came into the room. Florence rose to her feet and would have fallen, had her uncle not caught her in his arms, and tenderly, as if she had been a baby, he lifted her, and carried her up to her bed-room. Margaret followed, and tenderly prepared the broken-hearted girl for bed. The letters lay unheeded on the parlor floor.
All through the night Margaret Lee sat by her niece's bed-side, praying for strength for her darling, and watching the fitful slumbers and soothing the sad awakenings. And in the silent watches of the night arose the long-buried ghost of her own life's happiness, and kept guard beside her. There was an episode in the sad story she told her niece that was never mentioned—that she had not allowed herself to think of for many a long year; but to-night memory will not be silenced, and she brings up, once more, the pleasant days when young Tremaine whispered into her ear the same story which Paul told Florence, and the fearful crushing of all her hopes of happiness, when her father forbade her ever to see or speak to him again, his anger was so great against him for having assisted Paul. Margaret submitted quietly, as such natures do; but she never cared for anything afterward beyond doing her strict duty—cheerfully and heartily; but never joyously. Perhaps the old man repented when it was too late; for in two years after, they heard Tremaine was married, and he was very tender to her then.On his death-bed he drew her to him, and, asking her forgiveness if he had made her suffer, blessed her for the fondest love and gentlest tending that ever parent had from child. In that hour Margaret felt repaid for all that had gone before. So, through the long watches of the night, came up the memories of the long ago, and Margaret lived over again the dead joys and sorrows. Toward morning Florence slept quietly, and her watcher threw herself on the bed beside her, and soon fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke, the sun had risen, and on glancing at Florence, she found her lying quietly awake.
"Aunt Margaret," said the young girl, "that—that—letter. I know what he wrote, and it is not necessary to tell him, is it?"
"Only under certain circumstances, my darling; your own heart will tell you what."
"Oh! yes, auntie; but that can never be. I can tell him that, and nothing more."
"My poor, dear child, have you not faith enough? do you not think his love for you is strong enough to live through this trial?"
"Yes, oh! yes! But would it be right to inflict the trial on him? I think not; I think the burden is mine alone, and I alone must bear it!"
"God grant you strength to do so, my precious one! If I could have spared you the suffering, how gladly would I have done it!"
"I know that, auntie, dear. Do you think I do not feel and appreciate the years of care and tender love I have had from you and Uncle Harry? I was as happy as any one could be before—before—and I can and will be happy with you still."
"God bless you, dearest!" was Margaret's answer, as she pressed a kiss on her forehead and left the room.
As soon as she was alone, Florence turned the key in her door; then, throwing a dressing-gown around her, fell on her knees before a beautiful engraving of the Mater Dolorosa, which hung over aprie-dieuat the side of her bed. Long she knelt there, her golden hair falling in dishevelled masses over her shoulders, and nearly touching the floor as she knelt. At first there was no sound, but presently her slight frame was convulsed with suppressed weeping that soon found voice in sobs. At last she rose, and began to dress, ever and anon pressing her hands to her head or heart to still their aching. When she was ready to go downstairs, she again knelt before the picture, and prayed for strength to bear her cross, so that not even the shadow of it should fall on those whose tenderness and love had been her shield in the years that had gone.
And then she went down and greeted her uncle with a brave attempt at her usual manner; she neglected nothing that she had been accustomed to do, none of the little services she had been in the habit of rendering; and, but for the sadness that no strength of will could drive from her face, and the silence of the bird-like voice that before made music through the house the whole day long, a casual observer would not have guessed at the sufferings of the previous night.
On going into the parlor, she saw the letters where she had dropped them the night before, and the sight of them sent a cold thrill of pain to her heart; but she picked them up and put them in her pocket. After going through the house as usual, she locked herself up in her room once more, to read the letters. Arthur Hinsdale's to herself was, as she anticipated, a declaration of affection; that to her uncle, written the day after, expressed a hope that he would support his cause if it needed it.And how were they to be answered? Florence paused long in painful thought on the subject, but felt too utterly miserable to come to any conclusion. So the day passed sadly, and so the night and the next day. On the third day Florence felt that some answer must be given and written before another night went by, and set herself to her painful task. Having completed it, she brought the letter down with her into the parlor, and sat down to some pretence of employment that kept her hands busy, though her mind was far off. Presently she heard the galloping of a horse in the lane, and in a few moments a knock at the front-door. The blinds were down over the front windows, so she had not seen any one pass, and, rising, she tried to make her escape before the visitor was admitted. But she was too late. As she opened the parlor door, the front-door was opened from without by her uncle, and she stood face to face with Arthur Hinsdale. The hearty greeting he had met with from Mr. Lee had reassured the young man, and he was not prepared for the frightened look and deadly pallor that overspread Florence's face when she saw him. She stepped back into the parlor, and held out her hand with a desperate attempt to smile. Arthur took the hand and pressed it to his lips. Mr. Lee had closed the parlor door, and she was alone with him. With a desperate effort she commanded her voice enough to make some commonplace remark about his journey, signing him to a chair, while she seated herself.
"I ventured to come, although I had received no answer to my letter. Did you receive it?"
Florence inclined her head.
"Then you knew the reason of my coming?"
Again Florence bowed, but could not speak.
"Miss Athern, was not my letter plain enough—do you not believe me? I do not understand your silence."
"Your—your letter was fully understood, Mr. Hinsdale, and I thank—"
"You thank me, Florence!"
Then in earnest language he told her how he loved her, and how his fear that his letter had not reached her had brought him there, preferring the pain of a double refusal to the doubt in which he must have awaited her reply by post. To all this Florence listened with head bent down and hands clasped; and when he paused for a reply, she pointed to the letter lying on the table. He took it up and walked to the window; a painful silence followed, broken only by the rustling of the paper in his hands. When he had finished reading, he came to her side, and leaning over her said:
"Am I to receive this as your answer?"
"Yes!" said Florence in a whisper.
"A final and decisive answer?"
"Yes!"
"Then pardon me. Miss Athern, that I allowed my heart to read your conduct as I hoped it was meant, not as you really meant it. I gave you credit for a nobler heart than you possess. Let me tell you the truth, though what I say seems a reproach, that offer would never have been made had I not felt assured, by your treatment of me, that it would be accepted."
Florence started, and the eloquent blood rushed to her very temples.
"Mr. Hinsdale, you have no right to speak thus to me!"
She attempted to draw her hands from his grasp, but could not.
"No right!—well, perhaps I have not. Forgive me, Florence, and only remember that I love you."
He still held her hands and tried to look into her face, but she bent her head away from him.
"I love you, Florence, and I feel that I am entitled to a little more consideration than that letter shows, Florence, will you be my wife?"
A low but distinct "No," was the answer.
"Do you mean you do not love me?"
She made no answer, and he dropped or rather flung her hands from him and started to his feet.
"Strange, unfeeling! O fool, fool that I was! to build my happiness on such a crumbling base; to be caught in the net of a false woman's beauty, the smiles of a vain coquette!"
"Arthur, Arthur! you will break my heart!"
She had risen and was standing with one hand resting on the back of a chair, the other pressed to her head. He made a motion to approach her, but she put out her hand with a sign to stop him.
"Now listen to me. I am no false woman, no vain coquette. Until the night I received your letter, I knew no reason why I should not—not—" She hesitated a moment. "I knew no reason why I should not have answered it according to the dictates of my heart; but that night a story of a life was told me that—that changed my whole existence. It is a heavy burden to bear."
"But not, dearest, if I can help you bear it." He would have taken her hand, but she drew back from him, "You cannot, no one can—O God! help me, my heart is broken!" She threw her arms up over her head, and would have fallen had he not caught her. She had not fainted, though for a moment she thought death had come to her relief; and almost in a moment released herself from his arms, and said sadly: "I hoped to have spared us both this misery; but it was God's will that we should not escape it. For myself, a little more does not matter; but for you—O Arthur! forgive me the pain I have made you suffer, and remember my own cross is as heavy as I can bear. Good-by!" She held out her hand—"good-by! You cannot return home to-day, it is too late; but you must excuse me, I will send uncle."
"Florence! I am not going to remain if this is your answer. Do you think I could break bread or sleep under your roof after what has passed? Heavens! do you think I'm a stick or a stone?"
"As you will!" she said wearily, "I cannot help it!"
"Then I will take my leave." He was going; but as he laid his hand on the door-knob, he glanced at her, and the expression of heart-broken misery in the sweet face overcame his injured feelings, and he turned and took her hand. "Forgive me, Florence; I have been rude and unfeeling—selfish in my great disappointment. Forgive me, darling; remember my love is strong enough to bear the heaviest burdenyoucould lay upon it, if your own strength fails, Good-by and God bless you." He raised her hand to his lips, and in another moment was gone.
Every day Florence strove manfully with her trouble, and every night her prayers were said before theMater Dolorosa, for strength to bear with silent patience the sorrow her loving friends could not cure. But her face grew pale and wan, her form more slight and delicate, till her aunt, in alarm, proposed a change of scene. It was in the early spring, and Margaret Lee proposed a tour through the eastern cities; but Florence begged so hard not to be taken to New York or Philadelphia that the idea was given up.At last they determined to go direct to Boston, and sail thence for Liverpool. This plan was carried out in June, leaving the farm in charge of the overseer, and the house to Tamar.
To a mind like Florence's, imbued with a loving reverence for all connected with the church, filled with a love for the beautiful and grand, and a heart ready to receive their impressions; with an intellect of no common order, and a quick appreciation of the good and noble, a tour through Europe, particularly Spain, France, and Italy, had many charms, and could not but awake an interest that surprised herself. When they settled at Rome for the winter, they had the satisfaction of a decided change for the better in Florence's appearance.
But she had not forgotten; she was only glad that returning strength of body enabled her to hide more effectually the anguish and heart-sick yearning that sometimes seemed unbearable. Several letters came from Arthur Hinsdale during the first year; but Florence returned the same answer to all; and at last the young man desisted. Three years were passed in idling from one point of interest to another, when the tocsin of civil war in the United States waked up the nations, and called the country's loyal children from far and wide to her assistance.
Once more the scene is laid at "The Solitude;" but this time the earth is not clothed in winter's snowy mantle. Hid in the wealth of foliage the trees are wearing, the birds are singing their vesper hymns, the sun is just sinking behind the woods, and throws his last rays over a group seated on the grass near the slope into the ravine.
Henry Lee is there, and Margaret and Annie and her children; but Mr. Mohun is down in Tennessee with Rosecrans, and the wife's brow wears an expression of anxiety, as she watches her children, that was a stranger to it when we last saw her. Florence, too, is there, looking very well, people say; but there is an indefinable change that those nearest her feel, though they cannot say where or in what it lies. One or two young ladies are added to the group, and a young gentleman, whose shoulder-straps show his rank as second lieutenant, while the foot still bound up and the crutches lying near, show cause for his presence on the scene. He is William Mohun, a younger brother of Annie's husband, and was wounded in the siege of Vicksburg. What he is saying now must be listened to.
"I wish you knew our colonel, Mr. Lee; for a braver, nobler, kinder-hearted man never lived. He led a charge at Vicksburg, and exposed himself unsparingly; indeed, he seemed to court death; yet when he could help a wounded man, he was as gentle as a woman. O Miss Florence! a friend of yours is the regimental surgeon—Arthur Hinsdale, don't you remember him?"
"Oh! yes," replied Florence, with wonderful self-command.
"He, too," continued the young man, "deserves the thanks of the nation; for I never saw such devotion to the wounded and dying. Poor Warrington! hope he is not seriously wounded, for he will be a great loss to us; and I hope Hinsdale is with him, for then I know he will be well cared for."
"See, is there any mention of Joe's regiment. Will?" asked his sister-in-law; and the young man referred to the paper in whose columns he had seen the wounding of his colonel—Warrington. Florence rose quietly and went into the house; the old Newfoundland, who had been lying beside her, got up and walked at her side in stately satisfaction, ever and anon thrusting his cold nose into her hand in token of sympathy.When Florence returned, there were traces of tears in her eyes; but her face wore an expression of loving gratification her aunt understood well.
A month and more has passed, and October began to touch, with her changing pencil, the trees and shrubs. The air was hazy and balmy, and the sun still warm; so the family at "The Solitude" spent many of their evenings in the open air. William Mohun was gone back to duty, and the young lady friends were again at home. Florence and her two aunts were busy over comforts for the soldiers, to help them through the weary winter with the thought that loving hearts at home had not forgotten them. One evening Florence had been down to the spring, and, lured by the lovely evening, seated herself in the summer-house on the knoll above it, with a book. She did not hear a carriage which approached the house from the direction of Hamilton, nor did she see the two gentlemen who alighted from it. Mr. Lee received Arthur Hinsdale and his companion with cordial welcome, though surprised at the sudden arrival, and wondering at Arthur's eager, excited manner. He greeted Henry and Margaret warmly, but asked instantly for Florence. They told him where she was, and the young man, instead of crossing the bridge, which would have apprised her of his coming, passed with a swift foot down the lane, and, springing over the fence among the cherry-trees, down the slope, across the path, was in the summer-house almost before Florence saw him.
"Florence, my darling, our trial is at an end. My precious one, I know your secret now. Cruel! that you doubted me. Could you not feel that nothing could change my love?"
He had taken her hands in his, and held them, looking down into her sweet face while he spoke, Florence looked at him in bewilderment; then, with a sobbing, convulsive movement of her lips, almost fainted.
Meanwhile the gentleman, whom Arthur had introduced as Colonel Warrington, followed Henry and Margaret into the parlor by the door that opened at the end of the house toward the gate. When they entered and Margaret turned to offer him a chair, she saw he was deadly pale, and was glancing round the room as if it recalled something painful. At the same moment a veil dropped from Margaret's eyes. She walked up to him, and, laying her hand on his arm, said, "Paul Athern, in heaven's name speak."
"Paul Athern?" said Henry Lee, with a start of surprise.
"Yes," replied the colonel sadly, "I am Paul Athern. God bless you for the care you have taken of my darling. I can see her now without fear. Henry Lee, I can offer you my hand, and you, an honest man, can take it without hesitation."
Henry Lee grasped the hand extended to him warmly, saying, "I never thought anything else, Athern, after the interview we had; but I rejoice that you are relieved from your painful situation and are living to enjoy the change. We began to fear you had died. Tell us all about it; for Florence and Arthur will not join us yet."
Then Paul Athern told how he had gone from "The Solitude" to New Orleans with a firm purpose to win fortune and a fame that would enable him to present himself before Florence in his true relationship. He worked hard and steadily, and gained the confidence of his employers to such an extent that they took him into partnership, and then he came to Ohio to see his child.But the stain was not removed from his name, and he shrank from the meeting at the last, as much as at first he had longed for it. He rode out to "The Solitude" on Christmas eve, and took a peep at the family group through the window, and had gone again without the consolation of hearing Florence speak. He told them how, in looking in at the window the second time, he feared Tamar had seen him, and he had hurried out to his horse and ridden away quickly. So he went back with only the crumb of comfort that stolen look afforded to his starving heart. When the war broke out, he withdrew from business with a comfortable fortune, and returned to C——, raised a company for the —— regiment, and rose to the rank of colonel. During his stay in C——, the family were still in Europe; but he came out to "The Solitude," and had a long talk with Tamar. Then came the wound that had prostrated him and put him into Arthur Hinsdale's hands; during the ravings of the fever he had mentioned names and revealed enough to arouse Arthur's interest and curiosity. As soon as he was well enough, the young man asked for an explanation, first telling why he asked it. Paul told him all, and his story only bound the young surgeon more closely to him. The colonel then paid a glowing tribute to the kindness and care he had received from Arthur, and to his general interest in and treatment of the wounded men. He watched till Paul was well enough to travel, and then obtaining a leave of absence for both from the commanding general, started home. At first Paul refused to accompany Arthur; but one day a wounded officer was brought in and laid on the bed next to the one occupied by him. Arthur made a sign to Paul to help him to remove the man's clothes; he stooped over him to unbutton his coat, when the man opened his eyes, and, after looking round with a startled gaze, fixed them on Paul with a frightened stare. Paul looked and recognized the man who had blighted his whole existence. A fierce struggle arose in his breast, and his fingers ceased their work, while he turned away with a look of disgust and dislike. Arthur looked up at him with surprise, and just then the man made a desperate effort and put out his hand, saying faintly:
"Athern, forgive—here—I have it—all here."
And his hand fluttered toward his heart, then fell, and his eyes sought Paul's with agonized entreaty. It was a hard struggle; but the better angel conquered, and Paul took the hand and said:
"I do forgive you, Brooks, as I hope to be forgiven."
A smile passed over the man's face; he moved his head slightly and was dead. In his breast-pocket were two packages, one addressed to Paul's father, the other to an influential gentleman in Philadelphia. The latter was mailed duly, and the former, Paul, his father being dead, opened. It contained a full acknowledgment of having committed the forgery for which Paul suffered, and an explanation of how it was managed. This determined him at once to return to his wife's family. Meantime the same story had been told in different words in the summer-house down by the spring, and it took so long in the telling that it was almost dark when Margaret, going to call her niece, saw them rise and approach the house, Florence, with a bright look of happiness her face had not worn for years, leaning on Arthur's arm. She hastened with trembling footsteps to the parlor, at the door of which Arthur left her, and in another moment she was clasped in her father's arms.