Volume 18 — CHAPTER IX. THE VERDICT. (continued 2)

Finally, to sum up all, it clearly sees that it must live and die in the bosom of France, where it was born; and that, if it does not enjoy the advantages it did in times past, it yet receives from the state whatever constitutes its sphere of activity, its security, and its existence. For the national clergy to quarrel angrily and irrevocably with the emperor and with the nation is a thing easier said than done, the more so as it hates the religious orders, and has no other support whatsoever for its own independence except the laws and good-will of the government.

It sees only too well what would become of it if the government, judging it irrevocably hostile, should all at once suppress all sympathy towards it, should cut off from it all sources of liberality and of toleration, and should brand it before the country as alien to the national feelings and blindly obedient to ultramontane passions. Here is the key-note to the disagreements which now exist amongst the clergy. The dispute and the declaration of 1682 are buried in the past. The controversy is not a theological one at all. It is exclusively one of our own day, exclusively political, exclusively social; and, if the ultra-montanists of to-day are the same as those of past times, the present Gallicans are by no means like those of the time of Louis XIV. We must live either in our own age or the life of the middle ages; we must be either French or Roman. Such is the true state of the question.

Under such circumstances, what is to be done?

Must we, by abruptly changing our whole system of government, expel the religious congregations of men, modify the law concerning education, apply all the organic articles, and reach such a point that the law, fully carried out, will look very much like persecution? No; for then the sincerity of the sovereign might be called into question on account of his passing so quickly from a generous and affectionate protection to all the rigors of prohibition; it would inflict a deep wound on the entire clergy and on a vast multitude of honorable Catholics; it would give rise to the suspicion that, in spite of all to the contrary, a return was being made to Voltairian prejudices; and perhaps it would necessitate a defence against an anti-religious reaction which would consider all its excesses justifiable.

The measures to be taken ought not to surpass the limits of the abuses to be suppressed, and to be carried out in behalf of the respect due to the supreme power, for the welfare of public tranquillity and of religion well understood. Besides, it is well known that public opinion acts as a kind of police over the faults of the clergy. As often as the clergy departs from its true sphere of action and strives to encroach upon the powers and independence of society, it creates a circle of resistance and opposition which subdues it. To-day men are frightened at what they think are the outbursts of revolutionary passion, but which in reality are only the energetic manifestation of public opinion rebelling against the wishes of those in favor of theocracy. Preserve the uprightness of the religious sentiment of the nation; use no violence; borrow from our public law what is necessary to put a stop to insupportable encroachments; in this way separate the course of religion as sincerely practiced from the arrogance and calculations of the Roman propaganda—such, I think, is a course of action well adapted to the necessities of the hour, and will obtain the approbation of the country.

Taking these general notions for a basis, perhaps the following measures would be most opportune:

1st. Except in cases of local necessity, which is to be well proven, to tolerate no other new establishment of religious communities of men, whether it be a question of conventual houses, churches, chapels, even under the pretext that they are to act as auxiliaries in the sacred ministry, or whether it be a question of institutions for public instruction and works of public charity. The hospitality so generously granted by the emperor to communities of men, although prohibited by law, will, in this way, remain inviolate. "You are numerous enough, and France has not been given to you to drain;" this is a sensible answer, which cannot incur the reproach of exclusion. Besides, why will not those who force themselves into the religious communities enter and recruit the ranks of the secular clergy, the parochial clergy? Where is the necessity of increasing the regular clergy which belongs to the Roman government? There are at present in France 68 associations or congregations of men, 19 only of which are authorized as teaching and charitable communities. They have under their charge 3,088 institutions or schools, they number 14,304 religious and have 359,953 pupils.

2d. Henceforth exercise the greatest severity in granting permission for the establishment of congregations of women, only granting the same when the actual undeniable necessity of public charity or primary education requires it; demand certain proofs that they have sufficient resources for their support; do not easily grant permission for the conversion of local communities into communities subject to a superioress-general, which inundate France with their annexed establishments. True it is that de facto congregations cannot be stopped; but, as they are not recognized by law, they know that every one of their members remains subject to the common law; and the de facto congregation, which collectively has no civil existence, can therefore neither receive gifts nor legacies, neither can it act as a corporation. At present there are in France 236 communities of woman subject to superioresses-general, which have, besides the 236 principal foundations, 2,066 secondary or annexed establishments; and about 700 congregations or communities under local superioresses (each of these last forms a distinct establishment, governed by its own superioress, and independent of the establishments of the same religious order established elsewhere); to which we must add about 250 religious associations of women not yet recognized, but existing de facto.

3d. As to what concerns the authorized communities of men or women, let the council of state exercise the greatest severity in the matter of gifts, legacies, and charitable donations it permits them to receive. Here we must consider not only the condition and protests of families demanding a reduction of such donations, but we must also examine into the necessities of the community so rewarded. There is no reason why we should procure for them the means of a useless or abusive extension, by authorizing them to receive what is necessary to defray expenses they ought never to have incurred. Communities once established will remain what they are, if the fruitful source of liberality which they provoke and seek for be wanting to stimulate the natural tendency of these communities to extend themselves indefinitely. The spirit of rivalry which exists amongst them, the lust of propagation and of power, all drive them on towards an incessant development. Once entered on this path, they must have money, and they put their wits to work to find out and appeal for help, for donations, and for alms. If the regulations concerning such gifts and legacies were more severe, if the principle were established that such liberality, which is only an encouragement to the extension of expenses and of establishments, would no longer be tolerated, an abrupt stop would be put to the excess of which we to-day complain.

It must be confessed that these congregations, authorized or non-authorized, have always the means of evading the law and of receiving gifts secretly. This cannot be prevented when the affair is conducted cunningly, and the congregations are not without skilful counsellors or numerous adherents ready to aid them in everything. But even in this case, the amount of these evasions or of manual gifts which deprive families of the livelihood obtained for them by their author is easily appreciable. Whence, for example, have the immense resources of the religious orders, vowed to poverty, proceeded, which they must have consecrated to their numerous and vast establishments? The real estate of the Jesuits surpasses twenty millions. How did they buy or build them? Certainly from private donations. Now, this being a fact, does it not follow that there is an obligation on the state not to tolerate any new establishments, which would necessitate new appeals to private charity, and the certainty that by such a prohibition it would act wisely?

4th. Maintain, as far as possible, without destroying the liberty of choice in the municipal councils, lay primary education. If, through the intelligence and firmness of the prefects, a stop be not put to the incessant plottings of the clergy, forcing the townships to entrust their schools to the Christian Brothers, there will be soon no lay teachers, except in such poverty-stricken localities as the brothers disdain to take. Here we must remark that an effort is being made to multiply congregations of so called Little Brothers, who install themselves in isolated country places, whilst the Christian Brothers can only form an establishment in which three brothers will be in the same school. Townships not having resources and population sufficient to receive the Christian Brothers will then be attended to by these Little Brothers, called after Lamennais, S. Viator, Tinchebray, etc., and so it will come to pass that lay teachers will be entirely suppressed. As these teachers to-day, modest and useful public officers, are devoted to the emperor, and render notable service in the rural districts, considering that universal suffrage is the law of the land, we would be very much weakened if all primary instruction passed into the hands of congregations which depend more on Rome than on France. Nay, more, it would be wise henceforth not to recognize as places of public utility any congregation of men for primary education. There are at present in France 49,639 lay schools for boys and girls, attended by 2,410,517 children; and 14,602 conventual schools, attended by 1,342,564. Moreover, we must remark that in the academies of young girls directed by congregations, in the free primary schools entrusted to them, as well as in the secondary schools wherein their influence reigns, we meet histories compiled to glorify monarchies of divine right, to exalt religious supremacy, to lower indirectly the civil and political principles acquired since 1789. Truly these establishments, so numerous, are, to a greater or less degree, real branches of the legitimist and Catholic party. On the contrary, it is in our imperial lyceums, in our municipal colleges, in our lay schools, that we find a more robust and popular instruction given, which fosters the national sentiments in the hearts of the children. Where is it that you hear the cry cordially given, Vive l'Empereur? Certainly not in the congregational establishments.

5th. Uphold with energy state education, because it is the true national education; place its institutions, by a sufficient budget, in a condition to enlarge their capacity, to perfect their staff and their means of instruction—this is the key to the events of the future. The Catholic legitimist party understood this only too well in demanding under Louis Philippe, with so much ardor, liberty of education, monopolized by the university, and in 1850, under the presidency, in having the law on public instruction passed. Later, under the dictatorship, it had the hardihood to dream of the total abolition of state education, in order to hand it over to the clergy and to the congregations; but the emperor, fully instructed on the intent of such a measure, refused his consent. But it remains a fact, however, that, thanks to the law of 1850, granting to every French citizen liberty to teach, the Catholic legitimist party has been enabled to perpetuate in the young generations that division of castes and of ideas which would have disappeared under the system of a united university education. It has been enabled, through the pupils brought up in congregational houses, to give continued existence to its own social and political doctrines. This is a great evil, no doubt; but, great as it is, it is impossible to think of suppressing the law which guarantees the liberty of the family. That would necessitate an immense struggle, a bloody one, and one contrary to justice. There remains, then, but this one escape, as equitable as it is prudent; everything concurs in it: let us strengthen and favor state education, which fits one for any career in life, which is the most solid and most patriotic, whilst, at the same time, let it be made religious, moral, and paternal.

6th. As far as it can be done without forcing things too far, let us put in execution the organic regulations, which place salutary checks on the encroachments of the Papal power over the clergy and the state; in other words, let us tolerate no new attack against our civil legislation and our political constitution, whether in writings or in the pulpit.

Place the office of the nuncio in France under the same regulations as any other embassador of a friendly power, and do not allow him to correspond at all, in the Pope's name, with the French bishops, nor allow him to perform any act of jurisdiction, nor allow him to have the least say in the choice of bishops.

With a firm hand prevent any act of the court of Rome from either being received, published, or distributed in France without the authorization of the government.

Choose resolutely the bishops from pious and honorable ecclesiastics, but such as are known for their sincere attachment to the emperor, and to the institutions of France.

Suppress all religious journals, the need of which no one dreamt of before the invasion and agitations of the ultramontane party. The clergy has its discipline, its bishops, its priests, its pulpits, its mandates, its pastoral letters, and a complete government. There is no necessity at all of adding the polemics of the press to the ordinary means of publicity for this ecclesiastical government. Besides, the whole of that press has always been the instrument for spreading the doctrines and designs of the Roman theocracy, or parliamentary Catholicism. To-day it supplies the most energetic nutriment towards a religious agitation. Suppress this focus of excitement, which is spreading into every presbytery, and the clergy will remain quiet. The Univers has upset the heads of all the younger clergy by preaching religious supremacy, and the harm done by it will not be effaced for many a long year. To impose the protection of the church on the state; to sap all civil and political liberties; to undermine all lay institutions; to attack incessantly every European alliance, except that with Austria and the Catholic states, thus to introduce, above everything else, and everywhere, the influence, the ideas, and the power of Rome—such is the work of religious journals supported by the legitimist party.

Encourage, finally, the public study of the ancient French liberties, and profess everywhere and with spirit the conservative principles of the independence of the state alongside of that of the Papacy.

7th. Moreover, persevere in a course of loyal protection for the true interests of religion and of deference towards the clergy. Nothing would be wiser, and, at the same time, nothing more just, than to increase the honor paid to the inferior clergy, who in almost the whole of France experience the direst privations. In this way they would be attached to the government. If the episcopate, through weakness or any other motive, abandoned the emperor, he would be compelled to conciliate the inferior clergy, who ask nothing better than to have a little more ecclesiastical independence, and who sometimes suffer from episcopal despotism. At all events, it is of great importance that the religious part of the nation be amazed at the noise occasioned by these Roman quarrels, or remain indifferent concerning them, seeing the national worship always tranquil, protected, and honored. For this reason it is very useful that the grants of the budget be increased towards the construction and repairing of churches, presbyteries, and diocesan buildings.

8th. Finally, perhaps it would be opportune for the government to turn its attention to those large lay associations, such as those of S. Vincent of Paul, of S. Francis Xavier, etc., which, by their administration and the nature of their works, are really in the hands of the clergy and of the legitimist party. The conferences of S. Vincent of Paul to-day are more than nine hundred in number; they penetrate every rank of society, and even into the lyceums and colleges, where they affiliate even the children under the title of aspirants. They are connected to a principal conference in each department of the country; they are governed by a general council of that society, which has presented to the Holy Father at Rome a report on the general condition of the French conferences. It is a formidable association, which, as it has at its disposal so many members and such resources, forms, as it were, a secret and complete government. Our laws do not at all admit the independent organization of such associations. Recognizing the charitable and Christian end of the Society of S. Vincent of Paul, the benefits which undoubtedly are to be attributed to it, the excellent spirit of many of its members, it is impossible not to perceive the intentions of the men who have the privilege and inspiration of its government; it is impossible, also, not to grow uneasy at the existence of so vast and so skilful an organization, through which thousands of citizens can receive such or such an impulse, or such or such a word of command. Disinterested benevolence can easily pass to such a society of propagandists; and charitable societies, in order to exist and to do good, have no need of going beyond their own district, nor of affecting a spirit of affiliation and of a cemented union, which up to the present time has only existed in secret revolutionary societies. Is it not to be feared that they will in some sort replace the ancient Catholic associations of the Restoration, which were then named "Jesuits in short-tailed coats, or the Congregation"?

There can be no doubt at all that there is no one who now enters these societies solely for love of charity or to satisfy his taste for religious exercises; they are so numerous, so well filled up from all ranks of society, that a powerful, compact interest is thereby established which offers inducements for the welfare of families and for any career in life. The Society of S. Vincent of Paul, which, as we have seen, initiates the children in our lyceums and colleges, has entered into the polytechnic school and into every branch of the civil administration. It is developing in the army, in the magistracy, at the bar; everywhere, in fine, it manifests its secret influence, and unites all its members by the bonds of mutual support. To be a member of the Society of S. Vincent of Paul to-day is not merely to make an act of religious adhesion; it is to enter into a secret world, strongly organized, acting on all sides upon the opinions and the affairs of society; it is to gain active and influential protectors, and to secure for one's self all the avenues leading to success in the different chances or walks of life. The democrats would have desired to establish a republican unity of interests. The clerics and ultramontanes, allied to the legitimists, have established the mutual support of the S. Vincent of Paul Society. What an immense lever this could become in hostile hands to move political ideas! Yes, we must repeat, the power of these associations is such that men enter them for purely temporal motives. They influence the determinations of families more than one dreams of; and it is a very strange spectacle to see a considerable number of our civil officers enrolled under their banners, whilst their children, avoiding the state institutions, receive their instruction from the Jesuits, the Carmelites, the Marists, the Dominicans.

This memoir has been composed in a spirit of pure frankness and truth. We have wished to dissemble nothing. Yet if the matters treated of in this memoir be serious, we know full well that they do not constitute a fatal danger for the country. We can face them coolly. The material and moral power of the government of the emperor is immense. The majority in France cares very little for clerical pretensions, and will never bow before the theocratical doctrines of Rome nor before the intrigues and lamentations of the coalesced political parties. The country has too much trust in the national interests, and too great faith in the principles of modern society, not to crush, by the very manifestation of its opinions, all this laborious restoration of men and of the theories of the past. But as these are elements of agitation and disorder, it is the duty of a provident government to watch attentively. "Prudence begets safety."

GRACE SEYMOUR'S MISSION.

CONCLUDED.

September was painting the leaves in the wooded valleys of Gloucestershire, and the fields were just bared of their golden crowns. A noble mansion, where generations of Howards had reigned, was waiting for its little lord to come from beyond the seas. In old days, the Howards had been among the truest and bravest of the champions of the old faith; even now their head branches had not thrown off their allegiance to the church, but the glory of the martyr had paled before the renown of the statesman and the fame of the soldier, in the eyes of at least this offshoot of the great Catholic house. Since the reign of James I., these Gloucestershire squires had been the main stay of the Low-Church party, and the family tradition had remained the same to the days of Elizabeth Howard, little George's mother.

One bright day a rather awkward travelling-carriage drove up to the oaken door of Howard Hall, and George Charteris, with his little cousin, dashed up the steps. Grace and her father followed; they were but visitors, with no authority and no influence. Only one day did they remain there, the young lawyer escorting them back to London; the child was left to the care of the elder Charteris and his family.

The young man had not let time pass without making good use of it, and he had already been once refused by the beautiful girl, whose influence over him seemed so strange and unaccountable to himself. Her father had said he was well satisfied at his child's conduct, as she was not one to speak hastily and then repent her words; but George Charteris did not give up all hope.

Grace and Mr. Seymour lived very quietly, even poorly; the guardian of their little George allowed them a scanty sum out of the estate, on his own responsibility, and on the condition that it should be subject to the child's good pleasure when he should have attained his majority. Mr. Seymour had serious thoughts of going abroad to study for the priesthood, and Grace's peculiar religious state had suffered no alteration since her departure from America.

Among the new convert's self-imposed tasks of charity was a weekly visit to one poor family, whose drunken son was their shame and endless burden. Dependent upon him for a precarious living, his old parents, both crippled by an accident on a farm where years ago they had been employed, lodged in a miserable den, which, through a large-heartedness that is oftener seen among the poor than the rich, they had shared with two sickly orphan children, the only ones left of a family of seven, carried off with father and mother by the small-pox. Whatever the drunken man brought home was shared with these desolate little ones; whatever was given in charity was brought to feed them and keep in them the little life they had ever had. Four more helpless beings perhaps hardly existed, and all dependent upon one whose conscience was dead, and whose animal nature hideously survived the paralyzation of his soul's organism. Mr. Seymour and his daughter came upon them by the merest chance, and ever after remained to them the firmest friends, the most gentle benefactors, they had ever dared to dream of. But the zealous convert was anxious to do a greater good than the mere corporal works of mercy implied by his visits to these forlorn creatures. In moments when his demon was not on him, the unhappy son of these poor people sometimes listened to Mr. Seymour's earnest appeals to his buried conscience. With good results for a few hours the poor family had at first to be satisfied; then, as they hoped their infatuated son would gradually reward the efforts of his kind adviser, he would suddenly grow more brutish than before, and more irreclaimable. His companions would jeer at the "gentleman missioner," in those days when gentlemen were the worst preachers because the worst violators of temperance; and the old people would sometimes tremblingly speak to their benefactor of danger and of trouble to come, if he persisted too openly in his religious and moral advice.

But the zeal that burnt within Edward Seymour was no faint light to be extinguished by the first tainted breath of danger-fraught opposition; bravely he spoke and advised and remonstrated, waiting only for a few preliminaries to be arranged, in order to leave for a quiet scene, where in prayer and study he was to prepare himself for tasks as dangerous and as thankless as were his present occupations.

Meanwhile, his daughter, the domestic angel of his silent, shrine-like home, thought and read and pondered deeply, her love for her one companion in life bringing to her heart a longing desire to be at unity with him, to be a sister and a sharer in his faith, and, above all, a partaker in his sacrifice. For she could not bear to see him suffer in earthly comforts, and not feel that she, too, bore a part of his burden; she longed to believe as he did, if only to suffer as he did; for as long as she stood aloof from his inner life, she felt, after all, but as one who should watch sympathizingly on the shore while another human being was battling with the crested, storm-tossed waves beyond. Once or twice, with her father, Grace had gone to a quiet service in a lowly house, where a priest made a temporary chapel whenever he could spend a few days in town. His coming was a joy to a faithful knot of friends, and before his impromptu altar many ranks and stations in life were represented, from the brilliant owner of lordly estates to the poor Irish artisan and the old women who reigned, then as now, over the London apple-stalls. Among the silent, earnest worshippers of this "tabernacle in the desert" was one whose thoughts had been singularly attracted towards Grace. He saw her sit by her father's side, grave and attentive, a sad, wistful look on her pale face, never joining in the simple devotions which evidently were so familiar to her companion, but often fixing her hopeless, passionate gaze upon his faith-illumined features. Sometimes Grace would suddenly feel, like to the rush of a falling star through the purple sky of night, a glimmering perception of at least a possibility of truth existing in this persecuted religion. Perhaps the very persecution roused her pity and her sympathy, and held within itself a fascination uneasily resisted by a noble mind.

Had the faith of her father been presented to her under its gorgeous exterior of uncurtailed ritual and acknowledged supremacy, her heart might have turned away from the glittering triumph; but now, were the followers of this condemned Catholic faith not exiles and wanderers, threatened with prisons and fines, hunted down by prejudice and malignity, oppressed with the worst oppression—social and political ostracism? How could her heart help going out towards them, and crying blindly in the darkness that it felt for them and pitied their woes and admired their self-sacrifice?

The day we have alluded to was one of those on which such awakenings were stirring in her soul, and the fight between the world and God was beginning for the holding of this stray prize, whose purchase had been made, centuries ago, upon the cross of Calvary.

The good priest, who knew of her state through his conversations with her father, took care to infuse a little wholesome and clearly-defined doctrine into the short discourse he gave after Mass. It was not without its effect, and Grace's eager, thoughtful air did not escape the notice of her silent observer, who was not long in persuading the pastor to make him acquainted with Mr. Seymour and his daughter.

He was a young, tall, athletic man, a thorough Saxon, with blue eyes that were truth itself, and a lion-like form that seemed the very embodiment of unconquerable endurance and indomitable bravery. One thought instinctively, on looking at him, of the word "standard-bearer," as if that, and that alone, were a description meet for him, moral and physical in one; the only adequate word wherewith to blazon forth his glorious perfection of man and child combined. As reverent towards God, as loyal towards women, as though he were of those who "always see the Father's face," he was as uncompromising, as frank, as firm towards the world of daily shoals in whose treacherous midst he lived as if temptation were a mythic fear, and the possibility of sin a sealed book to his heart. The child of persecution, the royal offspring of danger that could not appall and repression that could not crush, Edmund Oakhurst was like the mountain-bred hunter who, reared amid the sterile crags of unscalable Alps and sea-girt coasts, leaps from rock to rock, regardless of chasm and torrent, and angry tides rolling over the stone where a moment ago his venturesome but ever-sure foot had lightly rested. The eagles might scream round his head, the sea roar at his feet, the sky darken and the frail bark toss, he cared little, for a brave heart and a bold hand, with God for a guide—are they not equal to resisting the world's treacherous assaults? Such is a slight sketch of the young man who now stood before Grace, bashful yet bold, and looked up into her eyes with such wondering questions mutely brightening his own. Her father was pleased with the stranger, and together they soon fell into a conversation on the position of the faith in America, and of the contrast between its present state and that of triumphant supremacy it had enjoyed in that hemisphere when Spain was the queen of nations.

The young man went home with Mr. Seymour, and it was evening ere they parted. Grace was silently entranced. The faith that had such children as that, and could draw to itself such an one as her father, must it not have some unsuspected vitality which could be none other than truth? Often and often their new friend came again, and each time he came the young girl felt a solemn enthusiasm for all things great and noble distil from his every word and glance, and wrap her round in a bewildered dream, the voice of which seemed to sing for ever in her ears, "Go and do thou likewise." Lights broke in upon her from unexpected places; books she had laid down in hopeless reverence, deploring that to her their spiritual beauty was incomprehensible, yet sure that their beauty of language must be the veil of the hidden shrine, she now took up again, and, reading, began to understand. Her father, whose labors among the poor Edmund Oakhurst now joined, was too silently happy to notice, save by gentle, unobtrusive aid, the renovating work going on in his child's soul, and seemed to brighten under this new and blessed influence. Soon his daughter spoke openly to him, and, not many months after the quiet meeting at the chapel, she was under instruction. He delayed his already formed plans, to be at her side at this moment, and, together as ever, the two prayed and read and studied, till life seemed to Grace too full and happy for earth.

George Charteris had ceased visiting his relations much, especially after having once or twice met Edmund Oakhurst. The contact with his accustomed circle of by no means very intellectual or very sensitive friends had soon worn off the interest his better nature had once taken in the thoughtful, earnest life of the convert and his daughter. He, however, very good-naturedly continued to write to them, giving accounts of little George's health and general goings-on.

One night Edward Seymour and his young friend sat alone by the dying fire, while the cold drizzle without veiled the window, and the damp seemed to soak in through every chink and cranny in the poorly furnished room. Both men wore their great-coats, but they hardly seemed to notice the cold.

"It is nearly eighteen months now since we came," said Mr. Seymour, "and I am not off to France yet. However, in less than a month that last step will be taken, and I shall be at peace."

"And the favor I have asked you will be mine—so you assure me," hesitatingly answered Oakhurst.

"I only bid you try yourself, and see if I am not right," said his friend. "Nothing would make me happier; and as to her, I have already told you that she believes it was through your influence that God made the truth plain to her."

"But if she should think that I take her at a disadvantage; or if she should marry me because, being unprotected, she would be grateful for a home—or rather, a husband, for the home is hers—or, worse than all, suppose she thought I was so poor as to need the little she has to give?"

"My dear boy, these are groundless fears. She thinks of nothing but of God and of his leadings in these matters; she never has looked at things from her childhood up with the world's eyes, and I think the mere idea of the possibility of a man's marrying for money would be to her absolutely monstrous and ridiculous. Remember how quiet and lonely her life at home always was, and say if she could be so worldly-wise?"

"It is true. After all, I wrong her; it is unworthy of me to dream of such things; only I feel so utterly beneath her in mind and soul, so simple in the deep things she hides in her heart, so unlearned in the marvellous paths through which she has been led."

"My son," said Seymour gravely, "do not wrong yourself. I never dreamed that I was worthy of her mother, but I knew that, all unworthy as I was, God had chosen me for her guardian; so it is now with you, for she is her mother over again. But whenever was a treasure given to the worthy only? Think you Mary was worthy of being the mother of Jesus, or Joseph of being the spouse of Mary? Are any of us worthy of being sons of God and heirs of heaven? Above all, am I worthy to be a priest of the Most High? But the question lies not there; it lies in God's will, God's decrees, God's call to us, his children. Is the slave worthy to bear the priceless crown, whose gems flash in his dark hands, in some eastern procession? But the king has deputed him to bear it, and his obedience stands for worthiness."

"Mr. Seymour," said the young man earnestly, "you are right, and, if it be my blessed lot to be your child's guardian, God will give me grace to find favor in her sight first, and never betray her trust in me for ever after. I will ask her."

He did ask her a few days later, in simple, manly phrase, and she answered him in silence. Her heart was too full for speech, and he loved her too well to dispute her first, though unspoken, behest. But after a few moments, she knelt down, and hand-in-hand they prayed, without telling each other why and for what, and yet each seemed to know.

In the evening of the same day Mr. Seymour and his friend were to go to the cottage of a poor family, where sometimes a little, informal meeting used to take place—a forerunner of the crowded temperance gatherings our more fortunate age can boast.

Once more the father and daughter stood close together, waiting for Edmund Oakhurst. The pale moon looked in at the narrow casement, the street was slippery with recent rain, and the wind was damp and cold. Within burned one low candle on the table before the fireplace, where the coals were blackening into ashes, and every now and then throwing out a tongue of dim, red flame, only to make the black emptiness more noticeable.

"I will have the fire all right when you come back, darling," said Grace, "and some hot wine and water ready for you. Mind you keep that cloak well about you. O my love! I cannot bear to think we have so few days before us still!"

"Almost a few weeks, Grace," said her father cheerfully.

"It seems to me as if they were days," reiterated the girl; "but I know it is right. My mother would say so, if she could speak to us from her home in the spirit-land. Kiss me, my father, my own!"

There was almost a despairing wail under that quick exclamation. Seymour felt strangely moved, but, unwilling to weaken his child's fortitude, he kissed her and soothed her in the most cheerful way he could, yet tenderly keeping her hands clasped in his. Edmund Oakhurst was not long, and the two men were soon ready to start. Grace took the candle, and led the way down the dark stairs. She motioned her lover to go out first, and then, detaining her father, said in a voice broken by uncontrollable emotion:

"My own precious father, bless me before you go."

He caught her in his arms, and laid one hand on her head, murmuring, "God bless you for ever, my child, as your father does now. Don't give way, my love, my little treasure, and think of me while I am gone. We will have a nice evening together when we come home, my pet." And he gave her a fervent, solemn kiss, and pressed her hands to his heart.

In silence she let him go, but a passionate prayer burst from her lips as soon as he had crossed the threshold. She shaded the flickering light with one hand, while she stepped forth and strained her eyes after him as far as sight could follow. When he disappeared behind a corner, a sob broke from her, and she turned wearily to go up the stairs. A cloud scudded across the face of the moon, and the shrill laugh of a woman sounded clear and cutting down the street. Grace went back to the little room, where the fire was sullenly going to sleep, waking up now and then in a fretful, spectre-like glare and a weird rustle, then leaving utter darkness behind once more. The girl shuddered; she knew not what ailed her. Thoughts came in upon her, maddening her, and she paced up and down the small enclosure with rapid, unsteady steps. She had never felt like this before; when her mother lay dying, she had stepped lightly and softly, her mind clear, her loving heart calm, though crushed. What meant this fever, this horror of something vague, this dread that made her heart beat as the wind creaked the wooden stairs and shook the ill-fitting casement? A crucifix hung on the wall, a Bible lay on the table; to both she looked for comfort and peace, but the one seemed alive with ruddy blood-stains, and the other opened at these words: "I said, In the midst of my days I shall go to the gates of hell; I sought for the residue of my years.... I hoped till morning; as a lion so hath he broken all my bones: from morning even to night thou wilt make an end of me."[275] Grace closed the book with pale cheeks and scared expression, and flung herself on her knees before the burnt-out fire. She sank to the ground, and a kind of mist seemed to dull her senses; yet it was not sleep. A child awoke in the room overhead, and began its wailing, peevish cry; otherwise the stillness was intense. The moon climbed the sky so that its light went beyond the range of the low window; the radiance came, however, wan and misty, up from the street. The clock in the passage ticked, and Grace found herself unconsciously counting its pulses; and when she tried to break off, a spell seemed upon her that compelled her to count on. Again she paced the room, and then, as if impatient of this unaccountable restlessness, she began to make things ready for her father's return. This occupied her some time, and she lingered over the homely task as if in it lay a talisman to shield her against this nameless fear, this importunate, impalpable horror, that seemed to her almost a presence. She said aloud, to cheat her own belief, "I must be ill; this is fever;" but her mind was pitilessly alive, and refused this interpretation. She sat down to read; philosophy would surely drive away the unholy phantom. But the pages grew dim before her eyes, and, though unclosed, those eyes saw nothing of what was before them. Twenty times she rose up to look at the passage clock; the time lagged, she thought, as if it dreaded to become the present. The fire burnt brightly again, and hot wine and water were ready on the table. A few flowers that stood in a common cup on the mantel-piece she took down and laid gracefully in a shallow saucer, placing it on the table, in green and scarlet contrast with the white, transparent flagon, and the quaint old silver ewer. Then she thought, as if forcing her mind to leave her unnamed dread behind, of the many vicissitudes this piece of Howard plate had seen; of the drinking bouts of old at which it had figured in the days of the reckless cavaliers; of the mediæval honors it might have won at jousts and tournaments; for its date was carved on a small shield up-born by a griffin and a monk, and went far back into the XVth century. But this speculation was disturbed by sounds of horrid revel in the street, and Grace shiveringly met the old horror face to face again. Something half human seemed to brood over the place; the room seemed tenanted, and, though brave, the girl was thoroughly unnerved. She opened the door, the clock ticked, and she saw it was growing late. From the impatience of two hours ago she rushed back into a shrinking dread of the lateness of the time, now it had come. Her father was still away—why? Had he not looked forward to a quiet evening after his work of charity was done, and would he not have hurried home, that she might not have to wait long after the usual hour? The shadowy terror that all the time had obstinately kept his form as a sort of centre round which it could turn and play in fantastic dreams and ever-changing pictures, crept nearer to her heart now, and strangled it with a more certain fear, a more defined vision. Then a cold wind seemed to blow all round her, and she looked up. It was only the open door into the passage that was swinging on its grating hinges, and letting in a rush of air from the outside. Yes; but whence was the cold air that wrung the frail door? Was not that a sound on the stairs? Her first impulse was to rush out, and meet her father; her second, a scarcely shaped wish to prolong the yet doubtful present. Irresolutely she stood and listened; there were voices on the stairs—whispers.

Then a slow tread came lingeringly up, and through the half-open door she saw Edmund Oakhurst. She knew it all now. Had he rushed up with maddening speed, as if human feet were not swift enough for his errand, she might have hoped. As it was, she saw it all; and when he spoke, she only answered: "Yes."

He stood silent then, and, taking her hand, waited for her to ask him where she must follow him. She passed her other hand over her forehead, and then pointed to the table, with a sort of pathetic smile that wrung her lover's heart.

"He was to have had a nice evening, he said," she murmured in a dreary tone. Oakhurst hardly knew whether or no to answer.

"Come, show me," she said again, taking her shawl, and wrapping it round her, and then, taking the crucifix from the wall, she kissed it and passed it to Edmund.

"My only father now," she whispered to herself. They went down the old stairs in silence, the frightened landlady standing at the door, trembling like an aspen-leaf.

"Tell me," said Grace when they were in the street, "how was it? Did he fall?"

"Yes, he fell," answered he, hesitating; she saw it.

"You can tell me all," she said dreamily; "he was getting short-sighted; from study, you know. Did he stumble? Or was it something struck him?"

"Yes, he was coming out of the house—standing near the door—it did not hurt him much, and he was insensible."

"And was it all over at once?"

"Before we could get him to the hospital."

"Was there a doctor?"

"One came, and accompanied him to the hospital. But he said nothing could be done."

"Did he speak?"

"Not once; but he opened his eyes and looked around, as if seeking something. I said 'Grace,' and then a light came to his eyes, but otherwise there was no recognition. I hardly think he knew me."

"I had his blessing before he left me, thank God!"

Silence fell upon them, and Grace sobbed softly now and then. She thought of the grave under the elms, and of the meeting of those two—those to whom she owed her being—and then of her own lonely heart left behind to drag out its weary vigil. Her self-possession was returning, and when she reached the hospital, it was no wailing, unconscious maniac whom they led to the couch of the calm sleeper, but a grave, silent woman, wrapped in the majesty of sorrow, armed with the shield of peace. She stood a few moments steadfastly by the bed, then dropped on her knees, and kissed the white, still hand. A gash had scarred the high, broad forehead, but its horror had been obliterated as much as possible, and she felt no shrinking. Her long, piercing gaze had made her more strangely calm; a half-smile came to her lips as she thought of the shuddering girl who had stood in formless terror, trembling at every shadow, a few hours since; she could hardly believe that it was herself, so much had the reality of awful grief sobered in her the wild instincts of dimly perceived danger. The blow had come, and with it the grace; the balm had been poured in almost by the same hand that had dealt the wound, and the burden laid upon her had found more than strength enough whereon to rest and weigh. Crushed she might be, but had not the same silent teacher she gazed upon now been as crushed as she by a widely different yet kindred loss, and had not his soul risen again from under the flail with ten times more sweetness in its fragrance, and more strength in its tempered fibre?

She turned and whispered to Edmund. He inclined his head, and, speaking authoritatively, said to the bystanders that the body must be, at Miss Seymour's wish, carried to her lodgings. She then left, and he accompanied her home, promising to return with her father's corpse.

In a short time muffled steps and hushed voices were heard, and the strong man was borne again to the home he had left so cheerfully only a few hours before. Edmund and Grace were alone. All night through they watched, and a few candles burned round the sleeping form. Towards the gray of the morning, when common sounds began to be heard again, and the city woke up once more to its never-intermitted round of strange, wicked, checkered life, the girl, rising and kissing the brow of her dead father, turned to Edmund with a sad look of inquiry.

"Edmund," she said slowly, "you never told me what struck him."

"An iron bar," he answered, with a frightened, startled look. She gazed full in his eyes.

"I do not believe," she said calmly, with sad reproach trembling in her voice, "that you have told me untruly, for that you could not do; but, through kindness and compassion, I know that you have not told me all."

"What more is there to tell?" he stammered.

"You know," she answered; "for God's sake, tell me!"

He looked at her with strange meaning. "You do not know what you are asking, Grace. I had hoped, if I had had my way, to keep from you much that would cause you unnecessary sorrow; and you could have left town, and even the country, so as to more completely take from you all association with this terrible grief. But you seem to pierce every veil, and I am not practised at concealing. But, O Grace! it will break your heart! It well-nigh breaks my own to think of it!"

"I know there is something very dreadful in the background," she said; "but I have prayed all night for strength to bear it, and I wish to know it now. Do not hide one thing from me, as you hope for heaven, Edmund."

He paused, and then, thinking that it would be best to get the shock over at once, said, intently watching her the while: "Grace, your father was called of God to be a priest. But God made him a martyr first; for such a murder is, in truth, a martyrdom."

She quivered from head to foot, but, recovering herself, she said: "I had suspected something like that."

"How, Grace?"

"I thought I heard some whispered words that were hushed as soon as I went in to that awful place where he lay, and I had seen you flush, and blanch, and hesitate when I questioned you. It was God's will. Tell me everything. But who"—and her voice broke here—"who could have been so lost as to hate him?"

"You know, when we left you," hurriedly began the young man, "we went straight to that meeting. Some were there who are as good as cured, and some others came from curiosity, or brought by their friends. A few were not sober. Your father said some prayers, as usual. Then he spoke to the men, as you know he can speak, very simply, very earnestly. There was a disturbance at the door. While he was speaking, half a dozen men, furious with drink, and roaring and swearing like demons, tried to get in. A few opposed them, and in the struggle the rickety door came down, and the long, old-fashioned iron hinge came loose from the rotten wood. One of the men took it up—it was Drake, the son of those poor old cripples. Another, who was of our men inside, wrenched it from him, and your father came down near the door to try and quiet the men. Those of the better sort grouped round him, fearing violence from the men in the front. I was close to him. I saw a man stoop, and the next minute Drake passed something to a comrade of his, who stole behind us, while he himself made a rush at me. I was still grappling with him, when there was a cry. The men sprang apart, and I heard your father say, 'O God!' just as he fell. I flung Drake to the ground with such force that he was stunned, and his head sounded dead on the stone floor. The men on our side had already caught the murderer, with the long iron hinge in his hand. It had struck your father on the back of the head, near the ear, and the scar on the forehead was made by falling forward. The police did not come till it was all over, and then they marched off Drake and the other man—Eldridge is his name, so I was told afterwards. I heard Drake say, with a horrible oath, that it was lucky for your father he had escaped so long; and the murderer grinned as he heard this remark. They seemed sober enough the minute it was over. Drake recovered very soon. The other men seemed stupid with horror. Grace, was it not a martyrdom?"

"Edmund," she answered solemnly, "it was the noblest death he could die, the only one befitting him. Die for the good of others! die for the spread of holiness, for the honor of principle! die that God might be better known and better served!—it was what he lived for; it was what he would have chosen to die for, had he had the choice. O my father! half my soul has gone with him, and my life shall be one eager longing to be made worthy to follow him. Edmund, is it not grand, is it not heroic? Has he not a glorious crown wherewith to meet my mother in heaven?"

Edmund could not help wondering at the quaint suggestions, which, to his less imaginative nature, seemed even extravagant; but when was enthusiasm ever less than extravagant, and when was it more meet than in this case of a glorious, God-ordained death?

After a pause, Grace resumed:

"If I had known this sooner, I should have gone to Drake's parents. I shall go now. You watch while I am away."

And before Edmund could speak, she was gone.

They were sitting over the embers of a mere apology for a fire, these two forsaken cripples, with the little, starveling children cuddled together like frightened rabbits at their feet. When the door opened, and Grace appeared, pale and worn, they shivered, and leaned one upon the other, as if they would gladly have fled from her, had they been able. They were dumb, and seemed to have no instinct but fear within their bosoms. The children stared with great round eyes, and crept further away. Grace went up, and knelt down before the old couple, taking the woman's fingers in her own, and saying softly:

"You are not afraid of me? Did you think I was angry? I have come to tell you I am not, and he would not be, could he speak to you. Won't you say something to me?"

The old woman said something, but her teeth chattered so it was unintelligible. The old man gave a feeble, idiotic laugh, and, for the moment, Grace was startled. But she soon saw that horror had turned his brain, and that he was now beyond the possibility of suffering. His wife seemed verging on the same state. Grace took out some money, and put it into the poor old crone's hand. "You shall live on here, just as usual," she said. "I will help you; never mind. Take care of your husband, and remember I am not angry with you."

The old woman mumbled something under her breath, but appeared quite stupefied yet. "God bless you!" said Grace sadly, turning from this unsatisfactory couple, and going gently up to the children.

"Can you tell me where Eldridge lived?" she said. "And if he has a family?"

The children, also, seemed deaf and dumb for a time; but at last the promise of a silver piece drew forth from the recesses of their memory the address of Eldridge's wife. It was not far off. Grace left the hovel, and took her way down courts and by-streets till she reached the house where the murderer's wife lived. Up many stairs, and through many passages, inquiring her way, Grace went, and at last knocked at the right door. Only a sound of sobbing was heard within. She said to herself, "This is no hardened woman;" and at once her resolve was formed. She gently opened the door; a woman sat by the dingy window, her head buried in her hands, and bent down to her knees. She rocked herself to and fro, and moaned at regular intervals. A child lay in a cradle near her, but she did not heed it. The bed stood at one end of the room, tossed and untidy; the poor little utensils of the wretched home were flung about in disorder, and some dark stains on the deal table gave out a strong, sickening odor.

Grace went up to the woman, and touched her on the shoulder. The woman looked up. Her face was wild and sad, the hair strayed over the cheeks and forehead, matted with tears, and the expression was awful in its utter despair. Grace said:

"You are very unhappy; I am come to comfort you, if you will let me."

"Who are you?" said the woman vacantly.

"A friend to all who are in trouble," answered Grace, with a sob in her voice; "and I thought, if I came to you, it might relieve you."

The woman seemed to try and gather her faculties together. "I do not remember you. The visiting ladies is not like you."

"But you will let me visit you? Perhaps I can do you more good than they can."

"No, no; you are very kind, lady, but 'tan't no use."

"I know what your trouble is, but there is comfort even for that sorrow. He may repent; have you any influence over him?"

She shook her head. Grace pointed to the cradle.

"And has that no influence upon him? To-day, when he is sober, it may have. Take the baby, and go and see him. If you do him good, it will make you happier; if not, you will have done your duty."

"Duty!" flashed out the miserable woman. "What have I ever done but my duty, and to him as used me more as a beast than a woman?"

"Hush! hush! God may touch him yet. Do not despair!"

"Not despair! Lady, it's easy for you as is a lady to say sech things! God be merciful to me, I'm driven mad with despair!"

"Will you tell me what it is that troubles your poor heart?" said Grace, who saw that the unhappy woman must speak out or die.

"Won't I?" was the answer, fearfully prompt. "I married that man three years ago down in Devonshire, and I a farmer's daughter, with a home as never knowed the want of anything. And he fooled me with his handsome face and talk of Lunnon, and his fine trade there. Trade, indeed! It was the devil's trade, if any! And because I listened and liked him, my father he swore he'd disown me. I ran away, and we was married at the nearest church. First night, he came home drunk. He never left off being drunk, and often I thought I'd leave him; but father, he wouldn't have taken me back, and I didn't want for to be called names! Here in Lunnon we lived sometimes here, sometimes there, worse than this often, and he always drunk. He had heaps of money now and then. I know, lady, where it come from; but he never gave me any, and I don't know as I could have touched it if he had. But for days he left me, and I had to beg or starve; he would not have cared if I'd done worse. Then come home drunk, and swear because there was nothing to eat. He beat me and kicked me, and, when he come home, wouldn't let me sleep at night. Other men came, too, and spoke about bad things in whispers; but I heard. They would drink here till they all slept heavy on the floor, and the brandy spilt over their clothes. Then baby was born, and I felt as if I could kill it first; for why bring it up to be like its father? Three days after it came, my husband struck me terrible, and I nearly died. He gave brandy to the child, and I in a faint. Baby was like to die, and I were glad of it. And so it went on—baby better, but me worse, and drink, drink, till he sometimes went tearing mad, swore he saw devils, and called for more drink and more. A few months ago, Drake came—a man my husband knew—and he and the other laughed and said 'some one' shouldn't trouble them long. They had money, in gold, last time I saw Drake. That was four days back. Then my husband, he came home drunk still, and every night it was the same, till last night, when he did not come home at all, but left me not one half-penny, for he had drunk the last in that brandy he spilt on the table."

The woman paused and shuddered.

"My God, my God!" she moaned, "that I should come to this, with my father's home, so peaceful-like, and me not daring to go back. Well, the last I heard of that man were when, at twelve o'clock last night, a neighbor rushed in and says to me, says she, 'Mrs. Eldridge, your old man's been and done it!' And as I looked at her, stupid-like, she says, 'He's killed that preaching gentleman as used to try and get all our men to leave off spirits.' And I fell back on the bed, and knowed nothing for hours."

Grace had listened throughout the pitiful story with calm, patient interest; she now said soothingly:

"Come, Mrs. Eldridge, it is a fearful blow, but God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, does he not? Tell me, you have not tasted anything since yesterday; is it not so? You must be faint, and, if we would bear up against sorrow, we must not lose our health. I have brought you money, but I think it is better I should send for some things for you, as you will hardly care to go out and be seen just now."

"Indeed and indeed it's true," sobbed the poor creature; "but you are a world too good, miss."

"I will read to you while you are waiting; it will soothe you," said Grace, as she went to the door, and called a girl from one of the multitudinous cavities of this warren-like house. She gave her money and instructions, and turned back into the room. The child in the cradle awoke. Grace took it up. The mother shuddered, saying: "Better it should die, lady, than live to be like its father."

The girl looked curiously down at the infant's poor, pinched face, and then answered:

"Let God settle that; it is not for you or I to question his doings towards children. I remember my little brother when he was like this."

"Ah! miss, no doubt he had a different father."

Grace turned pale, and did not answer. The woman was silent, but seemed merged in her own grief again. Then, with the child on her lap, the young girl began to read out of a Catholic Bible she had in her pocket. She thought Mrs. Eldridge would never know the difference, and she preferred her father's gift to herself to all the Bibles she had had during his pastorship. The poor woman seemed entranced. When Grace paused, she said:

"Them visiting ladies never does that, but they brings tracts and groceries. But how peaceful-like that do sound jest like our parson's daughter as used to read to mother at home."

"How old are you, Mrs. Eldridge?" asked Grace.

"Going twenty-four, miss. But, ah! I was a different woman when I got married. If you had a-seen me then, lady, you would not believe it was me."

And, in truth, the poor, wasted face looked old, and hungry, and thin, as if the spirit had aged so that it grew jealous of the once comely mask without, and withered it remorselessly with watching, and weepings, and sharp care. The little messenger came back to the door, bearing with her creature comforts, whose taste had long been unknown to the drunkard's wife. Then Grace rose to leave her, saying, "You shall not want, my poor friend; and whenever you wish to see your husband, I will try and manage it for you. If there is any possibility of saving him, it shall be done. While there is life, there is hope—of the soul as well as of the body. He might repent and be a help and an example to you. And then, no doubt, his wicked companions tempted him much, and the sin was perhaps not all his own. So look to God, and try and bear up, and I will come again."

She left the house with a pure joy at her heart, praying to God that he would keep her for ever in the path on which she had entered, and feeling that, in her weak measure, she had been permitted to bring herself a little nearer to the ideal of her dead father's life. She had laid upon his tomb a garland worthy of him, she had said words his spirit would have approved, and done a deed such as he himself would have bidden her do.

Back again to the dark, silent chamber of the dead she went, and found her watchful lover there; but she did not tell him that she had sought out the murderer's wife. That day came various torturing details, but she allowed Oakhurst to spare her much of their sorrow, and throughout the legal proceedings she never had to appear. The murder caused some stir, as the victim was an American citizen and the father of the young heir of the Howards. George Charteris visited his cousin, and offered her his services in every way, professional or friendly, that she might choose. She was touched by his ready sympathy, but wisely refused his professional assistance.

"You see, George," she said, "it would seem ungenerous to have one so nearly related to him to plead against his murderer; besides, I would rather save the unhappy man from his due punishment, if it can be done."

"What, Cousin Grace!" he echoed, unable to understand her.

"It seems strange to you, I know; but I have not lived with my father all my life without knowing well how full of Christian charity he always was when any personal injury was done to him, and I am following his will, no less than the Christian precepts, when I say I would spare his unhappy murderer as much as lays in my power."

"My dear child, this is perfect quixotism. A fellow who should have been hung long ago!"

"I know you think differently; it is natural you should. You judge things by another standard, and from another point of view. Looked at in the light of the Gospel, things are very different, dear cousin. Do not let us speak about it. If it is romance to you; it is life and truth to me."

"For George's sake! Think what it will be when he learns it by-and-by!"

"You will not tell him now?" she asked in sudden alarm, clasping her hands. "Oh! do not, do not! My mother gave me that boy to watch over and guard from sin with my very life, but God has willed that his angel should be alone to watch him; yet I must ask you, if you have any influence, do not breed thoughts of wicked revenge in his mind—oh! do not, for, if you do, not only he will suffer, but it will fall back upon you all as a curse. God has made this to happen in his childhood, as if on purpose to hide it from him; do not, for pity's sake, run counter to the evident decrees of Providence."

Reluctantly George Charteris promised his cousin he would exert his influence to keep the father's murder a secret from the child. And so passed the terrible weeks of waiting, Grace ministering almost daily help to the wretched murderer's wife, and Edmund seeking to soothe her whom he loved so tenderly and so reverently. A priest was found to give a quiet blessing to the unconscious form they both had loved so well, and then the dark earth hid the body away, and sowed one more seed for the mystic coming harvest, which shall clothe the valley of judgment with such marvellous blossoming beauty.

When the final conviction of the prisoner and his sentence of capital punishment were made known, Grace was the first to break the news to the wretched wife, and the only one to soothe these dire tidings with suggestions of hope and mercy. The poor woman still refused to visit her husband, and it was more the shame of his crime, and the ignominy of his approaching death, than any spark of feeling left within her bosom for the man who had wooed and won her, that tortured her heart and bowed her head. Grace tried repeatedly to soften her, to melt the terrible callousness which was alive only to the earthly aspect of her grief; but for many weeks she tried in vain. The wild, horror-struck eyes of the unfortunate creature would fasten themselves upon her as she spoke—burning orbs, with unspeakable defiance in them, as if, from this day forth, the felon's wife felt herself to be a hunted creature, with the brand of her husband's sin undeservedly scathing her future life and that of her unconscious child.

When Grace hinted of a possible pardon, the poor thing stared with a frightened expression that only seemed to say: "And I must be his slave again," as if the thought of her own bondage were the only thing on earth that could move her. But at last, being appealed to in the name of her own self-respect, she seemed to have a dawning sense that her present course was hardly the one to elevate her once again into the sphere of tranquil content whence her husband's degradation had, three short years ago, so fatally withdrawn her. The dikes of her soul burst suddenly, and the flood of sweet memories of past days, and of the happy hours spent in the old farm-house, of the flood of womanliness and pity, of the sensibility of the mother, of the forbearance of the Christian, broke over her in saving waves, each teaching the same lesson in their infinite variety of tenderest human voices. She rose, took her child in her arms, and followed her young protectress nearly as far as the prison. Grace would go no further, but agreed to wait till the interview with the condemned man was over. The woman came out weeping and softened. Her husband was at least not obdurate, and expressed sincere regret for what he had been led to do. He bade his wife implore of the unknown lady who had so generously befriended them to accept the blessing he was not worthy to give, but which nevertheless was the last and only tribute a dying man could offer. Grace shuddered as this message was conveyed to her through tears and sobs, but her companion was too greatly busied with her own griefs to notice it.

One evening, as Edmund Oakhurst sat, with his promised wife, in the room the presence of the dead had hallowed to their simple, trusting hearts, he was astonished at her unusual agitation, and at the remark she quietly made as the expression of it.

"Edmund, I am going to get a reprieve for Eldridge, and that may lead to a commutation of sentence. He is very penitent, I hear, and, for his wife's sake, I should wish it."

"But, Grace," replied her lover, with characteristic common sense, "if he is penitent and well-prepared, it would be safer even for his own soul's sake that he should suffer the full penalty of the law."

"We are no judges of that, Edmund," she answered, her bright eyes turning, with suppressed enthusiasm, towards the open window, all bathed in wintry sunlight. "God, I think, must mean otherwise for him, or else he would never have put this idea in my mind. I have thought of it ever since he lay there" (pointing to the centre of the room, where the dear dead had rested), "and his spirit seemed to whisper it constantly to my heart, as if it were some message of God's mercy, of which he vouchsafed to make us the bearers to the rulers of earth."

"Grace, I thought your training would have led you a different way. I thought you would be the first to see God's hand in the established law. Darling, this is sentimentalism. You can forgive the wretched man, and pray for him, and help the forsaken ones he leaves behind, without hindering the law in its operations. You will have fulfilled the Christian duty of forgiveness, without interfering with another sphere of equally binding duty on the community."

"I think you might be right in an ordinary case, Edmund, but God seems to put this beyond common rules, to me."

"Is that not pride, Grace?"

"I trust not," she replied, gently but firmly; "it is a call, a command from God, just as my father's conversion, and my still more unexpected one, were calls from on high—direct calls that took our hearts by storm."

"Grace, dear, I cannot help thinking it presumptuous in you to dream of these things; you make them miracles almost!"

"Surely not, Edmund. Supposing a king were to send for his servant, and give him some important order to transmit, which, in the ordinary course of things, should have been conveyed through his prime minister; do you think the servant would be justified in feeling proud, or the person who received the order in feeling hurt, at the unusual way in which the king had been pleased to act?"

"Grace!" exclaimed Edmund, "you talk just as your father used! He always made me feel that he was right. I will not attempt to influence you any longer; I will leave the matter in the hands of God, and pray that you may be guided by him. If I were you, I would speak with a priest, though!"

"I have, dearest," answered Grace, looking less rapt, and perhaps mingling with her high thoughts a little unconscious human spice of innocent triumph.

"Oh!" said her lover, and, smiling, he relapsed into silence. After incredible efforts and unflagging energy had been spent upon the task, Grace succeeded in getting her father's murderer first reprieved, then re-sentenced to transportation for life. The shock of this news, the utter stupor of gratitude into which he was thrown, even though the name of his benefactress still remained a mystery to him, wrought a miracle in his nature, and sobered him for life. Faith came to the help of solemn thankfulness, and the husband and wife secretly became Catholics before leaving England. Grace, for some inexplicable reason, positively refused to see Eldridge, even at his wife's most earnest request. The fact was that she had once been face to face with him, in days when neither dreamed of the strange relations they were fated to bear to each other, and she feared, in her humility, lest he recognize her now. But Edmund, fully aware as he was of how matters stood, resolved that, without wounding his betrothed's sweet lowliness, he would yet reveal to the recipients of her charity the inestimable sacrifice she had made of her natural feelings for the sake of the "new commandment" of love and forgiveness taught by Christ's Gospel. So while the four stood in a group just before the departure of the convict-ship—Grace far apart with the mother, and her back turned to the convict—he slipped into the hand of the murderer a folded paper, saying something under his breath of its being of some little pecuniary use to them in their new home, and adding with a half-smile:

"She knows nothing of it, but her name is written inside. Do not open it till you are on board."

Grace, meanwhile, was comforting the mother, whose little boy was in her arms for the last time, as Grace had wished to have it brought up under her own care.

"I have a little brother, you know," she said, "and, while I cannot fulfil my mother's trust with regard to him, I will lavish all my care on your child, and, please God, in a few years, when your husband earns his freedom, you shall see the boy again in my country, where nothing but good will ever be known of any of you."

So the ship sailed, and the convict's hand clasped the paper nervously. The mother was holding out her arms to her little boy, who struggled and cried in Grace's embrace. The man, standing on the deck, touched his wife's shoulder, and passed the paper to her. Had any one been close enough, he might have seen the swarthy cheek pale to a sickly hue, then flush as suddenly again. Those on shore only saw his face swiftly hidden in his hands, and his whole frame rock violently. Simultaneously the woman dropped on the deck, and Grace thought she must have fainted with the grief of leaving her child behind. Indeed, she was too much occupied with the little one to notice the ship minutely. The poor babe wailed and then struggled by turns, and it was no easy work to keep it quiet till the small party could find a coach to take them home. Edmund took care to look unconcerned and innocent, and, thanks to his betrothed's sweet unsuspiciousness of disposition, as also to the circumstances we have mentioned, his secret was kept until a passionately grateful letter from the poor convict reached her in her own home across the ocean. Edmund was her husband by that time, and she could not find it in her heart not to forgive him!

But we are slightly anticipating.

A few days after the departure of the convict-ship, George Charteris called on his cousin, to report to her about certain arrangements which he had volunteered to take on his own hands. He had now completed them, and had found a responsible and aged companion for Grace on her homeward voyage. The old lady was going out to some relations settled in Virginia, and was delighted to find a young girl of refinement and of good family to bear her company on her somewhat tedious journey.

Edmund had begged Grace Seymour to consent to be married before they left England; but the girl had some unaccountable longing for her own land, which, though he smiled at as childish, he nevertheless was too chivalrous to combat. He was to follow speedily, with George Charteris as groomsman, and an older friend, a priest bound for some of the Indian missions.

So the ocean was crossed once more, and in her own home, the beautiful marriage-gift she brought her husband, Grace Seymour was married. Mr. Ashmead, whom, with characteristic courtesy, she would not exclude from her quiet, unattended wedding, told her solemnly, as he walked by her side to her mother's grave under the thick-shaded elms, that he had had a secret once, which he wished to tell her now.

In grave wonderment she turned her eyes upon him. "My child," he said sadly, but with no shame flushing his clear cheek, "I once dreamt to have you for my own, and I waited from the moment I saw you first, standing here, bending down to look into the unfilled grave, till I saw your mind unfolding and blossoming, as in a cloistered garden, all alone; but when I knew that your faith was disturbed, my heart bled for you and for myself, for I saw that I had no spell wherewith to give you back what you had lost. And since the day your father left us, the dream faded as a thing that God had ordained not to be. So now, though our faiths are widely different, and though the memory of those times is very dear to me still, I can take your hand in all a father's freedom, and give you and your husband a father's blessing. Let us be friends for ever, Grace, will you?"

She had listened to him with a bright blush and attentive expression; she now took his hand, and said earnestly: "Yes, Mr. Ashmead; God bless you!"

The years sped on. Edmund Oakhurst soon owned estates that would have thrice bought the old homestead of his wife's early days; his fields were the fullest, his experiments the most successful, his men the best cared for, his profits the largest, his prosperity the most steady, in the whole country around. People left off calling him the "Britisher," and spoke respectfully of him as the "Squire"; even his religion was favorably regarded in consideration of his position and his well-known generosity. Children like himself rose up around him, and the convict's child seemed only like the elder brother of the rest. Things gradually changed, and Catholic schools and colleges made their appearance in the land. Oakhurst thought it more prudent to send his sons and his so-called nephew to American centres of Catholic education, rather than to the more advanced universities of France; but he reserved for home-teaching the nameless refinement he wished to stamp on his children. His wife was the worthy successor of her mother, whose sweet presence had once been so dear to the villagers of Walcot; only her silent influence was now directed to that end which, after death, had become that of her mother too.

When, fifteen years later, the man who had left England a convict landed in America an emigrant, he found his oldest boy studying for the priesthood, and fast and enthusiastically outstripping his companion and rival in theological learning, Oakhurst's own second son. Again another change and another joy had been added to Grace's life, when her brother, on attaining his majority, came over with his uncle, George Charteris, now a tolerably well-behaved married man, and paid her a long visit within the walls of the old home, untouched and unchanged from what he recollected, save by accumulation of mosses, and a denser growth of creepers round the gables and the porch.

They have all gone to their rest now, these friends with whom we have been treading the past—all, save the sons of Grace and Edmund, and their only daughter, who afterwards married George Howard's son and heir. The old name that had been alternately the watchword of Catholicism and Low-Churchism in Gloucestershire veered round again in their persons to its first allegiance, and contributed unwavering steadfastness to the sum of heroic courage shown forth by that army whose chiefs in England are called Newman, and Manning, and that modern S. Bernardine of Sienna, Frederick Faber.

Walcot, too, though of Puritan breeding, knows the sound of Catholic bells now, and the priest's house is the unchanged old Seymour cottage, while the pastor himself is the English convict's child.

Edmund Seymour's sacrifice had sown the first grain of which Grace Oakhurst's children reaped a hundred-fold.

FOOTNOTES:

THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING.

III. INTRINSIC PRINCIPLES OF PRIMITIVE BEINGS.

We have shown in a preceding article[276] that every primitive being proceeds from three extrinsic principles—the final, the efficient, and, if we may so call it, the eductional or pro-material principle; that is, the term out of which the being is educed, which term, as we there remarked, holds the place of the material principle still wanting.

We are now ready to prove that every primitive being has also three intrinsic principles, not more, and not fewer—a truth the knowledge of which is of the utmost importance in philosophy, as it enables the student to point out without hesitation everything that may enter into the constitution of primitive beings, with the gratifying certainty that, when he has once reached the said three principles, his analysis is perfect, and can go no further. But as our proposition is altogether universal, its demonstration will need the employment of arguments drawn from the most abstract of all philosophical notions; and our readers must bear with us if we fill a portion of the following pages with dry, though not abstruse, reasonings. The determination of the first constituents of things needs precision, not ornament, as it is nothing more than the drawing of the outlines by which the whole building of metaphysics is to be encompassed.

Our first proof is based on the following consideration. Of every existing being two things are cognizable: the first, that it is, the second, what it is. In other terms, all complete being is knowable both as to its existence and as to its nature or essence. But while the existence of any given being is simply affirmed as a fact, the essence is understood as an object. Now, nothing can be understood which does not present itself to the intellect under the form of an intelligible ratio; for to understand is to see a relation of things, as intelligere is nothing but inter-legere,[277] "to read between"—a phrase which clearly implies two definite terms, between which a definite relation is apprehended. Accordingly, nothing is intelligible, except inasmuch as it implies two correlatives; and, therefore, since every essence is intelligible, every essence implies two principles conspiring through mutual relativity into an intelligible ratio. These two principles of a primitive essence are themselves intelligible only as correlated; for the constituents of a primitive essence are not other essences, as is evident; and therefore cannot have a separate and independent intelligibility. They are therefore absolutely simple and unanalyzable, and of such a relative character that they cannot exist, or even be conceived, separated from one another. The same is true of existence also, which has no separate intelligibility, as it is utterly simple and unanalyzable, and cannot be conceived or affirmed, except with reference to the essence to which it may belong. It follows, then, that every primitive being can be resolved into three simple principles, of which two constitute its real essence, whilst the third—viz., existence—completes the same essence into real being. Such is our first proof.

A little reflection will now suffice to determine the general nature of the two essential principles just mentioned, and to obtain at the same time a second proof of our proposition. Existence is the actuality of essence. Now, actuality can spring only from actuation; and actuation necessarily implies an act, which actuates, and a term, which is actuated. Therefore the two constituents of any primitive essence must be a real act whose intrinsic character is to actuate its term, and a real term whose intrinsic character is to be actuated by its act; whilst the actuality of the essence follows as a simple result from the mutual conspiration of these essential principles. Accordingly, every primitive being involves in its constitution three principles—viz., an act, its term, and the actuality of the one in the other. This last is called the complement of the essence.

Readers accustomed to intellectual speculations will need no additional evidence to be satisfied of the cogency of the two preceding proofs. But those who are less familiar with philosophy may yet want some tangible illustration of our reasonings before they fully realize the nature of the three principles and of their relations. We hope the following will do. Physicists show that if a material point moves for a time, t, with a uniform velocity, v, through a space, s, the relation of the three quantities will be expressed by the equation—

sv = t

It is plain that the three quantities, s, v, t, are the three intrinsic principles of movement. In fact, the velocity, v, is the act, or the form, of movement; whence the epithet of uniform applied to all movement of constant velocity; the amount, s, of space measured is the term actuated by the said velocity; the time, t, is the duration of the movement, that is, its actuality; for as movement is essentially successive, its actuality also is successive, and constitutes a length of time. Here, then, we have most distinctly the three principles of movement. Let us remark that the first member of the equation is the ratio of the term to its act, and therefore represents the essence of movement; whilst the second member exhibits the duration of its existence. The sign of equality between the two members does not mean that the essence of movement is the same thing as the existence of movement, but only that both have the same quantitative value. For it should be remarked that, although a ratio is usually defined as "the quotient of a quantity divided by another of the same kind," nevertheless the quotient is not exactly the ratio, but its result or value; and is not the equivalent of the ratio in quality, but in quantity only. In pure mathematics, which are exclusively concerned with quantities, the distinction between the ratio and its value may not be important; but when a ratio is viewed in its metaphysical aspect, the distinction is of great consequence. For a metaphysical ratio is not looked upon as the ratio of two quantities, of which the one is the measure of the other, but as the ratio of two realities, of which the one actuates the other, and which, though belonging to the same kind of being, are, however, of a relatively opposite character, as is evident from the very example we are considering. The space, s, and the velocity, v, are, in fact, conceived as quantities of the same kind, only because velocity is mathematically expressed in terms of the space measured through it in a unit of time; yet velocity is certainly not space, but is that by which matter is compelled to move through space; so that while the extent of the space measured in a unit of time corresponds to the velocity with which it is measured, velocity itself has no extension, but intensity only. Hence the ratio of space to velocity, metaphysically considered, is a ratio of extension to intensity, or of potency to act, as we shall presently explain.

The third proof of our proposition is very simple. The intrinsic principles of being must correspond to its extrinsic principles, each to each respectively. For were any of the extrinsic principles not represented in the principiated being by something real proceeding from it, and corresponding to it, such an extrinsic principle evidently would principiate nothing, and would be no principle at all. Now, we have seen that the extrinsic principles of primitive being are three. It is evident, therefore, that its intrinsic principles likewise must be three. The extrinsic principles, as before stated, are God's volition of bringing something into existence, the term of its eduction, and the creative power exerted in its production. Hence it follows that every thing created must contain within itself an act as the product of the Creator's action, a term as an expression of the term of its eduction, and an actuality as the accomplishment and fulfilment of the volition of bringing it into existence.

We may here remark that the act of the created being is produced by God as its efficient cause, proceeds from God's omnipotence as its efficient principle, and is produced through action as the proximate reason of its causation and principiation.

The term of the created being, on the contrary, comes out of mere nothingness, acquires its reality through the mere position of an act, is not made, but actuated, and therefore has no efficient cause, but only a formal principle, the reality of which is the sole reason why the term is called real, and the disappearance of which would leave nothing behind. As a spherical form, by the necessity of its own nature, gives existence to a geometric centre, without need of an efficient cause, so does the essential act to its essential term. Let the spherical form be annihilated, and the centre will be gone; let the essential act vanish, and the essential term will have vanished together with it.

Finally, the actuality of the created being proceeds from the act and the term as making up its formal source, or the principium formale quod; while the formal reason, or the principium formale quo, of its proceeding is the actuation of the latter by the former, and the completion of the former in the latter; for to actuate a term is to give it actuality, and to be actuated is to become actual; and therefore the result of such an actuation is the actuality of the act in its term, and of the term in its act, or the complete actuality of the created essence and of the created being.

Thus the whole being, by its act, its term, and its complement, points out adequately and with the utmost distinction the three extrinsic principles whence it proceeds.[278]

The fourth proof is as follows: Every created being possesses an intrinsic natural activity and an intrinsic natural passivity. It possesses activity; for every creature must have an intrinsic natural aptitude to reveal, in one way or another, the perfections of its Creator, as such is the end of all creation; but to reveal is to act; and, therefore, every creature possesses its intrinsic aptitude and determination to act—that is, activity. It also possesses passivity; for all contingent beings are changeable, and therefore capable of receiving new intrinsic determinations; and such an intrinsic capability is what we call passivity, or potentiality. The consequence is, that every creature possesses something by reason of which it is active, and something on account of which it is passive; which amounts to saying that every creature possesses its intrinsic principle of activity, or, as it is styled, its act, and its intrinsic principle of passivity, or, as we call it, its potency or its potential term. Hence the well-known fundamental axioms of metaphysics: "Every agent acts by reason of its act," and "Every patient suffers on account of its potency."[279] Now, since the same being that can act can also be acted on, it is evident that that by reason of which it can act, and that on account of which it can be acted on, are the principles of one and the same actual essence, and therefore conspire into one formal actuality, which completes the essence into being. Accordingly, in all creatures, or primitive complete beings, we must admit act and potency as the constituents, and actuality as the formal complement, of their essence.