The king whirled round on his heel, pretending not to hear him. “This is a beautiful rose,” he said, stooping down, “a very beautiful variety—come from the seed, no doubt? Are you a gardener? I am very fond of flowers. Oh! my garden will be superb.”
“Sire,” said More, still pursuing his subject.
“I must have a cutting of that rose—do you hear me, More?” As he ran on in this manner, to prevent Sir Thomas from speaking, the silvery notes of a bell were heard, filling the air with a sweet and prolonged vibrating sound.
“What bell is that?” asked the king.
“The bell of our chapel, sire,” replied More, “summoning us to evening prayers, which we usually prefer saying all together. But to-day, your majesty having honored us with a visit, there will be no obligation to answer the call.”
“By all means,” replied Henry. “Let me interfere with nothing. It is almost night: come. We will return, and I will join in your devotions.”
Sir Thomas conducted him through the shrubbery towards the chapel, a venerable structure in the Anglo-Saxon style of architecture. A thick undergrowth of briers, brambles, and wild shrubbery was matted and interlaced around the foundation of the building; running vines clambered over the heavy arches of the antique windows, and fell back in waving garlands upon the climbing branches from which they had sprung. The walls, of rough unhewn stone, were thickly covered with moss and ivy, giving the little structure an appearance of such antiquity that the most scrupulous antiquarian would have unhesitatingly referred its foundation to the time of King Athelstan or his brother Edmund. The interior was adorned with extreme care and taste. A bronze lamp, suspended before the altar, illuminated a statue of the Holy Virgin placed above it. The children of Sir Thomas, with the servants of his household, were ranged in respectful silence behind the arm-chair of his aged father. Margaret knelt beside him with her prayer-book, waiting to begin the devotions.
The touching voice of this young girl as she slowly repeated the sublime words—“Our Father who art in heaven”—those words which men may so joyfully pronounce, which teach us the exalted dignity of our being, the grandeur of our origin and destiny—those sublime words penetrated the soul of the king with a profound and singular emotion.
“What a happy family!” he exclaimed, mentally. “Nothing disturbs their harmony; day after day passes without leaving a regret behind it. Why can I not join in this sweet prayer—why, O my soul, hast thou banished and forgotten it?” He turned from the contemplation of these youthful heads bowed before the Mother of God, and a wave of bitter remorse swept once again over his hardened, hypocritical soul.
After the king had returned to his royal palace and the evening repast was ended, William Roper approached Sir Thomas and said:
“You must consider yourself most fortunate, my dear father, in enjoying so intimately the favor of his majesty—why, even Cardinal Wolsey cannot boast of being honored with such a degree of friendship and familiarity.”
With a sad smile More, taking the young man’s hand, replied:
“Know, my son, I can never be elated by it. If this head, around which he passed his royal arm so affectionately this evening, could in falling pay the price of but one single inch of French territory, he would, without a moment’s hesitation, deliver it up to the executioner.”
“What acknowledgments do I not owe you, madam,” said Sir Thomas Cheney to Lady Anne Boleyn, “for the services you have rendered me. But dare I hope for a full pardon from the king?”
“Feel perfectly secure on that point,” replied Lady Anne. “He is convinced that Wolsey had you banished from court because of your disagreement with Cardinal Campeggio, and he considers you now one of his most faithful adherents.”
“And I hope, madam, to have the happiness of proving to you that I am none the less faithfully your servant,” replied Sir Thomas Cheney.
“You must admit now,” said Lady Anne, addressing her father and brother, the Earl of Wiltshire and the Viscount Rochford, who were both present, “that I succeed in doing what I undertake.”
“You succeed in what you undertake,” replied her father humorously, “but you are a long time in deciding what to do. For instance, Cardinal Wolsey finds himself to-day occupying a position in which he has no right to be.”
“Ah! well, he will not remain in it very long,” replied Anne Boleyn, petulantly. “This morning the king told me the ladies would attend the chase to see the new falcons the king of France has sent him by Monsieur de Sansac. I will talk to him, and insist on his having nothing more to do with this horrid cardinal, or I shall at once quit the court. But,” she added, pausing suddenly with an expression of extreme embarrassment, “how should I answer were he to demand what his eminence Monseigneur Wolsey had ever done tome?”
“Here, sister, here is your answer,” replied Viscount Rochford, taking a large manuscript book from his father’s portfolio. “Take it and read for yourself; you will find here all you would need for a reply.”
“That great book!” cried Anne, strongly opposed to this new commission, and pouting like a spoilt child. Taking the book, she read—skipping a great deal, however—a minutely detailed statement, formally accusing Wolsey of having engaged in a secret correspondence with France, and with the most adroit malice misrepresenting every act of his administration as well as of his private life.
“What! can all this be true?” cried Anne Boleyn, closing the book.
“Certainly true,” replied Rochford. “And furthermore, you should know, the cardinal, in order to reward Campeggio for the good services he has renderedyou, has persuaded the king to sendhim home loaded with rich presents, to conciliate the Pope, he says, by his filial submission and pious dispositions, and incline him to a favorable decision. That is the way he manages,” continued Rochford, shrugging his shoulders, “and keeps you in the most humiliating position ever occupied by a woman.”
Hearing her brother speak thus, the beautiful face of Anne Boleyn became instantly suffused with a deep crimson.
“Oh! that odious man,” she cried passionately. “I shall no longer submit to it. It is to insult me he makes such gracious acknowledgments to that old cardinal. I will complain to the king. Oh! how annoying all this is, though,” and she turned the book over and over in her white hands.
“But see, it is time to start,” she added, pointing to a great clock standing in one corner of the apartment. “Good-by; I must go!” And Anne, attired in an elegant riding-habit, abruptly turning to a mirror, proceeded to adjust her black velvet riding-cap, when, observing a small plume in her hat that was not arranged to her taste, she exclaimed, violently stamping her little foot:
“How many contradictions shall I meet this day? I cannot endure it! All those horrid affairs to think of, to talk about and explain; all your recommendations to follow in the midst of a delightful hunting party; and then, after all, this hat which so provokes me! No; I can never fix it.” And she hurried away to find a woman skilled in the arts of the toilet. But after making her sew and rip out again, bend the plume and straighten it, place it forward and then back, she did not succeed in fixing it to suit the fancy of Anne Boleyn, who, seeing the time flying rapidly, ended by cutting off the plume with the scissors, throwing it angrily on the floor and stamping it, putting the offending cap on her head without a plume; then mounting her horse she rode off, accompanied by Sir Thomas Cheney, who escorted her, knowing she was to join the king on the road.
“How impulsive and thoughtless your sister is,” said Earl Wiltshire to his son, after Anne had left them, looking gloomily at the plume, still lying on the floor where she had thrown it. “She wants to be queen! Do you understand how much is comprised in that word? Well, she would accept a crown and fix it on her head with the same eager interest that she would order a new bonnet from her milliner. Yet I firmly believe, before accepting it, she would have to be well assured by her mirror that it was becoming to her style of beauty.”
“I cannot comprehend her,” responded Rochford. “Her good sense and judgment sometimes astonish me; then suddenly a ball, a dress, a new fashion has sufficed to make her forget the most important matter that might be under discussion. I am oftentimes led to wonder whence comes this singular mixture of frivolity and good sense in women. Is it a peculiarity of their nature or the result of education?”
“It is entirely the fault of education, my son, and not of their weakness. From infancy they are taught to look upon ribbons, laces, frivolities, and fashions as the most precious and desirable things. In fact, they attach to these miserable trifles the same value that young men place on a brilliant armor or the success of a glorious action.”
“It may be so,” replied Rochford, “but I think they are generally found as incompetent for business as incapable of managing affairs of state.”
“While very young, perhaps not,” answered Wiltshire; “proud and impulsive, they are neither capable of nor inclined to dissimulation; but later in life they develop a subtle ingenuity and an extreme degree of penetration, that enable them to succeed most admirably.”
“Ah! well, if the truth might be frankly expressed, I greatly fear that all this will turn out badly. Should we not succeed in espousing my sister to the king, she will be irretrievably compromised; and then you will deeply regret having broken off her marriage with Lord Percy.”
“You talk like an idiot,” replied the Earl of Wiltshire. “Your sister shall reign, or I perish. Why should my house not give a queen to the throne of England? Would it not be far better if our kings should select wives from the nobility of their country instead of marrying foreign princesses—strangers alike to the manners and customs as well as to the interests of the people over whom they are destined to reign?”
“You would probably be right,” replied Viscount Rochford, “if the king were not already married; but the clergy will always oppose this second marriage. They do not dare to express themselves openly because they fear the king, but in the end they will certainly preserve the nation in this sentiment. I fear that Anne will yet be very unhappy, and I am truly sorry now she cannot be made Countess of Northumberland.”
“Hold your tongue, my son,” cried Wiltshire, frantic with rage; “will you repeat these things to your sister, and renew her imaginary regrets also? As to these churchmen over whom you make so great an ado,” he continued with a menacing gesture, “I hope soon we shall be able to relieve them of the fortunes with which they are encumbered, and compel them to disgorge in our favor. You say that women are weak and fickle! If so, you certainly resemble them in both respects—the least difficulty frightens you into changing your opinions, and you hesitate in the midst of an undertaking that has been planned with the greatest ability, and which, without you, I confidently believe I shall be able to accomplish.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
The claim put forth by the Episcopal Church—or, to use her full and legal title, The Protestant Episcopal Church of the United Slates of America—of being the Holy Catholic Church—Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic—and the acceptance of her theory by a small portion of the Christian world, makes her and her theory, for a little time, worthy our attention.
She is accustomed to use the formula, “I believe in the Holy Catholic Church.” It is but natural to infer that she considers herself to be at least an integral part of that church. We have examined the question, and thus present our convictions as to her status.
We note, in the first place, that her bishops possess no power. They are bishops but in name. There is not one of them, no matter how eminent he may be, who can say to a clergyman in his diocese: “Here is an important parish vacant; occupy it.” He would be met with the polite remark from some member of the parish, “We are very much obliged to you, bishop, but you have nothing to say about it. Mr. M. is the warden.”
Mr. M., the warden, may be, and in many instances is, a man who cares so little about the church that he has never yet been baptized, much less is he a communicant. He and his brother vestrymen, whether baptized or not, may, if the bishop claims an authority by virtue of his office, meet him at the church door, and tell him he cannot come in unless he will pledge himself to do as they wish; and the bishop may write a note of protest, and leave it behind him for them to tear up, as was done in Chicago with Bishop Whitehouse. Some local regulations have occasionally varied the above, but in the majority of parishes the authority is vested as we have stated.
The bishop’s power of appointing extends to none but feeble missionary stations; and even these put on, at their earliest convenience, the airs of full-grown parishes.
We note an instance where a bishop wrote to a lady in a remote missionary station, and asked regarding some funds which had been placed in her hands by parties interested in the growth of the church in that place. It had been specified that the money was to be used for whatever purpose was deemed most necessary. The bishop requested that the money be paid to the missionary toward his salary. The lady declined on the ground that she did not like the missionary. Another request in courteous language, as was befitting a bishop. He also stated his intention of visiting the place shortly in his official character.
The lady’s reply equalled his own in courteous phraseology; but the money was refused and the bishop informed that he “need not trouble himself about making a visitation, as there was no class to be confirmed; besides, the church had been closed for repairs, and wouldnot be open for some months, at least not until a new minister was settled.”
To the bishop’s positive knowledge, no repairs were needed; but he deemed it wise to stay away, and no further steps were taken.
With the clergy in his diocese the case is not very different.
If a presbyter of any diocese chooses for any reason to go from one parish to another for the purpose of taking up a permanent abode, he can do so with or without consulting his bishop. In fact, the bishop has nothing to do with it. Should the presbyter desire to remove to another diocese, it is requisite that he obtain letters dimissory from the bishop, and the bishop is obliged to give them. So also is the bishop in the diocese to which he goes obliged to receive them, unless they contain grave criminal charges.
There is, in reality, but one thing the bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church can do, and that is make an appointment once in three years to confirm. So insignificant is his power in any other direction that certain persons, ill-natured or otherwise, have fastened upon him, whether deserved or undeserved, the name of “confirming machine.” Certain it is that, were the power of confirming in any degree vested in the “priests” of the church, the office of bishop might easily be dispensed with. He would appear only as the ornamental portion of a few occasional services. For he cannot authoritatively visit any parish, vacant or otherwise, except on a confirmation tour; and should this be too frequent in the estimation of the vestry, the doors of the church could be shut against him on any plea the vestry should choose to advance.
2. He cannot increase the number of his clergy, except as parishes choose.
3. He cannot prevent a man fixing himself in the diocese if a congregation choose to “call” him, no matter how worthy or unworthy the man may be.
4. He cannot call a clergyman into his diocese, though every parish were empty.
5. He cannot officiate in any church without invitation.
6. He has no church of his own, except as he officiates as rector; and unless invited to some place, he is forced, although a bishop, to sit in the congregation as a layman, if he do not stay at home.
And, lastly, he cannot on any account visit a parish unless the vestry of that parish is willing.
We sum up: That so far as the bishops of the Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States of America are concerned, they are simply figure-heads, ornaments possessing the minimum of authority—in point of fact, no authority at all.
Their own convention addresses are a virtual confession of the condition of affairs as above laid down. To every one who has ever heard an Episcopal bishop’s address, as delivered before the annual convention of clergymen and laymen, the following sample will not appear as in the least overdrawn:
July 10.—Visited the parish of S. John, Oakdale, and confirmed three.
July 17.—Visited the parish of Longwood, and preached and confirmed one.
July 24.—Visited S. Paul’s, and preached and confirmed two in the forenoon. Preached also in the afternoon.
This is a very large and thriving parish.
July 26.—At Montrose I visited and confirmed one at the evening service.
July 29.—Took a private conveyance to Hillstown, and preached in the evening; confirmed one. The rector of this parish is very energetic.
Aug. 2.—Attended the burial of a dear friend.
Aug. 7.—Attended the consecration of S. Mark’s Church in Hyde Park. It is hoped that the difficulties in this parish are settled. The Rev. John Waters has resigned and gone to Omaha. Mr. William Steuben is the senior warden. May the Lord prosper him and his estimable lady!
[To continue the list would cause a tear, and we do not wish to weep.]
The address each year of a Protestant Episcopal bishop is thoroughly exemplified in the foregoing specimen. It is the same endless list ofenteuthen exelauneis, varied only by the number ofparasangas. To the lazy grammar-boy it is a most fascinating chapter of ancient history when he reaches theenteuthensection in theAnabasis. There is an immense list of them, and the lesson for that day is easy. When the first phrase is mastered, he knows all the rest, except the occasional figures.
We once saw a reporter for a prominent Daily making a short-hand report of an address before an illustrious diocesan gathering. Having had some experience in the matter, he came to the meeting with his tablets prepared. They were as follows:
Three-quarters of the address was thus prepared beforehand, it only being necessary to leave the lines sufficiently far apart to permit the insertion of occasional notes.
By his extra care he was enabled to present the most complete report of any paper in the city.
The specimen we have given is a fair average. In future generations, when a classical student is given a bishop’s address to read, his labor for that day will be easy.
Almost any bishop’s address will substantiate the statements we have made. We refer to them freely, without wasting time in selection.
We begin a new paragraph: The system of the Protestant Episcopal Church is eminently congregational.
If a parish chooses to “call” a given man, he is “called.”
Should the bishop “interfere” and recommend him, the recommendation, without an exception that has ever come to our knowledge, militates against the proposed “call.”
Should a parish desire to get rid of a pastor, it does so with or without the consent of the bishop, as happens, in the estimation of the wardens, to be most convenient. The officers may consult the bishop, and, if he agree with them, well and good. The words of the diocesan are quoted from Dan to Beersheba, and the pastor is made to feel the lack of sympathy—“Even his bishop is against him,” is whispered by young and old.
If the bishop does not agree with them, they do not consult him again. They proceed to accomplish what they desire as if he had no existence, and—they always succeed.
There is a farcical canon of the Protestant Episcopal Church which says, if a parish dismiss its rectorwithout concurrence, it shall not be admitted into convention until it has apologized.
It is a very easy thing for the wardens and vestrymen to address the convention, after they have accomplished their ends, with “Your honorable body thinks we have done wrong, and—we are sorry for it,” or something else equally ambiguous and absurd. The officers of the parish and the laymen of the congregation have done what they wished, and are content. As the convention is composed principally of laymen, the sympathy is naturally with the laymen’s side of the question. The rector is hurriedly passed over, his clerical brethren looking helplessly on.
To get a new parish the dismissed rector must “candidate”—a feature of clerical life most revolting to any man with a spark of manhood in him.
We note, in the next place, an utter want of unity in the Protestant Episcopal Church.
There are High-Church and Low-Church bookstores, where the publications of the one are discarded by the other. There are High-Church and Low-Church seminaries, where a man, to graduate from the one, will be looked upon inimically, at least with suspicion, by the other. There is a High-Church “Society for the Increase of the Ministry,” where the principal thing accomplished is the maintenance of the secretary of the said society in a large brick house in a fashionable city, while he claims to support a few students on two meals a day; and a Low-Church Evangelical Society, where they require the beneficiary to subscribe to certain articles of Low-Churchism before they will receive him.
The one society is thoroughly hostile to the other, and, in point of fact, the latter was created in opposition to the former.
There is but one thing in common between the two, and that is cold-shoulderism.
There are High-Church and Low-Church newspapers, in which the epithets used by the one toward the other do not indicate evenrespect.
Some of the “church’s” ministers would no more enter a “denominational” place of worship than they would put their hand in the fire. Others will fraternize with everything and everybody, and when Sunday comes will close their eyes—sometimes they roll them upward—and pray publicly: “From heresy and schism good Lord deliver us.”
It may be necessary that there should be wranglings and bickerings within her fold, in order to constitute her the church militant; but we cannot forgive hypocrisy.
With some of her ministers the grand object of existence seems to be to prove “Popery” an emanation from hell. With others the effort is equally great to prove the Episcopal Church as a “co-ordinate” branch with the Roman Church, and entitled to the same consideration as is paid by the devotees of Rome to its hierarchy. In both instances—viz., High Church and Low Church—history records failure.
We notice next the relation which the Protestant Episcopal Church holds to the Church of England.
The English Church evidently regards the Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States of America as a weaker sister, and not to be admitted to doubtful disputations. She is courteous toward her, and accepts her present of a goldalms-basin from an unrobed representative with a certain amount of ceremony. She invites her bishops to the Lambeth Conference, and they pay their own fare across the Atlantic; but they confer about nothing. It is true the Protestant Episcopal Church approved the action of the English Church in condemning Colenso; but this was a safe thing for the English Church to present. It would have been hardly complimentary to have their guests go home without doing something, especially as they were not to be invited into Westminster Abbey, and were to have nothing to do with the coming Bible revision.
The bishops of the Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States of America were invited to the English conference very much as country cousins are invited to tea, and that was all.
By way of asserting her right to a recognition as an equal with the Church of England, she—the Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States of America—has established, or rather individuals have established and the act has received the sanction of the General Convention, certain rival congregations in a few foreign cities where the English service was already established. If she be of the same Catholic mould as the Church of England, why does she thus in a foreign city attempt to maintain an opposition service? The variations in the Prayer-Book are no answer to the question. If the English Church be Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic, and the Protestant Episcopal Church be Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic, the two are therefore one; for they both claim that there is but one Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic church.
She is in this case unmistakably uncatholic, or else the English Church is. In either case she falls to the ground.
Our attention is directed again to the many laws enacted against her bishops as compared with the laws enacted against the other members of the church. If Mosheim were to be restored to the flesh, and were to write the history of the Episcopal Church, and used as an authority the Digest of Canons, as he has been accustomed in hisEcclesiastical Historyto use ecclesiastical documents generally, he would style the bishops of the Protestant Episcopal Church a set of criminals of the deepest dye, and the priests and deacons not much better. The laity would be regarded as all that could be desired in lofty integrity and spotless morality. For why? A glance at their vade-mecum of law—the Digest of Canons—shows an immense bulk of its space to be devoted “to the trial of a bishop.” The laity go scot-free.
We question the propriety, as well as the Catholicity, of covering the higher clergy with laws till they are helpless, while the laity revel in a freedom that amounts, when they choose, to mob-license; but it is done, and the Episcopal Church is degraded to a level lower than any of the denominations around her.
With other bodies who call themselves Christian there is a certain amount of consistency. Their rulers are from among their own members. With the church under consideration, her rulers, in many cases, are any unbaptized heathen who may choose to work themselves into a temporary favor with the pew-holders. It is not necessary that they should even have ever attended church. We note an instance where the chief man of a small parish was a druggist, and kept in the rear of his drug-store alow drinking-room; and this man was elected treasurer year after year by a handful of interested parties, and, when elected, he managed all the finances of the parish according to his own notions of propriety. It was his habit to go to the church near the close of the sermon, and go away immediately after the collection.
We note another instance where a warden visited the rector of his parish, and threatened, with a polite oath, to give him something hotter than a section of the day of judgment if he did not ask his (the warden’s) advice a little more on parish matters. The parish grew so warm that at the end of three weeks the rector was candidating for another.
We note another instance where a warden was so overjoyed at having settled a rector according to his own liking that, on the arrival of the new incumbent, he not only did not go to hear him preach, but stayed at home with certain friends, and enjoyed, to use his own expression, a “dooced big drunk.” Out of consideration for the feelings of his family we use the word “dooced” instead of his stronger expression.
The rector of this happily-ruled parish was imprudent enough to incur the displeasure of his warden after a few months of arduous labor. He received a note while sitting at the bedside of his sick wife, saying that after the following Sunday his services would be dispensed with; that if he attempted to stay, the church would be closed for repairs.
We are well acquainted with a parish where a congregation wished to displace both the senior and junior wardens. These two gentlemen had been shrewd enough to foresee the event. They succeeded, by calculating management, in having vested in themselves the right of selling pews. When Easter Monday came, they sold for a dollar a pew to loafers on the streets, and swarmed the election with men who never had entered the place before. The laws of the parish were such that there was no redress. As a matter of course, the rector was soon candidating.
During the earliest portion of the official life of one of the oldest and most eminent bishops, he was called on to officiate at the institution of a Low-Church rector. At the morning service the bishop took occasion to congratulate the congregation on the assumed fact that they had now “an altar, a priest, and a sacrifice,” and went on to enlarge on that idea. In the evening of the same day the instituted minister, in addressing the congregation, said: “My brethren, so help me God! if the doctrines you heard this morning are the doctrines of the Protestant Episcopal Church, then I am no Protestant Episcopalian; but they are not such”—and essayed substantiating the assertion. All that came of the affair was the publication, on the part of each, of their respective discourses. On the supposition of the bishop’s having any foundation for his ecclesiastical character and for the doctrines he taught, would that have been the end of the matter?
Can it be that the Episcopal Church is Catholic? Is it possible that she is part of the grand structure portrayed by prophets and sung in the matchless words of inspiration as that against which the gates of hell shall not prevail? Rather, we are forced to class her as a “sister” among the very “heretics” from whom in her litany she prays, “Good Lord deliver us.”
BY THE AUTHOR OF “PARIS BEFORE THE WAR,” “NUMBER THIRTEEN,” “PIUS VI.,” ETC.
November had come, and was gathering up the last tints and blossoms of autumn. One by one the garden lights were being put out; the tall archangel lilies drooped their snow and gold cups languidly; the jasmine, that only the other day twinkled its silver stars amidst the purple bells of the clematis, now trailed wearily down the trellis of the porch; the hardy geraniums made a stand for it yet, but their petals dropped off at every puff of wind, and powdered the gravel with a scarlet ring round their six big red pots that flanked the walk from the gate to the cottage door; the red roses held out like a forlorn hope, defying the approach of the conqueror, and staying to say a last good-by to sweet Mother Summer, ere she passed away.
It was too chilly to sit out of doors late of afternoons now, and night fell quickly. M. de la Bourbonais had collapsed into his brown den; but the window stood open, and let the faint incense of the garden steal in to him, as he bent over his desk with his shaded lamp beside him.
Franceline had found it cold, and had slipt away, without saying why, to her own room upstairs. She was sitting on the floor with her hands in her lap, and her head pressed against the latticed window, watching the scarlet geraniums as they shivered in the evening breeze and dropped into their moist autumn tomb. A large crystal moon was rising above the woods beyond the river, and a few stars were coming out. She counted them, and listened to the wood-pigeon cooing in the park, and to the solitary note of an owl that answered from some distant grove. But the voices of wood and field were not to her now what they once had been. There was something in her that responded to them still, but not in the old way; she had drifted somewhere beyond their reach; she was hearkening for other voices, since one had touched her with a power these had never possessed, and whose echoing sweetness had converted the sounds that had till then been her only music into a blank and aching silence. Other pulses had been stirred, other chords struck within her, so strong and deep, and unlike the old childish ones, that these had become to her what the memory of the joys of childhood are to the full-grown man—a sweet shadow that lingers when the substance has fled; part of a life that has been lived, that can never be quickened again, but is enshrined in memory.
She was very pale, almost like a shadow herself, as she sat there in the silver gloom. Mothers who met her in her walks about the neighborhood looked wistfully after the gentle young face, and said with a sigh: “What a pity! And so young too!” Yet Franceline was not ill; not even ailing; she nevercomplained even of fatigue, and when her father tapped the pale cheek and asked how hisClair-de-lunewas, she would answer brightly that she had never been better in her life, and as she had no cough, he believed her. A cough was Raymond’s single diagnosis of disease and death; he had a vague but deep-seated belief that nobody, no young person certainly, ever died a natural death without this fatal premonitory symptom. And yet he could not help following Franceline with an anxious eye as he saw her walking listlessly about the garden, or sitting with a book in her hand that she let drop every now and then to look dreamily out of the window, and only resumed with an evident effort. Sometimes she would go and lean her arms on the rail at the end of the garden, and stand there for an hour together gazing at the familiar landscape as if she were discovering some new feature in it, or straining her eyes to see some distant object. He could not lay his finger on any particular symptom that justified anxiety, and still he was anxious; a change of some sort had come over the child; she grew more and more like her mother, and it was not until Armengarde was several years older than Franceline that the disease which had been germinating in her system from childhood developed itself and proved fatal.
M. de la Bourbonais never alluded to Franceline’s refusal of Sir Ponsonby Anwyll, but he had not forgotten it. In his dreamy mind he cogitated on the possibility of the offer being renewed, and her accepting it. As to Clide de Winton, he had quite ceased to think of him, and never for an instant coupled him in his thoughts with Franceline. It did not strike him as significant that Sir Simon had avoided mentioning the young man since his return. After the conversation that Clide had once been the subject of between them, this reticence was natural enough. The failure of his wild, affectionate scheme placed him in a somewhat ridiculous position towards Raymond, and it was no wonder that he shrank from alluding to it.
Sir Ponsonby had left Rydal immediately after the eventful ride we know of. He could not remain in Franceline’s neighborhood without seeing her, and he had sense enough to feel that he would injure rather than serve his cause by forcing his society on her after what had passed. This is as good as admitting that he did not look upon his cause as lost. What man in love for the first time would give up after one refusal, if his love was worth the name? Ponsonby was not one of the faint-hearted tribe. He combined real modesty as to his own worth and pretensions with unbounded faith in the power of his love and its ultimate success. The infallibility of hope and perseverance was an essential part of his lover’s creed. He did not apply the tenet with any special sense of its fitness to Franceline in particular. He was no analyzer of character; he did not discriminate nicely between the wants and attributes of one woman and another; he blended them all in a theoretical worship, and included all womankind in his notions as to how they were individually to be wooed and won. He would let them have their own way, allow them unlimited pin-money, cover them with trinkets, and gratify all their little whims. If a girl were ever so beautiful and ever so good, no man could do more for her than this; and any man whowas able and willing to do it, ought to be able to win her. Ponsonby took heart, and trusted to his uniform good luck not to miss the prize he had set his heart on. He would rejoin his regiment for the present, and see what a month’s absence would do for him. He had one certain ground of hope: Franceline did not dislike him, and, as far as he could learn or guess, she cared for no one else. Sir Simon was his ally, and would keep a sharp lookout for him, and keep the little spark alive—if spark there were—by singing his praises judiciously in the ear of the cruel fair one.
She, meanwhile, went on in her usual quiet routine, tending the sick, teaching some little children, and working with her father, who grew daily more enamored of her tender and intelligent co-operation. Lady Anwyll called soon after Ponsonby’s departure, and was just as kind and unconstrained as if nothing had happened. She did not press Franceline to go and stay at Rydal, but hoped she would ride over there occasionally with Sir Simon to lunch. Her duties as secretary to Raymond made the sacrifice of a whole afternoon repugnant to her; but she did go once, just to show the old lady that she retained the same kind feeling towards her as before anything had occurred to make a break in their intimacy. It was delightful when she came home to find that her father had been utterly at sea without her, mooning about in a helpless way amongst the notes and papers that under her management had passed from confusion and chaos into order and sequence. While everything was in confusion he could find his way through the maze, but he had no key to this new order of things. Franceline declared she must never leave him so long again; he had put everything topsy-turvy, he was not to be trusted. The discovery of his dependence on her in a sphere where she had till lately been as useless to him as Angélique or Miss Merrywig was a source of infinite enjoyment to her, and she threw herself into her daily task with an energy that lightened the labor immensely to her father, without, as far as Franceline could say, fatiguing herself. But fatigue for being unconscious is sometimes none the less real. It may be that this sustained application was straining a system already severely tried by mental pressure. She was one day writing away as usual, while Raymond, with a bookful of notes in his hand, stood on the hearth-rug dictating. Suddenly she was seized with a fit of coughing, and, putting her handkerchief quickly to her mouth, she drew it away stained with crimson. She stifled a cry of terror that rose to her lips, and hurried out of the room. Her father had seen nothing, but her abrupt departure startled him; he hastened after her, and found her in the kitchen holding the handkerchief up to Angélique, who was looking at the fatal stain with a face rather stupefied than terrified.
“My God, have pity upon me! My child! My child!” he cried, clasping his hands and abandoning himself to his distress with the impassioned demonstrativeness of a Frenchman.
Woman, it is said truly, is more courageous at bearing physical pain than man; it is true also that she has more self-command in controlling the expression of mental pain. Her instinct is surer too in guiding her how to save others from suffering;let her be ever so untutored, she will prove herself shrewder than the cleverest man on occasions like the present. Angélique’s womanly instinct told her at once that it was essential not to frighten Franceline: that the nervous shock would infallibly aggravate the evil, wherever the cause lay, and that the best thing to do now was to soothe and allay her fears.
“Bless me! what is there to make a row about?” she cried with an angry chuckle, crushing the handkerchief in her fingers and darting a look on her master which, if eyes could knock down, must have laid him prostrate on the spot; “the child has an indigestion and has thrown up a mouthful of bread from her stomach. Hein!”
“How do you know it is from the stomach and not from the lungs?” he asked, already reassured by her confidence, and still more by her incivility.
“How do I know? Am I a fool? Would it be that color if it was from the lungs? I say it is from the stomach, and it is a good business. But we must not have too much of it. It would weaken the child; we must stop it.”
“I will run for the doctor at once!” exclaimed M. de la Bourbonais, still trembling and excited. “Or stay!—no!—I will fly to the Court and they will despatch a man on horseback!” He was hurrying away when Angélique literally shouted at him:
“Wilt thou be quiet with thy doctor and thy man on horseback! I tell thee it is from the stomach; I know what I am about. I want neither man nor horse. It is from the stomach! Dost thou take me for a fool at this time of my life?”
Raymond stood still like a chidden child while the old servant poured this volley at him. Franceline stared at her aghast. In her angry excitement the grenadier had broken through not only all barriers of rank, but all the common rules of civility—she who was such a strict observer of both that they seemed a very part of herself. This ought to have opened their eyes, if nothing else did; but Franceline was only bewildered, Raymond was cowed and perplexed.
“If thou art indeed quite sure,” he said, falling into the familiar “thee and thou” by which she addressed him, and which on her deferential lips sounded so outrageous and unnatural—“if thou art indeed certain I will be satisfied; but, my good Angélique, would it not be a wise precaution to have a medical man?—only just, as thou sayest well, to prevent its going too far.”
“Well, well, if Monsieur le Comte wishes, let it be; let the doctor come; for me, I care not for him; they are an ignorant lot, pulling long faces to make long bills; but if it pleases Monsieur le Comte, let him have one to see the child.” She nodded her flaps at him, as if to say, “Be off then at once and leave us in peace!”
He was leaving the room, when, turning round suddenly, he came close up to Franceline. “Dost thou feel a pain, my child?” he said, peering anxiously into her face.
“No, father, not the least pain. I am sure Angélique is right; I feel nothing here,” putting her hand to her chest.
“God is good! God is good!” muttered the father half audibly, and, stroking her cheek gently, he went.
“Let not Monsieur le Comte go rushing off himself; let him send one of those thirty-six lackeys atthe Court!” cried Angélique, calling after him through the kitchen window.
In her heart and soul Angélique was terrified. She had thrown out quite at random, with the instinct of desperation, that confident assurance as to the color of the stain. Her first impulse was to save Franceline from the shock, but it had fallen full upon herself. This accident sounded like the first stroke of the death-knell. No one would have supposed it to look at her. She set her arms akimbo and laughed till she shook at her own impudence to M. le Comte, and how meekly M. le Comte had borne it, and how scared his face was, and what a joke the business was altogether. To see him stand there wringing his hands, and making such a wailing about nothing! But when Franceline was going to answer and reproach her oldbonnewith this inopportune mirth, she laid her hand on the young girl’s mouth and bade her peremptorily be silent.
“If you go talking and scolding, child, there is no knowing what mischief you may do. Come and lie down, and keep perfectly quiet.”
Franceline obeyed willingly enough. She was weak and tired, and glad to be alone awhile.
Angélique placed a cold, wet cloth on her chest, and made her some cold lemonade to drink. It was making a fuss about nothing, to be sure; but it would please M. le Comte. He was never happier than when people were making a fuss over hisClair-de-lune.
It was not long before the count returned, accompanied by Sir Simon. Angélique saw at a glance that the baronet understood how things were. He talked very big about his confidence that Angélique was right; that it was an accident of no serious import whatever; but he exchanged a furtive glance with the old woman that sufficiently belied all this confident talk. He was for going up to see Franceline with M. de la Bourbonais, but Angélique would not allow this. M. le Comte might go, if he liked, provided he did not make her speak; but nobody else must go; the room was too small, and it would excite the child to see people about her. So Raymond went up alone. As soon as his back was turned, Angélique threw up her hands with a gesture too significant for any words. Sir Simon closed the door gently.
“I am not duped any more than you,” he said. “It is sure to be very serious, even if it is not fatal. Tell me what you really think.”
“I saw her mother go through it all. It began like this. Only Madame la Comtesse had a cough; the petite has never had one. That is the only thing that gives me a bit of hope; the petite has never coughed. O Monsieur Simon! it is terrible. It will kill us all three; I know it will.”
“Tut, tut! don’t give up in this way, Angélique,” said the baronet kindly, and turning aside; “that will mend nothing; it is the very worst thing you could do. I agree with you that it is very serious; not so much the accident itself, perhaps—we know nothing about that yet—but on account of the hereditary taint in the constitution. However, there has been no cough undermining it so far, and with care—I promise you she shall have the best—there is every reason to hope the child will weather it. At her age one weathers everything,” he added, cheerfully. “Come now, don’t despond; agreat deal depends on your keeping a cheerful countenance.”
“I know it, monsieur, and I will do my best. But I hear steps! Could it be the doctor already? For goodness’ sake run out and meet him, and tell him, as he hopes to save us all, not to let Monsieur le Comte know there is any danger! It is all up with us if he does. Monsieur le Comte could no more hide it than a baby could hide a pin in its clothes.”
She opened the door and almost pushed Sir Simon out, in her terror lest the doctor should walk in without being warned.
Sir Simon met him at the back of the cottage. A few words were exchanged, and they came in together. Raymond met them on the stairs. The medical man preferred seeing his patient alone; the nurse might be present, but he could have no one else. In a very few minutes he came down, and a glance at his face set the father’s heart almost completely at rest.
“Dear me, Sir Simon, you would never do for a sick nurse. You prepared me for a very dangerous case by your message; it is a mere trifle; hardly worth the hard ride I’ve had to perform in twenty minutes.”
“Then there is nothing amiss with the lungs?”
“Would you like to sound them yourself, count? Pray do! It will be more satisfactory to you.” And he handed his stethoscope to M. de la Bourbonais—not mockingly, but quite gravely and kindly.
That provincial doctor missed his vocation. He ought to have been a diplomatist.
Instead of the proffered stethoscope, M. de la Bourbonais grasped his hand. His heart was too full for speech. The reaction of security after the brief interval of agony and suspense unnerved him. He sat down without speaking, and wiped the great drops from his forehead. The medical man addressed himself to Sir Simon and Angélique. There was nothing whatever to be alarmed at; but there was occasion for care and certain preventive measures. The young lady must have perfect rest and quiet; there must be no talking for some time; no excitement of any sort. He gave sundry directions about diet, etc., and wrote a prescription which was to be sent to the chemist at once. M. de la Bourbonais accompanied him to the door with a lightened heart, and bade himau revoirwith a warm pressure of the hand.
“Now, let me hear the truth,” said Sir Simon, as soon as they entered the park.
“You have heard the truth—though only in a negative form. If you noticed, we did not commit ourselves to any opinion of the case; we only prescribed for it. This was the only way in which we could honestly follow your instructions,” observed the doctor, who always used the royal “we” of authorship when speaking professionally.
“You showed great tact and prudence; but there is no need for either now. Tell me exactly what you think.”
“It will be more to the purpose to tell you what we know,” rejoined the medical man. “There is a blood-vessel broken; not a large one, happily, and if the hemorrhage does not increase and continue, it may prove of no really serious consequence. But then we must remember the question of inheritance. That is what makes a symptom in itself trifling assume agrave—we refrain from saying fatal—character.”
“You are convinced that this is but the beginning of the end—am I to understand that?” asked Sir Simon. He was used to the doctor’s pompous way, and knew him to be both clever and conscientious, at least towards his patients.
“It would be precipitating an opinion to say so much. We are on the whole inclined to take a more sanguine view. We consider the hitherto unimpaired health of the patient, and her extreme youth, fair grounds for hope. But great care must be taken; all excitement must be avoided.”
“You may count on your orders being strictly carried out,” said Sir Simon.
They walked on a few yards without further speech. Sir Simon was busy with anxious and affectionate thoughts.
“I should fancy a warm climate would be the best cure for a case of this kind,” he observed, answering his own reflections, rather than speaking to his companion.
“No doubt, no doubt,” assented Dr. Blink, “if the patient was in a position to authorize her medical attendant in ordering such a measure.”
“Monsieur de la Bourbonais is in that position,” replied Sir Simon, quietly.
“Ah! I am glad to know it. I may act on the information one of these days. The young lady could not bear the fatigue of a journey to the south just now; the general health is a good deal below par; the nervous system wants toning; it is unstrung.”
Sir Simon made no comment—not at least in words—but it set his mind on painful conjecture. Perhaps the electric chain passed from him to his companion, for the latter said irrelevantly but with a significant expression, as he turned his glance full upon Sir Simon:
“We medical men are trusted with many secrets—secrets of the heart as well as of the body. We ask you frankly, as a friend of our patient, is there any moral cause at work—any disappointed affection that may have preyed on the mind and fostered the inherited germs of disease?”
“I cannot answer that question,” replied the baronet after a moment’s hesitation.
“You cannot, or you will not? Excuse my pertinacity; it is professional and necessary.”
Sir Simon hesitated again before he answered.
“I cannot even give a decided answer to that. I had some time ago feared there existed something of the sort, but of late those apprehensions had entirely disappeared. If you had put the question to me yesterday, I should have said emphatically there is nothing to fear on that score; the child is perfectly happy and quite heart-whole.”
“And to-day you are not prepared to say as much,” persisted Dr. Blink. “Something has occurred to modify this change of opinion?”
“Nothing, except the accident that you know of and your question now. These suggest to me that I may have been right in the first instance.”
“Is it in your power or within the power of circumstances to set the wrong right—to remove the cause of anxiety—assuming that it actually exists?”
“No, it is not; nothing can remove it.”
“And she is aware of this?”
“I fear not.”
“Say rather that you hope not. In such cases hope is the best physician; let nothing be done, as far as you can prevent it, to destroy this hope in the patient’s mind; I would even venture to urge that you should do anything in your power to feed and stimulate it.”
“That is impossible; quite impossible,” said Sir Simon emphatically. The doctor’s words fell on him like a sting, and this very feeling increased to conviction what had, at the beginning of the conversation, been only a vague misgiving.
Franceline rallied quickly, and with her returning strength Sir Simon’s fears were allayed. He had not been able to follow the doctor’s advice as to keeping alive any soothing delusions that might exist in her mind, but he succeeded, by dint of continually dinning it into his ears that there was no danger, in convincing her father that there was not; and the cheerfulness and security that radiated from him acted beneficially on her, and proved of great help to the medical treatment. And was Dr. Blink right in his surmise that a moral cause had been at work and contributed to the bursting of the blood-vessel? If Franceline had been asked she would have denied it; if any one had said to her that the accident had been brought on by mental suffering, or insinuated that she was still at heart pining for a lost love, she would have answered with proud sincerity: “It is false; I am not pining. I have ceased to think of Clide de Winton; I have ceased to love him.”
But which of us can answer truly for our own hearts? We do not want to idealize Franceline. We wish to describe her as she was, the good with the evil; the struggle and the victory as they alternated in her life; her heart fluctuating, but never consciously disloyal. There must be flaws in every picture taken from life. Perfection is not to be found in nature, except when seen through a poet’s eyes. Perhaps it was true that Franceline had ceased to love Clide. When our will is firmly set upon self-conquest we are apt to fancy it achieved. But conquest does not of necessity bring joy, or even peace. Nothing is so terrible as a victory, except a defeat, was a great captain’s cry on surveying the bloody field of yesterday’s battle. The frantic effort, the bleeding trophies may inflict a death-wound on the conqueror as fatal, in one sense, as defeat. We see the “good fight” every day leading to such issues. Brave souls fight and carry the day, and then go to reap their laurels where “beyond these voices there is peace.” Franceline had gained a victory, but there was no rejoicing in the triumph. Her heart plained still of its wounds; if she did not hear it, it was because she would not; it still bemoaned its hard fate, its broken cup of happiness.
She rose up from this illness, however, happier than she had been for months. It was difficult to believe that the period which had worked such changes to her inward life counted only a few months; it seemed like years, like a lifetime, since she had first met Clide de Winton. She resumed her calmly busy little life as before the break had come that suspended its active routine. By Dr. Blink’s desire the teaching class was suppressed, and the necessity of guarding against cold prevented her doing much amongst the sick; butthis extra leisure in one way enabled her to increase her work in another; she devoted it to writing with her father; this never tired her, she affirmed—it only interested and amused her.
The advisability of a trip to some southern spot in France or Italy had been suggested by Dr. Blink; but the proposal was rejected by his patient in such a strenuous and excited manner that he forebore to press it. He noticed also an expression of sudden pain on M. de la Bourbonais’ countenance, accompanied by an involuntary deep-drawn sigh, that led him to believe there must be pecuniary impediments in the way of the scheme, notwithstanding Sir Simon’s assurance to the contrary. Theémigréwas universally looked upon as a poor man. Who else would live as he did? Still Sir Simon must have known what he was saying. However, as it happened, the cold weather, which was now setting in pretty sharp, was by no means favorable to travelling, so the doctor consented willingly enough to abide by the patient’s circumstances and wishes. A long journey in winter is always a high price for an invalid to pay for the benefit of a warm climate.
In the first days of December, Sir Simon took flight from Dullerton to Nice. Lady Rebecca was spending the winter at Cannes, and as Mr. Simpson reported that “her ladyship’s health had declined visibly within the last month,” it was natural that her dutiful step-son should desire to be within call in case of any painful eventuality. If the climate of the sunny Mediterranean town happened to be a very congenial winter residence to him, so much the better. It is only fair that a man should have some compensation for doing his duty.
The day before he started Sir Simon came down to The Lilies.
“Raymond,” he said, “you have sustained a loss lately; you must be in want of money; now is the time to prove yourself a Christian, and let others do unto you as you would do unto them. You offered me money once when I did not want it; I offer it to you now that you do.” And he pressed a bundle of notes into the count’s hands.
But Raymond crushed them back into his. “Mon cher Simon! I do not thank you. That would be ungrateful; it would look as if I were surprised, whereas I have long since come to take brotherly kindness as a matter of course from you. But in truth I do not want this money; I give you my word I don’t!”
“If you pledge your word, I must believe you, I suppose,” returned the baronet; “but promise me one thing—if you should want it, you will let me know?”
“I promise you I will.”
Sir Simon with a sigh, which Raymond took for reluctance, but which was really one of relief, replaced the notes in his waistcoat pocket. “I had better leave you a blank check all the same,” he said; “you might happen to want it, and not be able to get a letter to me at once. There is no knowing where the vagabond spirit may lead me, once I am on the move. Give me a pen.” And he seated himself at the desk.
Raymond protested; but it was no use, Sir Simon would have his own way; he wrote the blank check and saw it locked up in the count’s private drawer. M. de la Bourbonais argued from this reckless committal of his signature that the baronet’s finances were in a flourishing condition, and wasgreatly rejoiced. Alas! if the truth were known, they had never been in a sorrier plight. He had offered the bank-notes in all sincerity, but if Raymond had accepted it, Sir Simon would have been at his wit’s end to find the ready money for his journey. But he kept this dark, and rather led his friend to suppose him flush of money; it was the only chance of getting him to accept his generosity.
“Mind you keep me constantly informed how Franceline gets on,” were his parting words; and M. de la Bourbonais promised.
She got on in pretty much the same way for some time. Languid and pale, but not suffering; and she had no cough, and no return of the symptoms that had alarmed them all so much. Angélique watched her as a cat watches a mouse, but even her practised eye could detect no definite cause for anxiety.
One morning, about a fortnight after Sir Simon’s departure, Franceline was alone in the little sitting-room—her father had gone to do some shopping for her in the town, as it was too cold for her to venture out—when Sir Ponsonby Anwyll called. The moment she saw him she flushed up, partly with surprise, partly with pleasure. A casual observer would have concluded this to be a good sign for the visitor; a male friend would have unhesitatingly pronounced him a lucky dog. Ponsonby himself felt slightly elated.
“I heard you were ill,” he said, “and as I am at home on leave for a few days, I could not resist coming to inquire for you. You are not displeased with me for coming?”
“No, indeed; it is very kind of you. I am glad to see you,” Franceline replied with bright, grateful eyes.
Hope bounded up high in Ponsonby.
“They told me you had been very ill. I hope it is not true. You don’t look it,” he said anxiously.
“I have been frightening them a little more than it was worth; but I am quite well now. How is Lady Anwyll?”
“Thank you, she’s just as usual; in very good health and a tremendous bustle. You know I always put the house topsy-turvy when I come down. Not that I mean to do it; it seems to come of itself as a natural consequence of my being there,” he explained, laughing. “Is M. de la Bourbonais quite well?”
“Quite well. He will be in presently; he is only gone to make a few purchases for me.”
“How anxious he must have been while you were ill!”
“Dear papa! yes he was.”
“Do you ride much now?”
“Not at all. I am forbidden to take any violent exercise for the present.”
All obvious subjects being now exhausted, there ensued a pause. Ponsonby was the first to break it.
“Have you forgiven me, Franceline?” he said, looking at her tenderly, and with a sort of sheepish timidity.
“Indeed I have; forgiven and forgotten,” she replied; and then blushing very red, and correcting herself quickly: “I mean there was nothing to forgive.”
“That’s not the sort of forgiveness I want,” said Ponsonby, growing courageous in proportion as she grew embarrassed. “Franceline, why can you not like me a little? I love you so much; no one will ever love you better, or as well!”
She shook her head, but said nothing, only rose and went to the window. He followed her.
“You are angry with me again!” he exclaimed, and was going to break out in entreaties to be forgiven; when stooping forward he caught sight of her face. It was streaming with tears!
“There, the very mention of it sets you crying! Why do you hate me so?”
“I do not hate you. I never hated you! I wish with all my heart I could love you! But I cannot, I cannot! And you would not have me marry you if I did not love you? It would be false and selfish to accept your love, with all it would bring me, and give so little in return?” She turned her dark eyes on him, still full of tears, but unabashed and innocent, as if he had been a brother asking her to do something unreasonable.
“So little!” he cried, and seizing her hand he pressed it to his lips; “if you knew how thankful I would be for that little! What am I but an awkward lout at best! But I will make you happy, Franceline; I swear to you I will! And your father too. I will be as good as a son to him.”
She made no answer but the same negative movement of her head. She looked out over the winter fields with a dreamy expression, as if she only half heard him, while her hand lay passively in his.
“Say you will be my wife! Accept me, Franceline!” pleaded the young man, and he passed his arm around her.
The action roused her; she snatched away her hand and started from him. It was not aversion or antipathy, it was terror that dictated the movement. Something within her cried out and forbade her to listen. She could no more control the sudden recoil than she could control the tears that gushed out afresh, this time with loud sobs that shook her from head to foot.
“Good heavens! what have I done?” exclaimed Ponsonby, helpless and dismayed. “Shall I go away? shall I leave you?”
“Oh! it is nothing. It is over now,” said Franceline, her agitation quieted instantaneously by the sight of his. She dashed the tears from her cheeks impatiently; she was vexed with herself for giving way so before him. “Sit down; you are trembling all over,” said the young man; and he gently forced her into a chair. “I am sorry I said anything; I will never mention the subject again without your permission. Shall I go away?”
“It would be very ungracious to say ‘yes,’” she replied, trying to smile through the tears that hung like raindrops on her long lashes; “but you see how weak and foolish I am.”
“My poor darling! I will go and leave you. I have been too much for you. Only tell me, may I come soon again—just to ask how you are?”
She hesitated. To say yes would be tacitly to accept him; yet it was odious to turn him off like this without a word of kindly explanation to soften the pang. Ponsonby could not read these thoughts, so he construed her hesitation according to the immemorial logic of lovers.
“Well, never mind answering now,” he said; “I won’t bother you any more to-day. You will present my respects to the count, and say how sorry I was not to see him.”
He held out his hand for good-by.
“You will meet him on the road, I dare say,” said Franceline, extending hers. “You will not tell him how I have misbehaved to you?”
The shy smile that accompanied the request emboldened Ponsonby to raise the soft, white hand to his lips. Then turning away he overturned a little wicker flower-stand, happily with no injury to the sturdy green plant, but with considerable damage to the dignity of his exit.
Perhaps you will say that Mlle. de la Bourbonais behaved like a flirt in parting with a discarded lover in this fashion. It is easy for you to say so. It is not so easy for a woman with a heart to inflict unmitigated pain on a man who loves her, and whose love she at least requites with gratitude, esteem, and sisterly regard.
Sir Ponsonby met the count on the road; he made sure of the encounter by walking his horse up and down the green lane which commanded the road from Dullerton to The Lilies. What passed between them remained the secret of themselves and the winter thrush that perched on the brown hedge close by and sang out lustily to the trees and fields while they conversed.
M. de la Bourbonais made no comment on his daughter’s tear-stained cheeks when he came home; but taking her face between his hands, as he was fond of doing, he gave one wistful look, kissed it, and let it go.
“How long you have been away, petit père! Shall we go to our writing now?” she inquired cheerfully.
“Art thou not tired, my child?”
“Tired! What have I done to tire me?”
She sat down at his desk, and nothing was said of Sir Ponsonby Anwyll’s visit.
The excitement of that day’s interview told, nevertheless, on Franceline. It left her nervous, and weaker than she had been since her recovery. These symptoms escaped her father’s notice, and they would have escaped Angélique’s, owing to Franceline’s strenuous efforts to conceal them, if a slight cough had not come to put her on thequi vivemore than ever. It was very slight indeed, only attacking her in the morning when she awoke, and quite ceasing by the time she was dressed and down-stairs. Franceline’s room was at one end of the cottage; Angélique slept next to her; and at the other end, with the stairs intervening, was the count’s room. He was thus out of ear-shot of the sound, which, however rare and seemingly unimportant, would have filled him with alarm. Franceline treated it as a trifle not worth mentioning; but when her oldbonneinsisted on taking her discreetly to Dr. Blink and having his opinion about it, she gave in to humor her. The doctor once more applied his stethoscope, and then, smiling that grim, satisfied smile of his that was so reassuring to patients till they had seen it practised on others and found out it was a fallacy, remarked:
“We are glad to be able to assure you again that there is nothing to be frightened at; no mischief that cannot be forestalled by care, and docility to our instructions,” he added emphatically. “We must order you some tonics, and you must take them regularly. How is the appetite?” turning to Angélique, who stood by devouring the oracle’s words and watching every line of his features with a shrewd, almostvicious expression of mistrust on her brown face.