CONTENTS

GERALDINE JEWSBURY

ZOE

THE HISTORY OF TWO LIVES

ZOE

VOLUME I

CHAPTER I

On the fourteenth of June, 17--, the little town of Sutton, in Warwickshire, was thrown into a state of violent excitement by the news, that the son of the old squire who "used to belong to the old Manor House, was to have his own again", that he had married in foreign parts some grand lady, - a princess at the very least according to some versions, - that the king had written him a letter with his own hand begging him to come to England, and making him welcome to the old house, and all the land, that had been in the family for generations and generations!

This astounding report was set forth on the market-day by old Peter Brocclehurst, the tailor, who had heard it read with his own ears out of a newspaper, in a public-house at Birmingham, where he had been the day before to lay in a supply of West of England broadcloths, and "superfine narrow", for the exigencies of his profession for the next six months. Old Brocclehurst was not an authority to be lightly called in question, for from the sanctuary where he sat enthroned on his shop-board, stitching at the tough corduroys of all the ploughboys and farmers for six miles round, issued also the news, scandal, marvellous occurrences, useful information of all sorts, that went to enlighten the ignorance, and refresh the united intellect of all Sutton. If his on dits were not all exactly true, any news, as he said, was better than none at all.

This report about the squire and the Manor House, however, far exceeded in interest the general run of his facts; and on the day in question the little miscellaneous shop over which the full-blown Mrs Brocclehurst presided, with her matronly charms shrouded in a Brobdingnagian pinafore, was, to use her own words, "thronged like a fair", with people eager, by becoming customers for "a yard of check", or an "ounce of worsted", to learn the mystery of this wonderful history.

Mrs Brocclehurst was a gossip to the very marrow of her soul, but like Mrs Gilpin, "she had a prudent mind", and measured out her information according to the importance of the customer: - a few, a select few, were allowed to penetrate to the little back kitchen where Peter sat in all his glory, gravely coquetting with the important news he had brought, by seeming more taciturn and intent on his work than he had been in the memory of man.

"Well, patience - patience and time will show, but there are such lies going about in the world," said Peter, virtuously, shaking his head, and looking to the ceiling, "an honest man does not know what to believe and what to let alone. But sure enough I heard that the son of the old squire - him who went into hiding on account of the Jacobin troubles - had been sent for back by the king, who said that bygones should be bygones, and that he would forgive and forget; and that he might come to the old place; which was very handsome, considering!"

The next market-day, Peter, whose zeal for collecting information was great enough to make him worthy of being a correspondent of the "Times", was able, from sources best known to himself, to inform his customers, that workmen were to come over from Birmingham next week, to repair the old house and put all things in order; - for the credit of Peter's veracity, all this came actually to pass.

The Manor House, like all old houses that have been long uninhabited, and stand in the midst of a garden that has become a wilderness, had the reputation of being haunted; no one cared to go near it even in broad daylight; as to going within half a mile of the park-gate after dark, it was a thing not to be contemplated if there were any other path open, and not all the charms of nutting and bird-nesting could tempt the most venturous urchin that ever played truant, beyond the park-palings.

Now, however, all was changed. The presence of the workmen dispelled the idea of ghosts as if by magic. All Sutton rushed to see what the mysteries were that had been so long concealed; - though when they approached the stately avenue of chestnut and lime trees, at the end of which stood the long, deep, red-coloured brick building, with its four castellated gable ends in front, its immense stacks of heavy chimneys overgrown with ivy, and its narrow windows carefully darkened by curious balconies of carved stone - a shudder came over the more timid, as if some evil spirit had taken shape in brick and stone; but not even the boldest had courage to venture through the winding passages and secret places which were brought to light by the masons and upholsterers.

The moat, which was filled with stagnant water, covered all over with duck-weed, was to be filled up and converted into a flower garden, with a pond for gold fish in the centre, which some of the rustic visiters imagined were to be, bona fide, made of guineas.

There is something ghostlike in the appearance of a garden in decay, one feels to sympathise with it under its weight of desolation, as if it were a living thing. One passed through the great entrance hall of the Manor House, out by a glass door on the opposite side, opening on a lawn of green moss like grass that sloped down to the edge of a terrace, to which one descended by a broken flight of broad low steps that had once been ornamented with stone vases, after the Italian fashion - but they too had long been broken, and the fragments lay covered with the tangles of creeping plants, which had also overgrown the balustrade on each side. It made one sad to see a place which had so evidently been once of stately beauty, turned to ruin.

A raised walk, shaded by a row of stately cedar trees, divided the flower-beds from the fruit-garden, and gave a still more mysterious, weird-like aspect to the place; for every thing, when tending to decay, has a mystery it did not possess in its bloom. The broken statue of a naiad lay on the ground at the end of the cedar walk, but the clear fountain still fell with a pleasant noise into the rivulet which wound through the whole domain.

The workmen's voices, the tinkling noise of hammers and saws, which went busily on for several weeks, soon brought back an aspect of life to the old place. The winding passages and hiding- places were all blocked up; certain distant rooms were also closed, and those needed for the daily use of a moderate-sized family were beautified and made habitable; and the arrival of a quantity of modern furniture completed the exorcism of the "ghosts" that for so long had enjoyed undisturbed sway.

Whilst repairs at the Manor House progressed, there were many debates in the village as to how the old family ought to be received amongst them. As none of the present inhabitants of Sutton had ever seen any of the family who owned the Manor House, it is not wonderful that curiosity was the only sentiment aroused - but that was intense. Every body remembered to have heard their fathers and grandfathers talk of the ancient glories of the Manor House in the days of the old Squire Burrows, and many were the traditions about the riches, liberality, and virtues of the real gentlefolks who once belonged to the Manor, and every body hoped for some vague benefit to themselves from the return of these good old times.

Every man, woman, and child in Sutton had been for weeks past in the highest excitement of which they were capable; looking forward to the arrival of the family, and each one dreaming dreams after his own fashion; the older ones, of an ox, or at the very least a sheep, roasted whole, - the younger ones, of cakes and ale, with a dance in the park.

Never were mortals so consigned to disappointment! On the day fixed for the entrance of the squire and his family, the inhabitants of Sutton were on the qui vive from early in the morning - but nothing came to pass; the most strenuous watchers had retired in despair to the tap-room, where Peter Brocclehurst explained in his most oracular manner, that nothing was more impossible, than for people coming from foreign parts to arrive on the day they fix, - because they are dependent on the winds and the waves which are not under the control of any body: when, unluckily for Peter's theory, on the appointed evening - but when it was quite dark, two travelling-carriages drove rapidly through the town, and turned up the avenue leading to the Manor House. They contained Arthur Burrows, son to the old squire, his family, and two domestics who had accompanied them from France.

"Welcome to the home of my fathers!" said he, turning with a grave and stately courtesy to his wife, a tall imperious-looking woman, who seemed slightly impatient of their delay in the chilly old hall.

"Is this to be our house, papa?" cried two boys at once, who might be respectively seven and eight years old.

"Yes, my children," replied he, "and I hope you will be both good and happy in it."

"Oh, what fun it will be," cried they both; "is there a garden?"

"Don't make such a noise, nor ask silly questions," replied their mamma, peevishly. "La Noix, give them some bread and milk, and take them off to bed." This was spoken to a lean, austere-looking female, whose age it was hopeless to attempt to guess.

"Now, young gentlemen," cried she, with a shrill, prim tone. "You hear what your mamma says; - wish your papa good night, and come along."

The two children looked timidly at their papa, who said, with a slight hesitation, "I think Adèle, this first night they might sit up to supper. I should like to have all my family about me."

"Indeed, they will be much better in bed," replied the lady, drily; "and there will be plenty of time to have them with you to-morrow; there," added she, kissing them impatiently, "Good night; you shall look about you when it is daylight. La Noix, see that their beds are warmed, and that they have plenty of clothes on, for I am sure this house must be damp."

Arthur Burrows looked as much mortified as the children, but he never contradicted his wife; so he kissed them fervently and followed his wife into the parlour, where a cheerful wood fire was blazing, and the table stood laid for supper. A small Turkey carpet covered the middle of the floor, and the shining oak boards appeared at the sides. English ideas of comfort have changed since those days, and the reader, entering the room, would hardly exclaim, as Madame Burrows did, "Well, this room is charming, it must be confessed!"

"I hope you will find every thing in the house equally so, my dear Adèle. I trust we are brought back to my father's mansion for good ends, and that we may be honoured as instruments to raise up the persecuted church in this apostate country."

"Ah, here comes supper!" said his wife in reply.

As soon as the meal was over, Madame Burrows retired to see whether the children had been properly attended to - and in wife-like terms desired her husband not to fall asleep over the fire, but to come up stairs without delay, which order, as he had endured a ten years' training to conjugal obedience, he immediately complied with, and the whole house was shortly wrapped in repose.

The father of Arthur Burrows had been obliged to leave the kingdom in the troubles of 1715; he was then a rash, fiery-hearted young man, full of ultra-loyalty and the divine right of legitimacy. His enthusiastic notions, however, were tolerably calmed down by a few years' exile, and some real or imaginary slights which he received from the court of St Germains. At first he destined his only son, Arthur, to the Church, as he had no desire to see his ancient family perpetuated in poverty and obscurity; but an excellent alliance unexpectedly presenting itself, when his son had nearly finished his studies for the priesthood, he did not scruple to change his destination, and the match was concluded, his son being consulted as little in the second instance as in the first. Arthur, however, felt strong scruples after a time, as to the step he had taken; but the overbearing and imperious temper of the clever woman to whom his father had married him, might have some share in raising them.

A short time before our tale begins, the indefatigable exertions of his father to make his peace with the English government were successful, though he could no longer profit by his success, for he had been dead more than a year; but Arthur, who, with his wife's dowry, was able to pay the fines and bribes according to his father's last instructions, was reinstated into a good portion of the family estate, and arrived to take possession, full of the idea that he was selected by Providence, to raise up the Catholic body in England from the ruined condition into which it had fallen.

He destined his youngest son, Everhard, for holy orders, and though he had been so signally fortunate in a worldly point of view, he could not help sighing when he looked back to the peaceful days when he was himself preparing for the priesthood.

The next morning all was bustle at the Manor House; the children were up by daybreak exploring every nook and corner of the old house. Madame Burrows was an early riser, on principle, and therefore, never allowed any of her establishment to be anything else.

As soon as breakfast was despatched she sent her husband and the children out of the house to visit the garden and park, or whatever they chose, so that they did not themselves return till dinner-time, in order that she might be able to lay the foundations of her domestic throne in peace and quietness.

It was market-day in Sutton, and a very full market it was, for every body hoped to catch a glimpse of some of the new comers.

Sutton was a genuine specimen of a small English market town in an agricultural district. It consisted of one long straggling street, which contained a few spacious houses of dark red brick, with ample gardens behind them. These belonged to professional men connected with the neighbouring county gentry. The rest of the street consisted of smaller houses with their high roofs of red tiles become green with age and moss, shops, such as flourish nowhere but in country towns, and abounding in most miscellaneous productions. There was no library, nor indeed, any place where a book could be bought nearer than Birmingham. A few articles of stationery were sometimes kept by the druggist, who was also the tea-dealer and grocer of the place. Nearly all the inhabitants were either farmers, or farm labourers, and a new house had not been built in Sutton for many years.

The whole place might have belonged to the dominions of the Sleeping Beauty, so little change passed over it from year's end to year's end.

The church was a fine old building, containing many curious effigies and monuments of families that had been of distinction in the time of the Crusaders, but they had all been more or less mutilated, partly by time, and partly by the zeal of the Reformers and the soldiers of Oliver Cromwell, who all seem to have been a prey to a mania for breaking down "carved work with axes and hammers".

The Rectory, which had been erected in the time of Charles I, was at a little distance from the church, and was a favourable specimen of the comforts provided for some of her favoured sons by the dominant establishment.

The whole place seemed to sleep peacefully in the bosom of the richest and most finely wooded district in England. The masses of fine old trees with which that part of the country is studded like one vast park, seemed as if it were beyond the power of a tempest to move them from their majestic repose. Several families of wealth and distinction resided in the neighbourhood, but they seldom visited Sutton, except when they changed horses as they passed through on their way to London or Birmingham. The Manor House was the only residence of any distinction within several miles of the town.

After rambling through the Park, Arthur Burrows and his two children, Louis and Everhard, stood at the gate which led to the town. "Oh, papa, do let us go into the town, it is market day, and we shall see such beautiful things!" cried both the children at once.

"Very well, with all my heart," said their papa, "but we must not be late for dinner; your mamma desired us to be back by a certain time."

The children were wild with spirits at the sight of the beautiful green of the meadows and hedgerows, so different from any they had seen before. When they drew near the town the market was nearly over, and the country people were gathering up their baskets; some had assembled round the steps of the market-cross for their weekly gossip. "The new squire and the children!" was soon buzzed on all sides, and every eye was eagerly turned on them.

Arthur courteously saluted them, and began to enter into conversation with a respectable farmer who stood near; but the two children, seeing the cross, reverendly took off their caps and crossed themselves, as they had been taught to do; which excited no little astonishment from the bystanders. "Why!" cried a dozen voices, when they were out of hearing, "they will be Papists, or idolators, or something outlandish!" "Ay," said Peter, in a decided tone, "the old family were all Papists; but they were a good family for all that. This place was all Catholic once." "Nay, ye don't say so," cried another. "I thought the parson told us that Papists were Anti-Christ, and had the mark of a beast on them, as we read in the Revelation; and I remember hearing my grandfather say, that when King William came in, he delivered us from Papists and wooden shoes, which they wanted to put on all England, instead of Christian-like nails and leather."

At this moment an elderly serving man, in a dark livery, came up, followed by a lad bearing a large basket. He came to make purchases for the Manor; and the little crowd were disappointed to see how much like an ordinary mortal he transacted his business. No one dared to ask him questions, for he was very grave and austere looking; but the Protestant sympathies of the inhabitants were roused, and they made it a point of conscience to charge double for all articles bought for the Manor House.

Of course all the neighbouring families who went to church on the Sunday following, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the new comers, were disappointed. The rector called, as in duty bound, but he told his wife on his return, "That he did not think he could lawfully visit people who were heathens and idolators, and who had actually fitted up a chapel within their own house."

All the neighbouring gentry made an early visit to the Manor House. The ladies, after they had been edified with the fashion of Madame Burrows' velvet gown, and the new pattern of her sleeves and head-dress, found themselves awed by her stately manners, and the look of surprised contempt with which she listened to the detail of the small interests and events that seemed to fill their whole souls.

The gentlemen on their side did not get on much better; they found Arthur absolutely insensible to all their topics of interest. The only point he seemed anxious about, was to learn the statistics of Catholicism in the county, and where the different places of worship stood. This was bad enough, for his visitors were all ultra-Protestant church and king men; - but when he declined to join the hunt, and declared that he never tasted any thing stronger than water, their indignation was high. They decided unanimously that Arthur was a fool - a Jacobin, a Jesuit in disguise - and that, as loyal Englishmen, they would have nothing to do with a milksop, who ought to be hunted from the country, if England was ever to prosper.

Arthur Burrows, however, was not destined to be long an offence to his neighbours, for he fell ill of a pleurisy before he had been two months settled in the home of his fathers. He was only ill two days, and then died, in spite of the best efforts of the Sutton doctor to prevent him.

There was no priest within many miles of the place to give him the last sacraments. He was buried in the chancel of the parish church, the prayers of the establishment were read over him, and there was an end to all his dreams of becoming the apostle of Catholicism.

CHAPTER II

Madame Adèle Burrows found herself a widow in a foreign country, at the age of eight-and-twenty. For the first few weeks she was very unhappy indeed; she was surprised to find how much more she had cared for her husband than she ever suspected. She had petted him sometimes, governed and hen-pecked him always, and now she found herself suddenly without employment. To be sure, after a while she recollected that she had been left sole guardian of the two children, with complete control over the property until the eldest attained his majority, and a handsome jointure of her own besides. This was all very consolatory; she dried her tears, and set herself strenuously to her dearly beloved task of making every thing go on in her own way. She had a natural aptitude for business, and an inexhaustible activity, which would never suffer her to delegate her power into the hands of another. Louis, the elder boy, had always been his mother's favourite, and to secure him as brilliant a fortune as possible, was the end she assigned to herself in all her actions.

So soon as the bustle of the funeral and the necessary affairs it entailed had, in some degree, subsided, the whole establishment at the Manor House was placed under the most rigid system of economy, to which, however, her own comforts were quite as much sacrificed as those of any other member of the household. She rose every morning at five, and, wrapped in a large riding-coat like a man's, she accompanied her bailiff to the most distant part of the various farms, and personally inspected all that was going on. She had the rare merit of never meddling in what she did not understand; but, with her quick, penetrating black eyes, she soon saw whether those who had the work in hand were doing their business properly.

The country gentlemen in the neighbourhood made her many kindly intentioned offers of service, but "she could bear no brothers near the throne", and declined them all. At first, they laughed at her notion of managing for herself, and declared that she would come to ruin in a twelvemonth; but, as she did not, and the property went on improving, they declared she was a clever woman, with a fine spirit of her own. She had the policy to keep on good terms with them, though their lady wives and daughters could not endure her, declaring that she was an unkind mother, and neglected her children.

The fact was, that Madame Burrows had all her energies so absorbed by the management of her large property, that she never troubled herself with the minor details of her domestic establishment, except to see that the weekly expenses did not exceed the specified sum she had laid down for herself. She was too much of a French woman to bestow much attention on her toilet, when there was nobody to see her, and it was hardly to be expected that she would take more trouble about the dress of her children. La Noix, the bonne, who had accompanied the family from France, was nominally responsible for them, but she was a great dévote, and not too fond of children, so she was generally saying her rosary when she ought to have been mending their stockings; besides, she did not consider that her surveillance extended beyond putting on their clothes in the morning and putting them to bed at night. During the intermediate period the two boys were allowed to run wild about the grounds, and to associate with the servants; they saw their mother once a day for about a quarter of an hour, whilst she was taking her chocolate in the morning, when they were enjoined to sit very still and make no noise; their own meals they always took in the servants' hall, though there was an obsolete standing order, never complied with, that they were to eat with La Noix in her own sitting-room.

Everhard, the younger boy, had never been a favourite with his mother, perhaps his being destined for holy orders, which put him beyond the need of having his worldly prosperity schemed for, had also removed him beyond the sphere of her sympathies; certain it is, that she never showed him any tenderness, nor any of the caresses so prodigally lavished by mothers on their children. She invariably treated him with a dry and distant coldness, amounting often to harshness; his most trifling faults were vigorously punished, and the natural gaiety of childhood was repressed as levity. His brother, on the other hand, was allowed much more liberty; even for him his mother seldom made many demonstrations of affection, but she did not chide and repulse him, as was the case with poor Everhard.

The servants did not fail to perceive this, and to aggravate the effects in a way Madame Burrows little suspected. They were always telling him that his mother hated him, and in a thousand mortifying ways made the distinction between him and his brother more galling. Everhard was a gentle, timid, affectionate child, to whom kind looks and words were more than his daily food, he willingly yielded to his brother in all things, who tyrannised as boys do, when they can with impunity. If Everhard ever ventured to resent a grievance, he was beaten for being quarrelsome; and once when he ventured to complain to his mother of some more than usually afflicting dispensation from his brother, his mother summarily disposed of the case, by subjecting both himself and Louis to the same punishment: to teach them, as she said, "not to tell tales, and to be better friends for the future". The next day the servants all taunted him as a "tell-tale, like a little deceitful thing as he was". Servants and low people are all very fond of affixing the epithet "deceitful" on every body who does not happen to please them.

From constantly hearing himself called "deceitful", "naughty", and "troublesome", poor Everhard grew up to have a vague sense of being always wrong; the gay recklessness of childhood was crushed under the embarrassment of living under unloving eyes; the natural affectionateness of his disposition was thrown back upon himself; and he became shy, sullen, and very unhappy. That he really would have been an affectionate child, if they would have let him, the following incident will show.

It was the first anniversary of his father's death; prayers had been said in the little chapel which Madame Burrows had fitted up in the house; her feelings had been softened by the service, and she kept the two children to breakfast with her. She talked to them about their father, and was particularly kind to Everhard; - his little heart was quite melted, and when they were dismissed to play, he began to think what he could do to show his mother how much he loved her.

He pondered for a long time; at length he recollected having heard her say that she liked early mushrooms, and he determined to gather some for her supper. He and Louis were that day to have gone on a secret expedition with the gardener's boy and a friend of his from the village to see a badger hunted; - this he magnanimously gave up, in spite of the threats and entreaties of Louis. Arming himself with his basket and a small knife, he left Louis to pursue his scheme in peace, and began a vigorous search for mushrooms. There were none in the park, but he recollected that in a certain field beyond, there were always a great many. This field happened just then to be full of cows, of a peculiar breed, very wild, and uncertain in their temper. At first, Everhard felt inclined to be frightened, but then he thought of his mamma and her supper, and mustered courage. He found abundance of mushrooms - but in his eagerness to fill his basket, he got, without perceiving it, into the very midst of the herd. Somewhat startled, on raising his head, to perceive this, he began to make the best of his way to the gate. The cows, which had hitherto paid no attention to him, now tossed their heads and began to pursue him; - luckily a man working in the next field perceived his danger, and ran to his help, otherwise it would have fared badly with him; - however, he had kept the lid of his basket safely shut down, in the midst of all his fright, and on his way home he gathered a large nosegay of wild flowers to present along with his other prize.

Arrived at home, despite of the standing orders to the contrary, he made his way to his mother's apartment. Out of breath, looking very flushed and heated, his clothes none the cleaner for his excursion, he opened the door with trembling eagerness, and stood in the presence of his mother. All the effusion of the tender feelings of the morning had long since subsided, and Madame Burrows sat at a small table entirely absorbed in settling some complicated accounts. At the noise of Everhard's entrance she looked up impatiently. "What are you here for?" she asked. "You know you are not allowed to come here unless I send for you. Go to La Noix, if you want any thing; and what is that dirty basket in your hand?"

Poor Everhard had never thought of what he should say; and this address completed his confusion, so he looked down at the carpet and did not speak. "Well, what do you want? Either speak or go away," said his mother.

"I have brought these for your supper," said he, at last, pulling the lid off the basket so awkwardly, that some of the mushrooms fell on the floor. "I thought you liked them; and I gathered these flowers for you too."

"You know I never allow flowers to be brought into the house," said she. "And as for those mushrooms, go and throw them away directly; they are poisonous for what you know; and I desire you will never meddle with those sort of things again. Here, La Noix," cried she, as she passed the door, "why don't you keep these children out of mischief? It is all you have to do."

"Indeed, it is no fault of mine, madame; but Master Everhard is just the naughtiest and most worritting boy I ever saw. See, now, if he has not tore those trousers I mended for him only last night."

"Well, well," replied his mother, impatiently, "take him away and don't let him come here again with his dirty feet."

Madame Burrows only wanted to be delivered from the interruption; but La Noix, to revenge herself for the reprimand she had received, sent the unfortunate Everhard off to bed, "to teach him to take care of his clothes". When his mother heard of it, she did not interfere, because, as she said, she must keep up La Noix's authority in the eyes of the house. Madame Burrows, in her dread of encountering the ill-humour of a favourite domestic, magnanimously ran the risk of alienating the affections of her youngest son; but, to be sure, one annoyance would have fallen upon her immediately, whilst she would suffer no inconvenience from the other for some time to come.

In after life, Everhard was once with some friends who were speaking in the usual banal terms of childhood, calling it the "golden age of life", and all that. Everhard listened for some time with silent impatience; at length he broke out into an indignant recapitulation of his own childhood as the type of many others. "Childhood", said he, in conclusion, "is not, in its own right, a state of happiness; no one can tell the misery of an unloved and lonely child. In after life, a degree of hardness comes with years, and the man is not susceptible of pain like the child. A child is so tender, that no grown person can calculate the keen pain that penetrates to its little heart, from one cold or harsh word; it is so utterly defenceless, that it needs to be surrounded with gentleness, and kept warm in a nest of love; it can hardly be said to be fully born, for though put forth into the world, it has not yet an existence of its own; it is only dependent on all around it, instead of on one alone; kind looks and words are the nourishment on which it must gain strength, no less than from its daily food; and if it be deprived of these, the after consequences are not to be told. It may grow up to be strong in body, and like other children of men in outward appearance, but the human soul, will have been warped and stunted in its growth; the foundations of a cruel, artificial character will have been laid for life; the glad animal instincts, the bounding sensations, which the mere fact of being alive imparts to a healthy child, and which are bestowed to carry it over the first stage of existence - that fresh first stage which has been feigned by common consent to be the fading away of the glorious beauty of that world from which we are called forth; that one portion of life, that has been given to man at the outset of his journey, in order that when, hereafter, 'wearied by the greatness of his way', he may recollect it, and not be tempted to say 'there is no hope!' - all this, when a child is made unhappy, is blotted out from his book of life; he is defrauded of that which, for a long time, would have 'kept his eyes from the seeing of evil'; his first lessons in life have been of suffering, taught before he has strength to receive them; what wonder, then, if in after life he belong to the number of those 'who pass through the land hardly bested and hungry, and curse their King and their God, and look upward?' For he has no recollection in after life upon which to stay himself, - the dawn of his day was turned into darkness; others, too, in their turn, will suffer by him; the scale of his sympathies has been rendered imperfect; he, in his turn, will become harsh and reckless about giving pain; he will become either unmindful or unconscious of the bitter pain that may be inflicted by indifference and harshness; he will have imbibed a scorn for the soft, sympathising amenities which disguise the ills of life, and for those also who need or value them!"

"Why, Everhard, I never heard you so eloquently indignant before," said his friend.

"Possibly not," replied Everhard, "for I learned in suffering."

Everhard was saved from the above fate by an event that occurred when he was ten years old. Madame Burrows began to think it time that the two boys should have better instruction than Madame La Noix and the parish clerk could impart, which amounted to reading, not very fluently, and writing, in something between mysterious "pot-hooks" and large joining hand, words of four letters. Accordingly she engaged an old priest, named Father Martin, to come and be confessor to the household, and to undertake the education of the children. In due time he arrived, to the great joy of Louis and Everhard, to whom any change was welcome. Father Martin was a good, kind-hearted, chirping old man, without much talent or learning, but endowed with great singleness and simplicity of heart; his religion was a real croyance, and supplied the place to him of father, mother, wife, children, in fact, of all humanities. The saints in the calendar were to him as real friends; the ceremonies of the church filled his heart, and took him back to the days of the apostles and martyrs; all his faculties were absorbed in religion, which gave a genial beauty to his whole character. Let a common-place person once be imbued with a real genuine feeling for religion, and it redeems them from all coarseness of feeling, gives them graces of intellect, and an elevation of character far beyond their natural standard.

From the arrival of Father Martin, Everhard dated his happiness.

The old man had a fund of affection in his heart, and hitherto he had met with no object on which to exercise it. He soon found himself especially drawn to poor Everhard; he was very sorry for the harshness and neglect with which he was treated, for Madame Burrows used to excuse her coldness to others, and perhaps to herself, by saying, "that as he was destined to holy orders; it was far better that he should be accustomed betimes to the privations and mortifications which would hereafter make up the staple of his life."

Father Martin taught Everhard his own love for religion. Before he came, Everhard knew nothing except from the formal mass, without music, in a cold, dark chapel, and the long Latin prayers which he had been taught without explanation, and often as a punishment for some trifling offence. But when Father Martin talked to him about the saints and martyrs as though they had been his near and familiar friends, - then, the dry Litanies became touched by a quickening spirit. They were to him a "power and presence"; they were really men, women, and children, who had once lived and believed as he was now doing. The mysterious sacrifice of the mass, had been offered up before their eyes, as it now was before his; they had taken part in the very words he now repeated; he was destined to fill the same holy office which many of them had filled; and in time his name might become associated with theirs in the Litanies, for the comforting and strengthening of some yet unborn worshipper, who might be as lonely and unhappy as he had so long been.

All this opened a new world to him. The prayers which had hitherto been penances, became the grand enjoyment of his life so soon as he was aware that he might ask boldly and without fear for every thing he wanted. For a long time he could scarcely believe that so great a favour was indeed his. "And may I really talk to the saints, and will they listen to me, and not get tired of me as mamma always does?" asked he one day, when Father Martin had been talking to him upon the subject.

"No, my child," replied the good old man; "the more you pray, and the more you occupy yourself about them, the more rejoicing there is among their holy company."

Everhard lived henceforth in the world of his darling saints and martyrs. On any childish emergency he applied to them as naturally and undoubtingly as another child would have gone to its mother. Father Martin to him, was one of the saints not yet dead, and for that reason alone not put in the calendar.

No event worth recording happened during the first six months of Father Martin's residence. But about that time it happened that Madame Burrows had some business about which a lawyer's advice was needed. Many household wants had accumulated which could not be supplied in Sutton, a journey to Coventry was therefore solemnly agreed upon. She promised the two boys to take them with her, and as there was much to see as well as to do, they were to stay all night at an inn, and not to return till the next day.

This was the first treat of any sort that had been promised to the boys, and their delight knew no bounds. They had never been beyond a few miles round Sutton since they came there; and besides, Coventry had been invested to their imagination with a mysterious charm, ever since they had read the history of Lady Godiva; and now they were actually to see the streets she had passed along, and the very likeness of Peeping Tom himself! It is no wonder they could neither eat nor sleep for thinking of it. As to Everhard, the first thing he did was to inform his darling friends, the saints, and to entreat them to send a fine day for the journey.

And a beautiful day it was. Everhard and his brother both dressed in their new clothes, which had come home from Peter Brocclehurst the night before, stood watching the process of harnessing the four horses to the large lumbering family vehicle, which they had never beheld brought from its resting-place except on rare and grand occasions. But, alas! for the hopes of either men or children. At the moment when Madame Burrows, followed by La Noix, appeared in the courtyard ready equipped for the journey, a dashing-looking gentleman rode up, followed by a servant on horseback. Madame Burrows, with some surprise, recognised her brother.

"Why, when did you arrive?" exclaimed she, embracing him, "I did not even know you were intending to come to England."

"It was quite unexpected," replied he, "I transacted all my business in London last week, and I intended to take you by surprise; but you are going out it seems, - that I should have been so unfortunate!"

"Come in and refresh yourself" replied his sister, "and then perhaps you will join us; you should see as much as you can of England whilst you are in it."

"Oh, no refreshment for me, but I will join your party, and welcome; we can talk as well in your carriage as in your parlour, if you have room for me."

"Of course there is," replied Madame Burrows; "then we need not delay any longer."

She proceeded with her brother to the coach, where La Noix and the two boys were already seated. "Here," said she, "one of you must give up his place, - not you, La Noix, for I shall want you. Everhard, you are the youngest, and besides, you must learn self-denial betimes, do you get out and give your place to your uncle."

"Cannot we find room for all?" said the good-natured Frenchman.

"Oh dear no, for the coach will be quite full of things when we come back, and besides, what does it signify, he can go another time." Then, without waiting to cast a look on poor Everhard's face of astonished disappointment, she ordered the carriage to drive off.

At first Everhard could hardly believe in the reality of his disappointment; but when the carriage was fairly out of sight, he sat down and cried with all the bitterness of childish indignation and helplessness: the perfect indifference with which an affair so important to him had been dismissed was the worst part of all. In a little while Father Martin passed across the court, and was surprised to find him there, thinking, of course, he had gone with the rest. When he heard the story, the good old man could hardly help crying too for sympathy.

"My brother is never punished," said Everhard, sobbing, "he has every thing he wishes for, and every body loves him. What have I done to be left at home?"

Father Martin could hardly find in his heart to rebuke this natural burst of passion; at length he said, "Come, come, my child, you know anger is sinful, recollect the saints were all tried a great deal more than you are, and yet they never gave way to temper, and you must not envy your brother; you are told to love him better than yourself; and besides, if you don't love your own brother, how can you pretend to love the saints and Jesus Christ whom you never saw?"

"Well, but they do not vex me; they are never spiteful to me as he is," sobbed Everhard.

"Well, well, my child," said the old man, half-smiling, "you must learn to be patient; but now let us take a walk in the fields; I want to show you where those curious flowers grow, and we will bring home some of the roots with us to set in your garden."

The kind-hearted old man, full of his desire to console. poor Everhard for his disappointment, went back to the house, and begging a few cakes and some slices of cold meat from the cook, he filled a bottle with cowslip wine, and did not forget the little silver cup which belonged to himself. He packed every thing neatly and rejoined Everhard, who had now dried up his tears, and found his spade and basket.

They set off together into the wood, and when they were tired of rambling about, they dined under a large tree, where they rested during the heat of the day, and the old man told Everhard many tales, whilst the pleasant sunlight came through the transparent green leaves, and played and flickered as they moved about upon the moss and tree trunks beneath.

"Now," cried Father Martin, at last, "I think we will go and look for the flowers, they grow beside the trout stream."

It was a part of the wood where Everhard had never been, for Madame Burrows seldom allowed them to go beyond the park gates. Everhard was enchanted. The flowers were quite white, and so transparent that the green leaves could almost be seen shining through them; a poor little quail had fallen out of its nest and hurt its wing; Everhard carried it home in great triumph to nurse. Coming home they had to pass through a village where there was a fair, and they met a club walking with blue staves, with the accompaniment of a band of music and gay flags; so, on the whole, Everhard had not once time to think of his disappointment. As soon as they reached home, the first business was to put the bird in a cage, and then to set the flower roots.

"I think", said he, "I will put some of these into Louis' garden; he likes pretty flowers as much as I do."

When he went to bed at night Father Martin sat beside him till he fell asleep, in order that he might not think of the troubles and unkindness of the morning.

Who can calculate the amount of perversity, misanthropy, and all sorts of evil feeling which was averted from Everhard by the opportune kindness of this one day! Not averted only, but changed into wholesome human affection, which, in after life, kept him from the evil of the world, and abided by him in his days of darkness, when all the imposing array of creeds and precepts broke under him like reeds, as he leaned on them for help. A day, an hour, often contains the vital principle of what is elaborated into the conduct of years.

The next day all the party returned home. Louis was full of the wonders he had seen, and the coach was laden with purchases. Madame Burrows, to make some amends to Everhard for his disappointment, had brought him a beautiful new knife and a large kite, which his uncle good-naturedly undertook to teach him to fly.

CHAPTER III

After the departure of M. du Pont, the brother of Madame Burrows, every thing at the Manor went on in its usual course, and nothing worth recording happened for the next twelve months.

One fine morning, in harvest time, Madame Burrows said, at breakfast, "I wish, Father Martin, if you are not engaged, you would go with the doctor to visit a poor Irishman who lies ill in one of the barns; he has come over every harvest for many years past, and now, I fear, he is very ill. See what things are needed, and they shall be sent."

Father Martin did not fail to do as he was directed. The poor man had been ill some days, but had struggled on with his work till that morning, when he fainted in attempting to rise from his straw. The doctor pronounced it a bad case of typhus fever, and recommended that the rest of the labourers should be lodged elsewhere. But the precaution came too late. Ten other of the unfortunate creatures sickened shortly, and five died notwithstanding every assistance that medical skill and kind nursing could bestow.

Madame Burrows, who, in spite of her imperious nature, had a genuinely kind heart, and a great deal of good sense, took such judicious steps, that the dreadful disease was confined entirely to the spot where it first showed itself, and did not spread either to the labourers on other farms, nor into the town itself. Madame Burrows and Father Martin were indefatigable in their attentions and kindness to the sufferers. When the excitement caused by this calamity had somewhat subsided, and things began to fall into their accustomed course, Father Martin complained of being ill. At first he only felt languid, which he attributed to the anxiety and fatigue he had recently undergone, but the next day he grew worse, and could not leave his bed. He had a presentiment that he should not recover. The only distress this gave him was, that he must leave his dear child, Everhard. He did not know how long they might be left together, so he lost no time in calling him to his bedside to give him what strength and comfort he could.

"My dear child," said he, taking his hand, "if it should be the will of Almighty God that I should die and leave you, you must not lament after me; recollect that I am going to see Jesus Christ and the saints, whom you love to hear about; and I shall never know pain or sorrow more. I shall not be very far from you, though you will not be able to see me. Will you think of this, and try not to be very unhappy when I am gone?"

At first Everhard's surprise and grief were too great to allow him to speak.

"My dear child, do not break my heart by letting me see you so miserable. We shall not be long separated. You will come to me at the end of a few years. If we lived in this world, you would have to go away and leave me to follow your studies; and how much better it is that I should go into the safe keeping of God and his saints. The dead never change; and when you come to me I shall love you as much as I do now."

"Will you be a saint, and watch over me?" asked Everhard, sobbing.

"I will pray to God for you when I shall be purified; and then I shall be able to love you, and serve you far better than I can as a sinful mortal. Nay, nay, my child," continued he, perceiving that poor Everhard's grief was uncontrollable, "you must not rebel against the Divine will in this manner. Come, let us say the Litany of Jesus together; it will compose us both."

This was the last conversation Everhard ever had with his old friend, for shortly afterwards he sank into a stupor, from which he never roused till a few minutes before he breathed his last, three days afterwards.

Everhard was removed from the chamber almost by force, and he saw his dear friend no more. He assembled with the rest of the household in the chapel, where the coffin was laid on a bier surrounded with wax tapers, a solemn service was performed, and then the remains of the good old man were conveyed to the vault, and laid beside those of Everhard's father.

At first, Everhard's grief was not so violent as might have been expected, it was rather a stunned astonishment, for it seemed to him quite impossible that so great an affliction could have been laid in earnest upon any one. Father Martin had given him his missal, and he would sit for hours, with it upon his knees, not reading, but gazing vacantly at it.

He sat at table when he was summoned, and ate mechanically what was put upon his plate, but he spoke to no one, nor did he seem to notice any thing.

Those round him, albeit little accustomed to notice his ways, became alarmed, his mother endeavoured by kind words and even caresses to rouse him, but he paid no attention to her, and escaped the first moment to his old station where he had left his missal.

A priest from a distance who had administered the last sacraments to Father Martin, offered mass in the chapel the following Sunday. As the service proceeded, the conviction that his dear old friend was really gone, and that his place must evermore be supplied by a stranger, flashed on Everhard as for the first time. He screamed aloud, and was removed from the chapel in hysterical convulsions; a violent passion of tears followed, after which he was put to bed and a composing draught administered. He did not again relapse into his former stupor, but it was very long before he regained his usual cheerfulness.

Some time after Father Martin's death, Everhard and his brother were sent to Bruges to be educated at a seminary, which was of great repute in those days. English Catholics of the higher classes were obliged to send their children from home if they wished them to receive a liberal education, Catholic schools not being at that time permitted in England.

The remainder of Everhard's childhood passed without any thing to be recorded. He and his brother outgrew their childish bickerings, and became the friends that brothers ought to be. When Everhard was seventeen and his brother eighteen they returned home, Louis to take his place as the head of the family, and Everhard to have a little relaxation previous to proceeding to Rome, to study for the priesthood at the English College there.

Madame Burrows felt a mother's pride at seeing the fine looking young men her sons had become, and all her ambition was more than gratified when she beheld them cordially received into the ranks of the country gentlemen, amongst whom their frankness, good humour, and keen sportmanship, soon rendered them great favourites.

A letter from M. du Pont, the brother of Madame Burrows, arrived after they had been a short time at home, inviting Everhard to visit him on his way to Rome. After some demur, Madame Burrows gave her consent; she exhorted him to be very steady, and on no consideration to exceed his allowance, assuring him that she would not advance one single farthing beyond. She then embraced him, and saw him depart with great composure.

Louis showed much more feeling on the occasion, for though his new importance had all the flush of novelty with it, yet it did not reconcile him to the loss of Everhard's society, and it would be doing him a great injustice were we to omit to inform the reader that, unknown to his mother, he added a hundred a year to Everhard's allowance out of the income allowed to himself during his minority, and that his first act on coming of age was to double the amount.

Everhard accomplished his journey to Paris without accident or adventure, and a new era in life began for him.

CHAPTER IV

It is very troublesome to have to deal with a hero of seventeen! A girl of seventeen, fortune favouring, may be made into a very interesting heroine; people will believe all that can be said of her beauty, wit, and wisdom, and will patiently read through three or even six volumes full of her adventures, and find themselves much edified with the perusal. But a lad of seventeen! merciful heaven! to make a hero of him would require a suspension of the laws of nature! All his graces of childhood have run to seed, and the victims of manhood have not yet replaced them; he is no longer the chubby darling, of the red shoes and coral; nor yet the interesting child in a picturesque hat and tunic; but an unfinished, uneasy biped, a plague to every body within his reach, and with whose doings and sufferings, nobody, not absolutely obliged, wishes to have the least concern. The gentle reader will easily sympathise with the dismay in which Madame du Pont was thrown, when her husband informed her that he had invited his nephew to pay them a visit on his way to Rome.

Madame du Pont was a woman of quality of a certain age. She felt a motherly vocation for forming the minds and manners of interesting young men, but then they must be - no matter stopping to define what. But she knew when she saw them, who would be likely to profit by her lessons, and she was quite sure beforehand that Everhard would be utterly destitute of all the qualities of an interesting young man, - that he would be awkward, that he would be a caricature, that, in short, he would be altogether unbearable. So she made up her mind that he should be satisfied with a very short visit, and be quite as anxious to proceed to Rome as she could be to see him depart.

Madame du Pont was one morning sitting in a ravishing dishabille, half reclined on a large fauteuil; a graceful middle-aged man, in the dress of an abbé, stood leaning on the side of her chair. He was her confessor, for she was a great dévote in her way, and took much pleasure in the abbé's society. They were interrupted in their conversation, whatever it might be, by the entrance of Monsieur du Pont, who led Everhard by the hand.

"Allow me", said he, "to present my nephew to you, and to entreat your favour for him whilst he remains with us."

"Have I the pleasure of seeing the M. Everhard you have so often mentioned?" said she, in a silvery voice, and a smile of satisfaction at seeing something so much better than she expected. "I am rejoiced to see you," continued she, stretching out her little white hand to Everhard, who was almost too abashed to raise it to his lips; but his naïve want of confidence had nothing awkward, and it completed the favourable impression his first appearance had made.

"Allow me to present my husband's nephew to you," said she, turning to the abbé; "he is intended for the church; n'est ce pas?" added she, glancing at Everhard with a smile of that peculiar fascination which can only be had in perfection by women who have passed their première jeunesse. The smile of a young beauty loses in meaning what it has in brilliancy, it is the mere expression of personal pleasure or coquettish display; it wants the penetrating sweetness that makes the object feel it as a peculiar favour, not bestowed lightly or without intention.

M. du Pont was delighted to see his lady treat his protégé so graciously, and after a little unimportant conversation prepared like a wise man to retire before she grew weary of her condescension; he would have carried Everhard off with him, but as the visiting hour was at hand, Madame du Pont desired he might remain that she might present him to her friends. M. du Pont thanked his wife for her amiability, kissed her hand and withdrew, leaving Everhard, divided between admiration and embarrassment.

Madame continued to ask him questions about England, until the entrance of visitors interrupted her. Everhard was introduced to every one, but as the conversation fell on topics of which he was utterly ignorant, he would have been wearied if the Abbé du Pré had not devoted himself with great good nature to entertain him. The abbé was neither very wise, nor very learned, but he had the genius of tact and good breeding, which upon those immediately under their influence, supply the place of beauty and goodness and wisdom by blinding the eyes to their absence.

When the visitors had departed, Madame du Pont began to consider whether it might be possible to make her handsome nephew presentable in good company on so short a notice. She was going to supper that evening at Madame d'Aligré's, and she wished to take him with her. Though dévote, she was still too young and handsome to remain contented with merely spiritual diversions, and she had a great taste for the society of the esprits forts of that day, though she had no ambition to be considered an esprit herself. As one of the set once said of her, "She contrived to be on respectful terms with God, whilst she kept up an agreeable acquaintance with the Devil."

She called Everhard to her, and turning him round as if he were a child, she said, with the smile that had so much enchanted him before, "You must be my cavalier tonight; I am going out to supper, but you must let me dress you as we dress in Paris. What beautiful hair!" exclaimed she, passing her delicate hand through his thick, silky, auburn locks; "but you wear it like a wild man of the woods! And then your clothes, oh, Heavens! are there tailors in England? or does every one make his own? However, there is no fear for your success in society; every thing English is the rage just now; you will soon become un jeune homme charmant, with the advantages you have. Now ring the bell for Gaspard; we must lose no more time in talking."

Everhard did as she desired; he felt at once both pleased and ashamed at being the object of such a scrutiny.

"Gaspard," said his aunt to her page, as he entered, "go to Fleurion, and tell him that he must have a dress proper for a young clerical student ready for my nephew this evening; then call at Henriot's, and give orders for all that will be necessary in the way of ruffles, lace, and all that. Tell La Force to be here early, that he may dress monsieur's hair; in short, you will go to M. du Pont's people, and order all that monsieur may require for his toilette, and you will consider yourself as his attendant whilst he remains here."

Everhard, who heard these sweeping orders given with some dismay, took out his pocket-book instinctively; his aunt stopped his hand hastily, saying, "What folly! Go, Gaspard, say the things are for M. du Pont." The page made a reverence and left the room. When he was gone, his aunt gave Everhard a long lecture on the extravagance of paying tradespeople, and the necessity of taking care of his money for things that were indispensable; then she dismissed him to his own apartment to take some rest and refreshment.

When he was alone, Everhard could hardly help smiling at the two lectures on economy he had recently received. His mother and his aunt both spoke on the same subject, and there the resemblance ended.

He was tolerably fatigued, and in no mood to quarrel with either the rest or refreshment prepared for him; still he sat down and wrote a letter to his mother, informing her of his safe arrival; and a longer one to Louis, telling him all that had happened since they parted.

The "ministers of grace" did their spiriting to admiration. Everhard could hardly recognise himself when he saw his reflection in a full-length mirror, even his aunt was hardly prepared for the improvement in his appearance.

She expressed all the delight at his transformation of a child over a new doll, and allowed him to lead her to the carriage with a feeling of infinite complacency.

"We must have you taught to fence," said she, when they were seated; "you only want that to make you perfect. Your French accent is admirable. We are going this evening," said she, after a pause, "to Madame d'Aligré's, who gives charming petits soupers, though they are rather maigres, but that does not signify, for she assembles the best and wealthiest people in Paris to eat them. The other day she gave a dinner that was very scanty, and the conversation became very scandalous.

"M. de Lauregais, who was present, said, 'it seems to me that in this house we should die of hunger if we did not eat up our neighbours with our bread'; but for all that, she is a very good woman, and exceedingly prudent, or of course I should not go there; what reward indeed would remain for virtue if we visited, and invited to our parties, the good and bad without distinction? The Abbé du Pré does not much approve of my going, because all the philosophers assemble there; but really it is too pleasant to be given up for the sake of a little danger to one's soul."

The carriage now stopped at Madame d'Aligré's porte cochère, and in due time they were ushered into the salon, which was about half full of guests.

Tables for play were set out, at some of which parties were already seated.

The hostess was sitting at the upper end of the room, talking to a group of men who stood round her.

Madame du Pont after paying her compliments, and presenting her nephew, glided to a sofa, where she perceived several of her acquaintances. Everhard stood beside her.

He saw men whose names have become historical; men who gave the first impulse to that movement which was destined to convulse society to its centre; but as yet, all was imprisoned in a chaos of theories and disputations, the surface of society was not yet broken, and all that was uttered that evening seemed to have no higher aim than to make brilliant conversation.

After a while Madame du Pont sat down to ombre, and left Everhard to make his way for himself. Madame d'Aligré, perceiving his bashful and painful look of strangership, beckoned him to come beside her. She nodded graciously as he came up, but did not interrupt her conversation. "Your hommage aux dames", said she, to a courtly smiling man who stood by, "is all very fine, but it is fictitious. You do not yourself believe one word of all you have been saying about woman's genius and equality. Out of the million of women who are flattered by being told they possess genius, not one ever achieves a work that endures, or that obtains higher praise than of being something very wonderful for a woman. Scarce one has ever achieved any thing that, in a man, would be considered first rate. I do not belong to the sisterhood of 'women of genius' myself, so my testimony is disinterested. Look at history, which is a tolerable criterion. If ever, by an extraordinary combination of circumstances, a woman has, from her position, influenced her age and country, her name speedily becomes a historical doubt, and her actions fabulous. The name of a woman has never authentically descended to posterity, unless preserved in the memory of some transcendent crime.

"Whenever a woman attempts to throw herself into the mêlée of action, and to contend with men on a footing of equality, she is always seen in the end, to commit either some grave fault, or some signal folly. No woman has ever succeeded in gaining lasting fame, but many have lost their reputation in the attempt."

"Because", said Duclos, who just then came up, "women are never engrossed by any object sufficiently to forget to display themselves; unless indeed, the object be a lover, and then they can be sublime. When a woman's affections are engaged, all her littleness disappears; women have been grand, almost superhuman, through the strength of love, but the moment they desire to distinguish themselves, they become stripped of the 'divinity that doth hedge' a woman. To be distinguished, seems a very grand thing, but to earn a name, is no holiday task; women are destitute both of patience and persistence, so no wonder that they fail, and their works appear ineffectual when measured beside those of really GREAT MEN who have laid out their lives in their work."

"How is it", asked Madame de Verset, "that society so bitterly resents all singularity, whether real or affected? It is tolerant of crimes, and long suffering with dullness, but it shows no mercy to those who are different from other people."

"It is desirable", said one of the company, "that the individuals composing a society should be in keeping with each other, lest if one be much better, or different in any way from the rest, he should play the part of a piece of new cloth in an old garment, and cause a rent wherever he goes."

"That is true," said M. Grimm, "men have a natural instinct against incongruities; and that may explain the dislike and persecution, with which those men are received who come to it as prophets and teachers. All that stands apart from the mass surrounding it, ought either to have a class of its own to fall back upon, or else to carry the germ of a new order of things within itself; otherwise, it is an ineffectual singularity, without any significance to atone for its bad taste."

"It is the instinct of self-preservation", said d'Holback, "that makes men look with distrust on all that tends to break through the train of things which have got themselves established. There is a sense of insecurity in the beginning of all change; we dread movement until we are fairly roused, and then we seem as if we could never know rest again."

"This mixture of restlessness and indolence is the key to many of the contradictions of human life. It is a pity we cannot calculate their action with precision, for then we might work miracles," said one who had not yet spoken.

"Till the secret became known, and then the miracle would become the ordinary course of nature, and we should have to fight and struggle as we do now," replied M. Grimm.

"Is it because we and our works endure for so short a time, that we attach so much veneration to all that has strength to resist change, and even for a little while to assume the aspect of permanency?" asked the gentle Madame d'E-----.

"Possibly," replied M. Grimm, "ideas of permanence and endurance beguile the imagination of men because they do not seem to be impossibilities; we could never have the heart to labour if we did not hope that our works would live after us; in our heart, we each expect to attain immortality, though 'ready to vanish away' is the device inscribed by destiny upon us and all we do. The hope of achieving works which shall endure for ever, glimmers upon the horizon of things possible, like the elixir of life and the philosopher's stone, but none have arrived at the spot over which the star rests."

"What you say about permanence", said St Lambert, "applies in a peculiar manner to systems of government; there, all things seem to have attained the most unchangeable fixity, on the eve of a final breaking up of all forms."

"Ay," said Duclos, "the mechanism of society is then worn smooth with use, all goes on quietly, but it is the ease of that which is worn out. The system holds together in this state till some trifle jars upon it, and then like other moulds which have become effaced, it is broken up for fresh combinations."

"The energy of nature," said d'Holback, "lends itself to the form of our social institutions so long as they are adequate to some want within us, and have a latent meaning that is felt by all; but when what once was religion, degenerates into worn-out traditions, and ceremonies emblematic of no truth - when what was in the beginning benevolence and human love, becomes the mere etiquette of polite society, when the structure of society, from one end to the other, becomes a mere tissue of legal fictions, and men stickle for forms and customs, (which are always the last things that pass away) - there is no life to oppose dissolution, all relapses into the elements, and the life by which they were supplied takes a new form. This is the secret priests fable unknowingly in their dreams of a 'new heaven and a new earth'; man reduces to chaos, and out of chaos God creates fresh worlds."

"Well, and what becomes of the poor inhabitants in all the confusion?" asked Madame d'Aligré.

"Why, madame," replied a pompous member of the academy, "minute investigation has showed us that the rocks which make the primeval foundation of the earth, are composed of bodies which were once organised living animals, and that proves - "

"Ay," said some one, interrupting him, "that the dust we tread upon has been alive and wretched."

But now supper was announced, and Everhard had the privilege of handing his aunt to table. When the supper was over, or rather when the guests had ceased eating, for they still continued at table, music was proposed, and Madame d'Aligré turned with a petitioning air to Madame du Pont, who had a splendid voice.

"You know," said Madame du Pont, "I am a Gluckist whilst you are all wild after Piccini. I wish the lot had fallen to some one better able to convert you than I am," and rising from her place she allowed herself to be led across the room to the harpsichord, when she played and sang the recitative and air of "In vano alcun", from the "Armida". After the expressions of admiration had somewhat subsided -

M. Grimm said, "We shall have some difficulty, to maintain the supremacy of Piccini after such singing as that, however, we must support the honour of our friend as well as we can."

Madame d'Aligré then joined one of the guests in the duet "Ne giorni tuoi felice", from the "Olimpiade", which was very successful. Another and another song succeeded, and the party broke up at a late hour.

During their drive home Everhard was quite unable to converse with his aunt; but as he kissed her hand, on parting from her for the night, she perceived that he looked handsomer than ever, so she was quite satisfied - much as she would have been with the success of some new point of costume on which she might have ventured.

Everhard found his way to his own room. All night he was in a vague reverie, rather than sleep; and the scene he had quitted, the lights, the music, the conversation, flitted in confusion through his brain, like scenes in a phantasmagoria.

"Well," said Emilie, the elder of Madame du Pont's waiting-women, to her companion, after they had been dismissed from their attendance on her, "what do you think of madame's nephew?"

"Why," replied the other, "for one thing, I think we shall have a very good time, for madame is in a good humour, and at such times she is always generous. To-night, to begin with, she gave me a worked apron."

"Bah! I was not thinking of her. What do you think of him, the nephew?"

"Oh, qui'il est beau comme l'amour, et gentil comme un ange," replied Flora. "When he passed me in madame's dressing-room he made a reverence, as if I had been a court lady. But he is very shy, and does not know the value of his beauty; for all the softness of his eyes, he looks out of them as if they were given for nothing else but to see with. Still there is something piquant in so much innocence."

"In the hope of spoiling it, I suppose you mean," replied Emilie, laughing. "Well, so there is, for it is a work one generally finds ready made to one's hand. That delicate bloom will not last long upon his cheeks in Paris."

"He will be handsome when it is gone," replied the other. "Did you remark him to-night after he came home? His face seemed to have gained meaning even in that short time."

"It is to be hoped he can take care of himself, poor youth," said Emilie, compassionately.

"Malheur à lui, if he cannot," replied Flora, as she smiled at her own pretty reflection in the glass, and arranged her hair under a most coquettish cap.

"Nous verrons, ma mie", said Emilie, yawning. "But now, in heaven's name, let us cease talking. You could live without sleep altogether, I think."

A few moments afterwards the whole household was buried in repose.

CHAPTER V

Everhard felt on awakening the next morning, much as one of the seven sleepers might be imagined to have done; but he soon became accustomed to his new way of life, for one day only led to another, brighter and pleasanter than the last.

His aunt, quite satisfied with the impression he produced, made him accompany her wherever she went, and he had to share both her amusements and devotions. She was at an age when women find infinitely more interest in a fresh unsophisticated youth, than in the polished, hackneyed, successful man of society; and Madame du Pont found a fund of gentle délassement in forming the manners of her handsome nephew. So Everhard's days passed on pleasantly enough. He was introduced to a perfumed, brilliant, luxurious version, of that hard, mysterious reality called LIFE. He mixed in female society for the first time; hitherto he had seen no women but his mother and her attendants.

His exceeding inexperience kept him from perceiving the licentiousness and immorality that lay under the graceful amenities of the society in which he was moving; though, it must be owned, it was a critical experiment.

He felt within himself the movement of passions which were beginning to make him sensible of their existence; and the host of undefined tumultuous sensations which filled his soul without pointing to any definite aim, gave him a sense of life and power, an intoxicating sense of joy, in the mere fact of existence. He was entering on the "heritage of HIMSELF", and felt endowed with new gifts and perceptions, a passionate desire after the beautiful in all things; all his faculties seemed bathed in an atmosphere of warm light; the crust of reserve and awkwardness, which had shielded him from himself, dropped off like scales; he had not been stimulated into precocious maturity, and there was no danger of his adding to the melancholy band of those "whose unripe blessedness has dropped away from the young tree of life", before it has fulfilled its beautiful promise.

The brief period between childhood and maturity is indeed the golden age of life! A fairy dust is thrown over all persons and all things, making that lovely which is not so; like eastern monarchs, who caused beauty and fertility to spring up for the moment, when they had to journey through desert and unlovely places, making all look rich and glad as they passed along.

Everhard remained four months in Paris; at the end of that time, a letter came from his mother, desiring him to fix an early day for his departure to Rome.

This announcement came on Everhard like a thunderbolt. Going to Rome had become a vague abstraction which was to occur at an indefinite period, and, until this moment, he was not aware of all the disinclination to his profession that had grown upon him. To be a priest, under a "vow of obedience", was a very different thing to being one of his old saints travelling about from country to country, on errands of benevolence: as different as a soldier in a marching regiment is from being one of the seven champions.

The prestige of church dignities had vanished before the bishops and abbés he had met in society, and his ambition to attain them had been crushed almost before it had sprung up. He panted for some occupation that would call forth the energy which he felt pent up within him. Alas! he did not know that he was grappling with the grand difficulty, the aforesaid mystery of life.

Thinking that possibly the Abbé du Pré might help him in his perplexity, he put on his hat, and went to call upon him.

Everhard entered a small, luxuriously furnished apartment, and found the abbé sitting in a flowered damask silk dressing-gown over the breakfast table; he was sipping his chocolate, and reading "La Reine de Golconde", which he quietly placed under the sofa pillow when Everhard came in. "I fear I am an untimely visitor," said he, "but the truth is, I wanted to find you alone; I am come to throw myself upon you for a little counsel."

"Oh fie! have you been getting into a scrape?" said the abbé, in a bland tone, with an arch smile; "but before you confess, sit down and do penance on a cup of chocolate"; at the same time pushing towards him the silver filigree stand; "you will find these rusks as delicate as those that regaled Vert Vert. Try this pâté, it is capital, and if you knew the fair hands it came from, it would seem still more exquisite."

Everhard felt very little inclination to do justice to the good things round him, but he saw the abbé was in a different mood, and he had the prudence to offer no interruption until the breakfast was finished. It came to an end, like all other things. "And now," said the abbé, wiping his lips after swallowing a petit verre, "what is it you want me to do?"

Everhard handed him the letter he had that morning received, and when the abbé had read it, he confided to him the dislike he felt to the path prepared for him; "and besides," said he, in conclusion, "I feel as if I could never perform the duties which the priesthood entails; there is something horrible in the suppressed energy, the still life endurance it requires. Nothing to do - nothing to hope for - no danger - no enterprise - no variety. I shall die, if I am made a priest; can you tell me no way to get out of it?"

The Abbé du Pré looked down and played with his snuff-box whilst Everhard was speaking, to hide the smile he could not suppress. "Well," said he, soothingly, when he ceased, "it is all very natural that at your age you should not feel tempted to renounce the world; but where, in Heaven's name, did you get your notion of what a priest's life requires? Poor boy! it is no wonder you should desire to escape from such an imagination! I fear there is no other career open to you; your lady mother would give neither help nor sanction to any change in your destination; besides, why should you wish for one? you have good prospects in the church; your uncle has interest to push you on; between ourselves, I shall be a bishop long before you are in orders, and shall be able to help you forward; you may depend upon it that I shall do so, for you will be a credit to us. There is no need for you to be either a saint or a martyr, you will come and live in Paris; the women here, who are as fanciful about their confessors as they are about their doctors and lovers, will adjust the balance between you and their devotions; only think of the opportunity you will have of making a sensation when you come to preach! Eloquence (and you have it) opens the way to every heart, to every thing to be desired in this world; it can cover a whole decalogue of sins; it is a regular enchanter's wand! You may have a glorious life; you may be a politician, a statesman; and, though vowed to celibacy, you may enjoy the devoted friendship of the loveliest women; any thing, every thing is open to you; there is no career like it for a man who knows how to run therein. Be discreet, be prudent; that is the true secret of leading an exemplary life. So cheer up, and have no more foolish fancies. And now," said he, after a pause, "will you remain here whilst I dress? and then we will walk back together. Madame du Pont had a migraine yesterday, and requested me to come early."

So saying, the graceful priest glided out of the room, leaving Everhard plunged in a painful reverie. They walked silently towards the Hôtel du Pont, for Everhard was quite unequal to the lively conversation in which the other sought to engage him.

Everhard hastened to his own room, where he remained alone with his own heart. He looked helplessly round for some one who might speak words of strong counsel to him; but there was no one. The complacent wily abbé was about the best among his present acquaintance.

At length, with a start of surprise that he should not have thought of it before, he betook himself to his old resource in times of childish difficulty; he flung himself on his knees beside the bed, and with sobs and inarticulate words poured forth all his grief and perplexity. He did not as heretofore, go to any of his favourite saints; it was from the service of God he shrank, and it was to that God Himself he went now in his agony of weakness.

The only instant when man has any thing sublime about him, is, when prostrate before the invisible, he makes an offering of his own will and his own wisdom, desiring to be guided only to that which is best and wisest. Prayer is the appeal from the fluctuating incomprehensible aspect of this life, to Him who changes not. None but they who are sinking under some of the infinitely varied forms of human need and human weakness, can tell the strong consolation of taking refuge from their perplexities with one, "who knoweth all things, and to whom all hearts are open".

The remainder of that day passed as usual, but it seemed to Everhard that the beauty and delight which had fascinated him in this life of society had suddenly departed.

The next morning, as he was preparing to pay some visits, he received a summons from his uncle.

"Well, Everhard, my boy," said he, "you are become so répandu, that one must send for you early to get a word with you. Your mother has just sent me this letter, and desires me to advise you what course to take on the strength of it; but I think you are quite of an age to have a voice in the disposal of yourself. Your father bequeathed you to the Church, but you don't seem to me to have much vocation for it, at least you have shown none since you came here. Did you ever hear of a distant relation, who is a prosperous India merchant, and making an income of more livres than I possess francs? I suppose you never saw him; he has started up like the good uncle or father at the last act of a comedy. There is a letter from him to your mother; read it, and see if you are disposed to close with the offer. You had better take till to-morrow to consider."

Everhard received the large, heavy looking letter, and retired to read it at leisure.

The letter was from the only surviving member of a distant branch of the family, which, eschewing the politics which had well nigh caused the ruin of the elder branch, had given all their energies to making money, and had succeeded amazingly: but there had been no intercourse between the owners of Sutton Manor and the merchants of London for at least two generations. The first part of the letter in question was taken up with explaining to Madame Burrows the genealogy of the two branches, in a most prolix and herald-like fashion. The conclusion was more to the purpose; it was an offer to adopt the younger son, to initiate him in all the mysteries of trade, and finally to make him his successor in the old and wealthy firm of "Burrows and Co.".

"I am a widower without children," said the letter in conclusion, "therefore all my fortune will go to my nephew, if he takes kindly to the business; but a merchant like myself he must be, before he comes in for one farthing. I am rich enough to do what I like, and I am as desirous to continue a line of British merchants, as other people can be to found a family. I make no mention of your elder son, because he has already enough, and more than enough, and I will have nothing to do with gentlemen.

"I hear you have intended Everhard for a priest. If he does not choose to accept my offer, I shall bequeath my money to a hospital, and break up the concern. It has been carried on for more than a hundred years, from father to son, and I will not have a stranger for successor. Everhard is a name that has been in the family for generations, so I shall not so much mind his not being my son, but I expect he will bind himself to marry, that there may be no danger of the business going to a still more distant connexion.

"With all sorts of good wishes for you, though I never had the honour of seeing you,

"I am, Madam,

"Your obedient, humble servant,      

"EVERHARD BURROWS."

Everhard read the last part of the letter through twice; here was the chance of an escape from the priesthood which he had so earnestly wished for the day before. Our wishes never seem so little desirable as when on the verge of accomplishment; we draw back instinctively, they look so different from what we expected.

Everhard was not at all smitten by the prospect held out to him; he had at the bottom a prejudice against trade, which he had imbibed from his mother; he thought it degrading; added to which, all his natural tastes lay in a directly contrary direction.

By a natural reaction of feeling, the way of life which so lately had looked hard and uninviting, seemed clothed with calm and mild dignity. Now that he was free to choose, all desire for a secular life seemed dead within him. Accordingly, when he met his uncle next day, it was to intimate his fixed intention to follow the profession to which he had always been destined.

A grateful letter was accordingly written to Everhard Burrows senior, declining his offer; and Everhard made preparations to depart to Rome. He went to his aunt's dressing-room to take leave of her the morning of his departure. He found her amid a chaos of silks, feathers, and tissues of every conceivable variety, and so engrossed in a privy council for deciding on a presentation dress for the next court day, that she could not spare a moment to show any sensibility, which rather annoyed him. She embraced him, however, very gracefully, saying, "Well, we shall have you back when you are a priest, and then you shall be my confessor! I wish you would send me some relics from Rome; I cannot meet with any here; if there are any pretty things worked in Lava, get them for me; they will be quite new. Are you a judge of Cameos? I am told you can get those sort of things for nothing there. I wish you were going with me to the ball to-morrow."

Everhard tried to express his sense of all his aunt's attentions, but the gallantly turned phrase died on his lip; his eyes filled with tears, he raised her hand to his lips, and hastened out of the room.

"Quelle sensibilité," said the pretty Flora.

"Oui; mais la sensibilité me pèse", replied Madame du Pont, and returned to the occupation which had been for a moment interrupted.

M. du Pont accompanied his nephew for a few miles on horseback. "Well, boy," said he, as he was about to turn homewards, "we shall have you amongst us again. I shall look out, and solicit the minister for a good thing in the way of a benefice for you. Be discreet, and you will be sure to become a great man."

CHAPTER VI

When Everhard arrived at the English College in Rome, he was ushered at once before the Superior, who had been prepared to expect him, and was sitting in the library, where new comers were always received. The walls were hung round with portraits of great men, in the different costumes of cardinals, judges, warriors, who had all in their time been inmates of the college, and there was a prestige, in thus sitting surrounded as it were by the halo of their glory, very calculated to impress the ardent imagination of a young aspirant.

But Everhard was not imaginative, and besides, he had no time to pause to gaze round. He advanced at once to the chair of the Superior, and, bending his knee, kissed the hand that was extended to him. The Superior, a man somewhat advanced in life, with a keen eye and a stern aspect, uttered a few words of encouragement and welcome; then summoning an attendant, desired him to conduct Everhard to the refectory, where supper was already served.

Everhard, following his guide in silence, entered the hall where all the inmates of the college were seated at supper, and took the seat indicated to him. At first, he felt somewhat confused at the idea of encountering the gaze of so many, but not an eye was turned towards him, all continued their supper with the silence and abstraction of Brahmins. A young man at a desk at the upper end of the hall, read aloud out of the works of Cardinal Bellarmine; lay servants passed to and fro with trays on which the dishes were ready carved, and placed them before each; whilst a stately professor paced up and down between the tables to enforce silence and regularity. The hall was vast and lofty; a carved walnut-wood wainscot ran round the wall with seats for more than a hundred persons; massive tables, raised a step all round, were fixed to the floor. Supper lasted about twenty minutes, when all rose and noiselessly retired to their own rooms; none of them approached Everhard, or seemed any way conscious of his presence. The attendant he had before seen, came up as he was standing in perplexity, not knowing whether to remain or follow, and conducted him to the apartment prepared for him, but all in perfect silence.

Everhard, chilled and depressed by every thing round him, sat down listlessly in the window-seat, more disposed to weep than he had been since childhood. He felt very miserable indeed. The strong passions of adolescence which were rapidly developing, had no aim; he desired, he knew not what; the very gifts of intellect that were in him worked like passions; there was no one in the world to whom he could address himself; the brilliant life of society he had been leading for the last four months, had given him a hold on no one; he had entered a stranger, and departed the same: - all he thought and felt, was pent up in his own heart, and ever must be. He had renounced the world, he had cut for ever the ties that bind men to men, the step he had taken was irrevocable, and he felt crushed down under the conviction.

A knock at the door at length roused him, and a robust, handsome young man entered, dressed in the close black gown and white linen band which was the usual in-door costume of the inmates of the college. He had withal, a dashing, jaunty air, which was not precisely the ideal of what a young priest should be.

"Welcome! thrice welcome! holy Saint Everhard!" said he, "to our pious and most intensely stupid abode! Saint Magdalen forgive me! but if Paradise be akin to it, I don't care how long I tarry in purgatory!"

The tone and manner recalled to Everhard's memory an old school-fellow, who had been expelled for some unpardonable transgression of rules. With a start of pleasure he grasped his hand. "Why, John Paul Marston, can it be you? Why, what brings you in such a place?"

"Yes, it is I indeed. I suppose I was pre-destinated to the shepherd's crook, and the work of training up a nice little flock of lambs to the credit of the church's pasturage, and to gain to myself a bright reversion in the celestial city. God! I would give it all to be free to wander for a year through this eternal city. I have not much faith in the heavenly beauties; those glorious Roman women are worth the whole calendar of saints. I am so glad you are come; I can talk to you without needing to make believe to be better than I am. The discipline here is bad enough to endure, but the cursed hypocritical face one is obliged to put on is far worse. Dante's leaden cowls for hypocrites is no fable, but a Christian verity."

Everhard could not help feeling glad to see John Paul again, but he was somewhat scandalised nevertheless, at his freedom of speech. As soon as he could get in a word, he said, "Well, now, John Paul, sit down and tell me all you have been doing since you left Bruges."

"Since I was turned out, you mean; no need to mince facts. Well, I have leave to stay an hour with you, as you are a new man, and an old friend, or else it is not according to law."

John Paul trimmed the lamp he had brought with him, and set it down. It was quite night now, and they both seated themselves at the open window. A faint fragrance from flowers came in on the fresh, cool air; bats flitted to and fro like unclean spirits, and occasionally a large moth fluttered in, attracted by the light. The stars came out bright and many, but the moon had not yet risen.

"Well!" exclaimed John Paul, after a pause, "there is not another man in the world I would have been so pleased to see. I really like you, Everhard; I always did, and it is a comfort to have a natural inclination one can own to â haute voix, in this cursed place. Now tell me, how did you go on after I left you? was I soon forgotten? or do I still live among the school traditions as a beacon, pointing to innocent youths the way in which they ought not to go?"

Everhard could not help smiling. "You are as mad as ever, John Paul; what do they do with you here?"

"Oh, you will see fast enough; but now tell me something."

"It is little I can tell you," replied Everhard; "we soon recovered the quiet you had disturbed, and went on just as usual; Louis and I left school last Christmas; he remains at home to support family honours, and I have been on a visit for the last four months to my uncle in Paris. One of my father's English connexions sent the other day, wanting to adopt me, and make me a merchant, promising to leave me a fortune if I would follow his business; but I have no genius for trade, so I declined his proposal, and am now come here to study for the priesthood. You know I have been destined for holy orders from childhood."

"What!" exclaimed John Paul, vehemently, "and you really had an opening, a way of escape from this horrible bondage, and you did not avail yourself of it! No matter if your uncle had wanted to make you a chimney-sweep, any thing would have been better than the choice you have made; and yet, perhaps, no; you are peaceful by nature; you have a natural turn for goodness; above all, you believe; you are very different to me; and yet, I too might have made an honourable man, might have achieved something worth doing; I feel I have power in me; but here, here, all my strength is consumed within me, and for what? to enable me to keep myself within bounds, to make myself in appearance something like the cold-blooded clay around me. Oh, if they could but take the blood out of my veins, and fill them with new milk, I might be a happy man! The curse be on those who bind men by irrevocable vows!"

John Paul started to his feet in an uncontrollable frenzy, and began to stride up and down the room; the veins stood out on his forehead; his small, cruel grey eye glittered with ferocity, and his breath came in thick pants. Everhard attempted to calm him, but John Paul took no notice. After a while he recovered himself, and said, "You see what comes over me at times; if it did not break out in this way, I should go mad. I am right now for a while, and shall be able to go on in the mill round of prayers and fastings. Now I will tell you how I came here.

"My cousin, in whose hands I was placed after the row at school, took me home with him; my mother had been informed of the whole thing. To tell the truth, I was not sorry to be spared facing her for a while; every body said I required stronger management than a woman's hand, and my cousin undertook to break me in. You know that my father on his death-bed desired that the child my mother was then expecting should be dedicated to the service of the church; it was the dearest wish of my mother's heart: the family considered it settled; as for myself, I had got into the habit of looking on it as an evil day at an indefinite distance. It was a large town where my cousin lived, not very far from London. I did not choose to be cooped up in the house, so I scraped acquaintance with several youths of my own age, or rather older. I had nothing to do; my cousin might have found me employment, but he did not, so I got into mischief. He called me to account, and, as I did not admire his method, I ran away to London. My good mother, who had the wise habit of supplying me plentifully with pocket money, had sent me a remittance only the day before, so there had been no time to spend it, which was lucky. When I found myself in London, I felt happy, for I was my own master. I had vague dreams of working my way in the world, and making myself famous; I felt energy enough in me for any thing; the sight of so many new and wonderful objects made me seem to be in a new world, and I felt proud of walking up and down the streets. I took a small room in a lodging-house in Holborn, dirty and comfortless enough in all conscience, but it was cheap, and I wanted to make my money last as long as possible. The third night after I was in London I went to Drury-lane Theatre. I had never seen a play; it was enchantment; I doubted whether such delight could be intended for mortals. I went again and again. By day I haunted the private door of a small theatre near my lodging, thinking it would be blessed to be even a candle snuffer, and looking with respect on the little boys who distributed the handbills. I contrived, by a lucky accident, to scrape acquaintance with one of the actresses, a pretty creature, and a great favourite with the manager; she spoke a good word for me, and I made my début as a silent page; but I had talents, and was soon promoted to talking parts. I was a great favourite with the women of our company, and I enjoyed the way of life amazingly. True, we were rogues and vagabonds in the eyes of respectable people, but really I don't think we were much worse than our neighbours, and we thought no small things of ourselves, I can assure you. As drinking was not one of my faults, I managed to keep my chin above water, and to live very gaily for a couple of months. I was better worth then than I am now, though nobody, perhaps, will believe it. After all, I have only left one stage to come on another; for what is saying mass, I should like to know, but acting a solemn charade? And in the sermons, which are a sort of programme, is it not asserted that the whole affair will finally be wound up by a magnificent tableau of a 'Last Judgment', a grand display of 'Lakes of Fire', 'Devils', 'Ministers of deathless Wrath', who will sweep away some into everlasting destruction; whilst a fair city of gold and precious stones, full of light, music, and rejoicing, will appear for the reception of the rest? I would not wish for a more theatrical dénouement. To all this, is to be added the terrible excitement for these blessed ones of seeing 'the smoke of the burning rising up for ever and ever'. I hardly know which fate would make one shudder the most, if one believed it. But to go on with my story.

"It was not two months since I had run away. My poor mother, who had in the first instance been pacified by my cousin, with assurances that I should return of my own accord, became too anxious to remain passive any longer. At her entreaty my cousin employed a man, who had formerly been in the police, to ferret me out. They guessed I was somewhere in London. It was not long before I was traced, and intelligence despatched to my relatives.

"My mother, though in a feeble state of health, set off instantly to London; she repaired straight to the obscure place where I lodged. I was not within, and it was early dawn when I returned, for there was a farewell supper given to one of the company, who was leaving us. I was flushed with wine and excess of all sorts, but the sight of my mother sobered me at once. She had fallen asleep in her chair, and there was a painful look of infirmity in her countenance, as if mind and body were both tending together to dissolution. I can never forget the impression her face made on me. The misery my thoughtlessness had caused seemed heaped upon my own heart at that moment. I was terrified to think what I had done.

"My mother awoke as I stood gazing upon her. She rose before I could utter a word, and throwing her arms round me, she said, 'My son, come back with me; I am come to fetch you from this horrible place.' Her embrace relaxed, and her form became heavier - she had fainted. I placed her on the bed, but it was long before she recovered her consciousness. I sent for a physician, who administered cordials, but told me frankly, that the system was too much exhausted to rally, and that he could do nothing for her. She lay all the day in a sort of stupor, with my hand locked in hers.

"I cannot tell you all the horrible remorse I felt, for I really loved my mother; but I had never realised all the pain I occasioned her till now.

"About the middle of the night she seemed to rally; her voice was clear and strong. 'John Paul,' she said, 'my own John Paul, promise me to quit this way of life. You know that in your cradle you were dedicated to the Church. All my life long it has been my joy to picture you ministering at the altar, and myself receiving from your hand the last sacrament at the hour of my death. Oh, my son! I have suffered much for you; what the grief of my heart has been since you left us all, God, who sent the affliction, alone knows. You have broken my heart, will you do nothing for me in this my last agony? Oh, my son, if you would have your gifts - a blessing, and not a curse, ratify my vow, dedicate yourself to the service of the altar.' I was silent. 'If,' she continued, more passionately, 'you would have my last blessing - if you would not have my blood upon your head - grant my request. Speak to me - you have been the anxiety of my life, will you not let me die in peace?'

"I began to answer her, to soothe her; I entreated her not to exact such a promise; that I could not be a priest; I told her that it would be sacrilege in me to become one. 'All devices of the evil one to slay your soul,' exclaimed she, interrupting me. 'I, your mother, entreat you.' And before I could understand her intention, she had sprung out of bed and thrown herself on her knees at my feet. 'No, no,' cried she, passionately resisting my attempts to raise her, 'you may trample on me, but I will not quit this place till you say you will fulfil my desire.' She sank exhausted on the floor as she spoke these words, but still kept her eyes fixed on mine. Everhard, there are men of a strong, firm nature, who can keep their determination, who can be shaken from their purpose by nothing. I have not one of those iron wills. At that moment I could not think of myself, it seemed of no consequence whether I had to suffer or not. I raised her from the ground, where she lay fainting, and solemnly promised to do all she desired. Her countenance gleamed with joy, she blessed me in a broken voice. I laid her again on the bed, and placed a cordial to her lips; but a sudden shiver passed through her, a slight spasm contracted her features for a moment, the breathing came at distant intervals, the whole expression of her face changed into something strange and different to herself, but she was quite sensible. She tried to speak, but the organs had lost their power; her eyes became fixed on one corner of the room; she lay motionless for some time, then she turned her head on one side, and drew a deep breath. It was her last - I had never seen death before. I kept my word to her," continued he, after a pause. "As soon as possible after her interment, I arranged my affairs and came here.

"I have property enough to support me handsomely, so at least I shall not do the work of the Church for lucre's sake, and that is some comfort.

"I am glad I have told you this, I feel as if I did not despise myself, and loathe my condition so much at least as when I began. But, Everhard," said he, abruptly, "seeing a person die is not the best way to convince one of immortality. What better is my mother NOW, for the horrible lot I have undertaken? and that thought is the hardest of all."

John Paul was silent, and Everhard was so too, he knew not what to say; at length he rose, and grasping Everhard's hand, said, "I must leave you now, good night; I will call for you to-morrow on my way to the chapel."

After the departure of John Paul, Everhard remained for some time in a profound reverie. The narrative he had just heard made a deep impression upon him. He saw, as in a glass, what might become his own case, that of a man divided against himself, without the self-control to conform to his lot, or the energy to emancipate himself from it, and all his strength consumed in idle chafing under the yoke.

It is only at times, and for a few brief moments, that the secret of our own hearts is laid bare to us; those are not the periods when we feel disposed to enter the revelation in "Diaries"; we see for an instant, then the veil which shrouds us from ourselves is again drawn, and we know not what we are; but the insight of that moment works within us, like an instinct, leavening our character and actions for years to come.

All have known such seasons, and can testify how widely they differ from the common run of "self-examinations", and the spasmodic ejaculations called "good resolutions". All can call to mind some period of life when there was a halt, a right course and a wrong lying equally open; as the decision is made then, the character takes its caste; it gives a start and bursts like a flower from the confining calyx; a crisis not at the time looking different from other incidents occurring every day. Such a crisis had this night been to Everhard.

The next morning he was dressed when John Paul entered his room, the emotion of the previous night had passed away, and he was the rattling, witty, amusing companion that Everhard remembered in old days.

After chapel the prefect invited Everhard to breakfast with him; when they were seated he said, with a forced smile, "You had a visitor last night - John Paul Marston?"

"Yes," replied Everhard, "we were school-fellows."

"Ah, he is a wild one," rejoined the prefect, "and the less intimate you are with him the better; he is always in scrapes of one sort or other; one cannot help liking him, but do not let him beguile you. Come, if you have finished your breakfast, I will show you the building, and tell you the regulations as we go along."

He led Everhard along several corridors in the dark, monastic building. The bright morning sun, shining through the deep embrasures, could not make the narrow windows look cheerful, but it did all that was possible towards making them so. A few lamps were fixed at intervals in the walls, and over the low doors that opened into the corridors, which were all closed. There was perfect stillness, except when the silence was broken by the tread of some of the inmates, or the shutting of a distant door. There was in the middle of the corridor a large open space, in the form of a cross, where the youths of that division met for recreation.

"You will find all things comfortable and regular here," said the prefect, "and you may be very happy if you choose; one piece of advice only will I give you, be very careful with whom you associate, and above all, let nothing tempt you to evade the rules. Obedience is our corner-stone. Now," said he, after they had seen all the place, "those are the apartments of the superior, who will appoint your line of studies. I will leave you here."

Everhard felt some trepidation at the ordeal he was about to encounter; but the superior was not one who understood nervousness, and he proceeded to examine him without any compunction, and as example has a magnetic influence, his composure tranquillised Everhard, who went through his examination with great credit. The superior said a few words of course, pointed to the portraits that hung on the walls, begged he would emulate those great men, be obedient to the regulations, and dismissed him. How very little other people can teach any one, and how much good advice is barren seed!

John Paul stood Everhard's friend, and introduced him to the rest and exerted himself with strenuous good will to avert the awkwardness and annoyance a stranger among a multitude always feels. John Paul had obtained the same sort of ascendency here that he had over the boys at school, and he was proud to let it be seen by Everhard.

The general aspect of college life offers nothing to record; all went on in the regular routine, till one might have thought it exempt from the common vicissitudes of humanity.

One day, however, when Everhard had been an inmate of the college about eight months, an event occurred, which caused an unprecedented commotion.

All were seated at dinner that day, when a letter was brought to the superior, which had just come by express; he opened it eagerly, and had no sooner read it than his agitation became obvious; turning to two elderly professors who sat near, he exclaimed, "Who would have thought it! at his age, and with his apparent zeal for the church! Francis Matthew Gifford has not only given up all thoughts of entering the priesthood, but has just gone and married again, a girl hardly older than his daughter, a heretic too, which makes the matter more flagrant."

The worthy superior's eyes flashed, and his face crimsoned to the top of his forehead, he could scarcely articulate for the very unorthodox passion into which such unexpected tidings had thrown him.

Such a breach of decorous discipline had never been known before in the refectory; the reading of Cardinal Bellarmine came to a sudden pause; the students looked at each other and whispered; the superior exchanged some hurried words with the professors, and, rising abruptly from their places, they all withdrew from the hall in manifest disorder. The students retired to recreation devoured by curiosity, but nothing transpired to enlighten it; all was calm and dignified as usual when they next assembled at their studies.

Everhard was far from dreaming that his future fate was involved in the news he had just heard, and yet, for him, it was the most important affair that had ever been transacted in the world. Gifford and his heretic wife will have a great deal to do with our history; we must give the reader some account of them.

CHAPTER VII

Zoe Gifford, the "heretic wife", whose marriage caused such a commotion in the college, spoiling the dinner of so many grave and respectable signors, was the daughter of Frederick Cleveland, an English officer, and a beautiful Greek girl, whom he had rescued from the hands of some pirates as they were bearing her off to their boats. Though captivated by her extreme beauty and gentleness, he honourably offered her means to reach her home in one of the small islands of the Archipelago; but her father and only brother had been murdered by the pirates, she had no near relations left, and she had no desire to quit her handsome and gallant deliverer. Her wild attachment and gratitude to him, were only equalled by his passionate love to her. She followed his wanderings for three years, and was to him all that the most faithful and devoted wife would have been; he owed his life more than once to her skilful and careful attendance. They had lived together little more than a year when Zoe, our heroine, was born, who formed a new tie between her parents.

Two years after this happy event Captain Cleveland was severely wounded, and his recovery was made very dubious by low intermitting fever and fits of ague. He was ordered home to England as his only chance of life; he, however, preferred going to France. On landing at Marseilles, his first step was to marry his beautiful Greek, and to take the necessary measures to have Zoe legitimated. The mother, who had never thought of herself, was thankful that her child would be spared from encountering the civilised proscription that attends such as herself.

The change of climate caused a rapid improvement in Captain Cleveland's health, and he was soon able to introduce his wife to the society and amusements of Paris. He purposed, after a little time, to take her over to England, and introduce her to his relations there. They had only been a year in France, a short time in Paris, when, returning from the theatre one cold, foggy night, the fair Greek caught a violent cold, to which she paid no attention; inflammation came on, which resisted all remedies, and her life terminated in a few days.

The first agonies of Captain Cleveland were terrible to behold - the very servants hid themselves from his presence; his grief was a sort of fury, he raged like a whirlwind through the house. For some days he was quite insane, and they were obliged to remove the body of his wife secretly for interment.

When he became calmer, the thought of his child began to soothe him, but he was summoned almost immediately to resume the active duties of his profession; and then came the perplexing thought, what was to be done with little Zoe?

Captain Cleveland had a brother in England, a clergyman of the Established Church; a good, benevolent man, with more common sense than belonged to his gallant and reckless brother; they had not met for many years; but Captain Cleveland could think of no better plan than to intrust his child to the care of his brother Oliver, at least until he could give her a proper home with himself. He wrote to his brother, who made no sort of difficulty; and Captain Cleveland determined to go with her and place her in his brother's hands; but a peremptory summons to join his regiment frustrated his intentions, and he was obliged to trust her to the care of the French bonne who had lived in the family since the commencement of Captain Cleveland's connexion with Zoe's mother. A handsome annuity was settled on Nannette, upon condition of her remaining with Zoe. Mam'selle Nannette, as she was called, was a good-natured, simple soul, devoted to the child, willing to follow her to the world's end, and to England included, which was very heroic, as she had a great idea that the English were a species of ogres, who lived on raw beef-steak, and were constantly drunk, whilst the weather was one everlasting fog. Captain Cleveland could only accompany them to the vessel, where he left them, with innumerable blessings. The same day, after making his will, and leaving Zoe all he possessed, he departed for Bombay, where his regiment was then stationed.

It was an evening in May, when the Rev. Oliver Cleveland, closing a volume of Bishop Hall's "Contemplations", said to his sister-in-law, who was knitting at a little spider-legged table by the fire, "that he thought their guests must soon arrive".

"Well, every thing is ready," replied the lady, who was a tall, thin personage, of very erect and stately carriage; her face had a sort of demure sedateness, a pair of round, hazel eyes that looked as if they never shut, thin, compressed lips, and when she spoke it was in a precise, even tone of voice; there was an air of stately affability about her, as if she was on her guard against being proud, though at the same time she thought it her duty to keep every one at their proper distance. Her lawn handkerchief and clear muslin apron trimmed with point lace, were of a whiteness seldom, alas! equalled by the washerwomen of our own day.

The tea equipage was arranged on a bright, walnut-wood table, and a prim, demure little girl, of ten or twelve, was presiding over it; that was her daughter, who, under her bringing up, was fast becoming a pattern of thrift, decorum, and domestic management. They were assembled in what was called the "Tea Room", the joy and pride of Mrs Martha's heart, whilst it was the admiration of all the parish. The walls were panelled and painted white, according to the fashion of that day, and around hung various family portraits, who, one and all, seemed to have been peaceable persons, of substance and respectability - altogether, ancestors who were a credit to their descendants. An air of comfort pervaded every thing - a point not always achieved by emphatically tidy people, and which proved Mrs Martha to be a genius in her own way.

The rector was a grave, important-looking man, rather handsome, and fully impressed with the idea of the dignity of his office. He was highly orthodox, always scrupulously dressed in clerical costume, rather addicted to making Latin puns, not insensible to the charms of good living, slightly pompous in his manner, but thoroughly kind-hearted, and looked up to by every man, woman, and child in his parish. Being possessed of a handsome private property, he had a good deal of weight among the county gentry.

The parsonage, which had been built at the time of the Reformation, was a long, white building, with a kind of farm-yard behind, containing barns and sheds; before it was a garden, laid out in long grass-plots, and straight, well rolled gravel walks. An avenue of tall trees led along one side of the garden, which had been tenanted by a colony of rooks from time immemorial. The church, which was divided by a meadow from the parsonage, was an ugly, whitewashed building, not unlike a large barn, with a little one joined to it at one end; it bore marks of having once been a Catholic place of worship, though the stone carved work was grievously defaced, and the stained glass remained in the windows only in fragments. Such was the family and home to which Zoe had been consigned.

"I hope", said Mrs Martha, breaking silence again, "that the mother of little miss died penitent, poor thing."

"For what?" said the rector absently, as he turned away from the window where he had been standing since he last spoke.

"Why, for her shocking way of life to be sure; dear, dear, only to think of any woman being so shameless as to follow an officer up and down without being his wife; do you think she was really made an honest woman before she died?"

"I really don't know," replied the rector, "my brother says that Zoe will have all the rights of a legitimate child, and he seems just heart-broken for the loss of the mother; she was a Greek Catholic, and could get absolution I suppose."

"Well, I hope the child will not take after her," said the lady, "we must train her carefully, she must learn her catechism, and become a Protestant the first thing. I wonder what that Ma'mselle Nannette will be like, those foreign women are never like other people. We must teach little missy to leave off her outlandish ways and to behave like an English young lady."

"We must be kind to her, Martha, the poor child has no one but us to look to; above all, never speak of her mother but as a child ought to hear her mentioned; I need not caution you not to let a word drop before your own daughter; let the mother's sins be buried with her; God knows we have all sinned one way or other."

At this moment Sarah Anne, Aunt Martha's daughter, ran into the room from the garden gate (at which she had been standing to solace her impatience), with the tidings that a chaise was in sight, and coming down the lane, and that she was quite sure it was the strangers.

"Very well, Sarah Anne," replied Mrs Martha, "but how often am I to tell you that young ladies ought not to rush into a room in that manner, nor speak when they are out of breath; now remain here quietly until we return, that you may recollect another time."

Poor Miss Sarah Anne looked very downcast at this reprimand, but there was no appeal.

The rector put on his shovel hat, and Mrs Martha drew her stiff silk gown through the pocket-hole, and taking her ebony crutch-headed walking-stick in her hand, she followed her brother into the porch to receive the new comers.

When Zoe was lifted out of the chaise, she looked at her uncle and aunt with her large wild eyes, half shy, half frightened. The rector took her in his arms and kissed her, whilst Mrs Martha explained to her that she was her aunt, and that gentleman her uncle, and that they were very glad to see her, and then Mrs Martha kissed her too. Zoe did not understand one word of all this, as she could only speak French and a few words of Greek; a natural thing enough, but one that had never occurred either to the rector or his sister until that moment.

Mam'selle Nannette now stepped forward, she piqued herself on speaking English, but to Mrs Martha it sounded very like a personal insult to mangle a Christian language, as if it were no better than foreign gibberish, so her reception of Nannette was very stately indeed.

Zoe was soon seated at the tea-table on her uncle's knee, and plentifully supplied with cake and sweetmeats of all sorts; but the poor child was sadly tired, she could hardly hold up her head, and fairly fell asleep before tea was over; so Nannette carried her off to the comfortable bed-room hung with white dimity that had been prepared for her.

The rector was full of inquiries about his brother, and Nannette delivered the letters and messages with which she was charged.

Mrs Martha would fain have asked some questions concerning Zoe's mother, but she refrained; partly because Sarah Anne was not gone to bed, and partly because she conscientiously thought such a person was not fit to be named, whilst Mam'selle Nannette both tantalised and scandalised her, by continually mentioning her late mistress as a "real angel", but without going into any particulars. At length she begged permission to retire, as she felt fatigued, and after sipping some of Mrs Martha's spiced elder wine, she followed her charge.

"Well, sister," said the rector, when they were alone, "what do you think of your new niece?"

"Why, brother, she seems a nice little thing enough, but not the least bit like other children, she has such a gipsy look about her eyes, and then she is dressed in such a strange fashion."

"All that, my dear, is left entirely to your own management."

"But", ejaculated Mrs Martha despairingly, "what am I to do with that Mam'selle Nannette? The people in the village will follow her for a show!"

"Well, well, my dear, I must see that they don't; I will preach them a sermon on Christian behaviour and charity."

Next morning after breakfast, Nannette was installed into a large rambling apartment over the brewhouse, which Aunt Martha's contrivance had fitted up to supply the place of a nursery for Zoe, and a comfortable sitting-room for Nannette, where she might reign undisturbed by any of the establishment. There was a corner cupboard with glass doors, full of radiant-coloured china, and old glass curiosities, which Mrs Martha had foraged up from the sanctuary of her store-room; there was a bureau of some kind of dark wood clamped with brass, to hold Nannette's personal property; a large looking-glass slanted from the wall over the chimney- piece, surmounted with peacocks' feathers; a table with many legs stood in the middle of the room; a few tall, straight-backed chairs, and a little table and chair for Zoe, completed the furniture. We must not forget to say that Mrs Martha had discovered, in some mysterious recess of her store-room, a collection of wonderfully preserved old toys, which were handed over to Zoe with a strict charge not to break them.

Mrs Martha, with true English instinct, did all in her power to make Nannette comfortable in her house, but she never took cordially to her, which was not much to be wondered at. Yet she never failed to send "the poor outlandish body" a bit of any thing nice that happened to be made in the Rectory kitchen. Nannette, in spite of Mrs Martha's forebodings, was neither hooted nor followed for a show by the village people, but, on the contrary, became a great favourite, and was delighted with her little "ménage à l'Anglaise"; she tried to show her gratitude for madame's goodness, by clear-starching her lawn and ruffles in a style which was the envy of all the washerwomen of the parish.

Zoe, like all children brought up alone, had the gift of amusing herself, and made herself very happy among her playthings in her new home. But she was soon told that her life was not to be all play, and as soon as she had picked up enough English to understand what was said to her, she was taught to sew, and learn her catechism, as Mrs Martha had promised, "without missing a word"; a weary task both to teacher and learner, and not achieved without many tears. She was also dressed in a fashion more according to Mrs Martha's ideas of what an English young lady ought to be; her long hair was cut short all round, "to keep it out of her eyes", and she was instructed in the inscrutable mystery of sitting still, and taking care of her clothes.

Although Zoe showed small affection for her catechism, yet she "minded her book", and learned to read with a facility that astounded her aunt; any time she would leave her doll, to read to herself in the little gilt books which were amongst the treasures Mrs Martha had brought to light for her; every penny and halfpenny she could procure went to buy books, which she read over and over, till she had them by heart. "Little Red Riding Hood", "Hop o' my Thumb and his brothers", were her great favourites; she did not take to "Goody Two Shoes"; she had no sympathy with her. On Sundays, if she had been good at church, she was allowed to sit on Uncle Oliver's knee, who would tell her stories about "Joseph and his Brethren", and "Daniel in the Lions' Den", and many others. In fact, Uncle Oliver was her favourite; when she grew older, he helped her to weed her garden, and made a sod terrace round a heap of stones which she had piled up for the "Tower of Babel"; above all, he stood between her and many scoldings for "romping like a ploughboy", and other enormities of a similar kind.

We are sorry to record that the older Zoe grew, the more her aunt was driven to despair; Zoe could neither be made to look or behave "like other people's children"; she was now eight years old, much taller, and more developed than English children of that age, and her aunt was obliged to declare that, with her best efforts, she could "teach her nothing that she would learn".

One day Zoe had been shut in a room with strict orders not to stir off her stool until she had darned a large rent in her best frock; instead of doing this, she had employed herself in building a palace with the chairs and tables which she had pulled from their appointed places; Mrs Martha entered. Zoe, caught in the act, did not dare to move. "You little idle thing," said her aunt, "do you think you were sent into the world for nothing else but to play and read story books? God won't love little girls who don't take care of their clothes, and do as they are bid. Don't stand there staring at me with those great impudent black eyes: of course you did not make them, but you must be very good, and then perhaps people will forget them. Now put all those chairs in their proper places, and bring the knitting you did before breakfast for me to see." Zoe, looking frightened and ashamed, went slowly to the bag where the knitting was kept, and presented it to her aunt.

"Why mercy on me, child, what have you been doing?" ejaculated Mrs Martha, "if you have not gone and knitted the stocking that I fixed so nicely for you, all upon one needle. Oh for shame! for shame! You shall have nothing but bread and water for dinner today, and shall be sent to bed at tea time; there, take it away, I am sure I don't know what is to become of you," continued she, administering a sound box on the ears as Zoe came near her. The remainder of the day was spent in tears and disgrace. Uncle Oliver, although rather scandalised at her untowardness in female pursuits, was grieved to see her merry heart and cheerful face clouded by these perpetual worries; he had, besides, discernment enough to see that Mrs Martha was not exactly a fit preceptress for a girl of Zoe's disposition, and he determined to take her in hand himself.

"She does not seem to be cut out for a housewife," said he to his sister that evening as they sat at tea, "I will see what I can make of her as a scholar; I am much mistaken if she does not turn out something wonderful in that way; I have a theory of my own about education, and I will try it upon her; she shall be taught just as if she were a boy, and I will not have her plagued with sewing and darning any more."

Mrs Martha knew there was no appeal from her brother; but from that day she looked on the perdition of Zoe as a thing finally determined upon by Providence (she was a little Calvinistic in her notions), and walked away ejaculating, "Well, to see how the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children, it is just wonderful! Though I had her so young, and have done my best to train her, I cannot make her like an honest woman's daughter. Ah, Sarah Anne!" said she, as her daughter entered the room, "you have a great deal to be thankful for in being born in England, but you must try not to despise your poor cousin, though she is so ignorant and outlandish."

CHAPTER VIII

From that day Zoe was emancipated from her aunt's tuition. Her uncle determined, as he said, to educate her like a boy, and this, as it happened, was just the wisest course that could be taken. Her tropical organisation, and the strong passions that were lying latent within her, made it very requisite that her mind should be strengthened, and her intellect receive a steady discipline. But the plan had its disadvantages. The grave disapprobation of her aunt was not expressed in words, but she contrived that Zoe should be made to feel that she considered her conduct as not at all right, and nothing has such a debasing influence, as living in an atmosphere of vague censure.

Sarah Anne, several years older than Zoe, a thoroughly commonplace girl, who, without being tangibly vulgar, was coarse and common in all her feelings, had a great idea of her own dignity as "almost grown up"; and kept her cousin Zoe at a distance, as a mere child; but she disliked her to a degree very disproportioned to the contempt she expressed, she was never weary of sneering at Zoe's "exceedingly peculiar manners", and constantly prophesied that with poring so much over books, she would become an idiot.

There were several young people in the neighbourhood who visited at the Rectory, they looked on Sarah Anne as a sort of leader, and poor Zoe was completely sent to Coventry by these miniature women.

Zoe was naturally a very warm-hearted, affectionate child, and she would have loved both her aunt and cousin if they would have let her; but meekness and gentleness were certainly not her distinguishing virtues, so she repaid their repulsion with scorn, and as she was very expert in the art of aggravation, the hostilities between them were sharp and bitter. She insulted Sarah Anne's friends, and prided herself upon being as different as possible to all whom her aunt declared were "models of what young ladies should be". An Ismaelitish feeling was thus acquired towards every body round her, except good Uncle Oliver, whom she dearly loved, and whose heart she won by the credit she did to his "theory of education".

Zoe had a passion for knowledge, and her own energy was better than any theory ever invented. She had a talent for music, and her uncle was coaxed into sending to London for a harpsichord, and he gave her what instructions were needed at first, the rest she found for herself. Most of her time was spent in Uncle Oliver's study, where she forgot all the heartburnings and contumelies she met with in the other parts of the house. Zoe had, however, one scene of triumph where she had no rivals, and that was at the dancing school; there her beauty and grace gave her indisputable preeminence; she was not popular there, but she despised every one too much to care for popularity. "Take the good the gods provide thee", is the motto we all instinctively adopt, and Zoe was not slow to take on herself all the airs of a sultana in disguise.

Things went on this style till Zoe was fifteen. Letters, at rare intervals, came from her father, which constantly assured her of his affection; but immersed in the active duties of his profession, he never succeeded in coming over to England to see her. She wrote to him at stated periods, but, unless there is a community of daily interests, even the intercourse between a parent and a child becomes an abstraction. Zoe however secretly expected he would raise her from her obscurity, and produce her to the world as a princess.

Things went on without any incident worthy of record until Zoe was fifteen, when the grand state secret, the secret of Zoe's birth was, in an ill-advised moment, allowed to escape from Mrs Martha to her daughter!

Zoe, we are sorry to say it, had one day been guilty of some choice piece of impertinence, which had provoked the good lady beyond all bounds; and, looking after Zoe, who was sailing majestically out of the room, she remarked to Sarah Anne, with a sort of agitated laugh, "That, after all, Miss Zoe need not give herself so many airs, the daughter of a Greek woman who followed her father up and down without being legally married to him; and it is all owing to my brother's goodness that she has a roof over her head at all; but, poor girl, she is very ignorant, and we ought to pity her."

The exclamations of wonder, the torrents of questions that broke from Sarah Anne, first recalled her mother to a sense of the indiscretion she had committed. She was not an ill-disposed or malicious woman, and she felt very sorry for what she had done. She strictly charged Sarah Anne not to breathe a syllable of the matter, telling her, by way of security, that a great part of the scandal would fall upon her, as belonging to the same family; and, moreover, that her uncle would be seriously displeased if he knew of it. Sarah Anne, proud of her secret, promised every thing. At first she treated Zoe with the most perplexing condescension. Zoe was surprised, but soon settled it, that cousin Sarah Anne was only a degree more disagreeable than usual.

A week after the above occurrence, the two girls were sitting in the tea-room making up some finery for the ball which was given annually at the dancing school. Zoe was sewing on her dress some beautiful lace, which had been her mother's, and they were talking, girl-like, of their partners, which was rather a sore subject with the sedate Sarah Anne, so she said spitefully,

"You are making yourself very fine. I suppose you intend to captivate the squire's son."

"To be sure," replied Zoe, "and why not? True, that squire's son is an awkward booby, and does nothing but blush, but he is the best partner, and so, faute de mieux!" -

Now this "squire's son" was the Apollo of the neighbourhood, and the grand parti roulant. Sarah Anne, in spite of her strict propriety, had long felt a secret tendresse for him, but she had sense to see that he had no eyes except for Zoe; that was enough to pique any woman; but to hear her rival turn him into ridicule at the very moment she declared her intention of engrossing his homage, was more than female philosophy could stand; she tossed her head, and said,

"Ah, it is well for people who don't know themselves, that other people know nothing about them either, or else" - and she looked maliciously mysterious.

"Or else what, good cousin? Your sayings are as dark as those of the sphinx."

Sarah Anne looked provokingly placid, and kept silence.

"Speak out, good oracle," cried Zoe, in a mock theatrical tone.

"It is better for you not to ask," said Sarah Anne, "because I must tell the truth, and I don't want to hurt your feelings, though you care so little for the feelings of others."

"Sarah Anne," said Zoe, "do tell me what you mean, and I won't plague you again, and I will tell you something the squire's son said of you."

"It is perfectly indifferent to me what he either says or thinks," rejoined Sarah Anne, virtuously; "it is not necessary for the daughter of a respectable woman to attend to what young men say."

"As far as family goes, we are pretty equal," said Zoe; "the only point of equality between us."

"Indeed!" cried Sarah Anne, tossing her head, "my mother was my father's wife, your mother was only some Greek slave or wandering gipsy, who followed the camp with your father; so it is very natural young men may think they can laugh and talk with you as much as they please; when it comes to choosing a wife, the case will be rather different I fancy, with all your learning and stage playing accomplishments."

Pride, which was the foundation stone of Zoe's character, kept her silent for a few moments on hearing this astounding disclosure. At length, speaking with a forced calmness, she said, "Why was I not told this before, if it be true?"

"Because", said Sarah Anne, "my uncle wished to keep it a secret for the credit of the family."

"Then," rejoined Zoe, as she rose to quit the room, "if my uncle forbade you to repeat it, how dare you disobey his orders?"

She gained her own room, the door was bolted and her face buried in the bed, at the foot of which she knelt, before she gave way to her choking feelings. "Why was I ever born? what have I done to endure such disgrace?" was all she could sob out. For two hours she gave way to her uncontrollable emotion - then she rose pale and exhausted; opening the casement, the summer breeze came into her room; she wondered whether it were all true that she had heard; all that Sarah Anne had said was like a strange dream; there stood her looking-glass, giving the same reflection as when last, in her girlish vanity, she had stood before it, speculating on all sorts of grandeur as the inheritance of so much beauty. Then came considerations as to her future conduct - she was the same - she at least remained to herself; and the proud thought flashed on her mind to make for herself, in spite of all obstacles, a destiny equal to all her vague dreams. The hope of being reclaimed by her father, and proudly introduced by him to a brilliant assembly in some family castle or palace, where she was to be received with acclamations, vanished away; Zoe had dreamed her last childish dream, - she felt henceforth that her fortune must depend upon herself - and she felt a consciousness of power that assured her of success. A smile of determination was on her lips as she unbolted the door, and descended to join the family at dinner.

Cousin Mary Anne never once spoke, Uncle Oliver was full of talk about the hayfield, and aunt was settling the haymakers' supper. Nobody noticed Zoe. As soon as dinner was over, she went straight to Nannette; she found the old woman making up a set of ruffles for her darling to wear at the ball.

After a few words had passed, Zoe said, "Nannette, tell me about my mother, how old was I when she died?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle Zoe, I came to your mother soon after your father had rescued her from the pirates; that exploit made a great noise at the time; she was a lovely creature, and nobody could help loving her, she was so good."

"Why have you so seldom talked to me about her, Nannette?"

"Your papa did not wish it till you were older, mademoiselle, but I have her picture here, though you were not to see it till you were seventeen."

"Oh, Nannette, give it me now."

Nannette went to an old-fashioned black trunk which Zoe from a child had longed to see opened, it had such an air of mystery, it contained all Nannette's love letters, old-fashioned trinkets, China boxes set in copper rims, her will, and all that she held most precious in the world. She turned all her treasures reverently over, and took from the bottom of the trunk a green shagreen case which she placed in Zoe's hands.

"This my mother!" exclaimed Zoe as she opened the case, almost startled by the beauty it disclosed. "This really was my mother?" A tumult of feelings almost choked her, she kissed the picture again and again, whilst tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Oh, if she had lived! how much better I should have been than I am now; and I never remember her," continued she after a pause, "and I never even thought about her until this morning, but I shall love her memory now, and all the sneers in the world shall not make me feel ashamed of her." And she hung the miniature, which was set as a locket, round her neck.

"Ah, she loved you very much Mam'selle Zoe," said Nannette, "and her great grief in dying was to leave you."

"Was she really a Greek slave?" asked Zoe.

"Oh no, mam'selle, not a slave, the pirates had taken her prisoner and murdered her father, who was a Greek merchant, and very rich in his own country I have heard."

"No matter," said Zoe, "I should love her whatever she had been." So saying, she took leave of Nannette and rejoined her aunt and cousin. She was happier than she had been for a long time, her feelings were awakened for an object apart from herself, a spring of love gushed up in her heart which took away all bitterness.

"What is that? where did you get that beautiful ornament?" exclaimed both ladies at once when she appeared.

"It is my mother's picture," said Zoe, proudly.

It was no sudden flash of energy that possessed Zoe; she now knew her actual position, and felt that she had only herself to depend upon; she had received her first lesson in the importance of the commonplace people and things that make up the staple of the world - the importance of weight and impracticable stupidity. She saw she had no natural standing or position to fall back upon, and that so soon as her secret should be known, if those she had so much despised were to lift up their voice against her, she could not make her struggle against them; she saw that her very beauty and talents would be against her obtaining a footing in the "respectable society" of the world; and that she must have a position before she could make her gifts effective. Pride was the leading feature in her character, and love of influence her besetting vanity. From that day forward, Zoe became very worldly-wise, and set herself to become in manner and appearance less offensively unlike other people. She succeeded very well, as she had now a motive, but she could not sometimes help wishing she had been born stupid in her own right. In a few months the general cry was: "What can have come to Miss Zoe, she is so much improved!" Her aunt too was lavish in her commendations, though all would have been puzzled to state in what the improvement exactly consisted. Half the impressions made on people are by things so impalpable, that they vanish when they are examined closely, and re-appear the instant they have been explained away.

Zoe retained no spiteful feeling against her cousin; she was on too large a scale both for good and evil to have room for spite.

CHAPTER IX

Two years after Zoe became possessed of the secret of her birth, Cicely Dawson, the buxom housekeeper of Birly Grange got married, and went to legislate for a farm-house of her own; this event had important consequences for our heroine, or we should not have taken the trouble to record it. We must explain that Birly Grange, a rambling country house of rough grey stone, was the residence of the "squire", as he was called, the respectable parent of the youth who has already been mentioned; the "young squire" had been in love with Zoe ever since she was twelve years old, though he had always wanted confidence to tell her so; but now that she was grown up to be the most beautiful girl in the country, he could hold his tongue no longer. He stood almost as much in awe of Parson Oliver as he did of Zoe, so that though he was six feet high, and stout in proportion, he trembled at the bare notion of pleading his own cause, and he had strong misgivings that his father would not consider Zoe exactly the person qualified to succeed Cicely Dawson: but three days after the departure of that exemplary female, the household of Birly Grange had fallen into a state of confusion and anarchy not to be described. The squire had been kept waiting three quarters of an hour for his dinner; the men servants were in the house when they ought to have been out of it; the maids were flirting and romping when they ought to have been minding the dairy; the old squire was at his wits' end, and as he emptied the bowl of his pipe on the table, with an energy that broke it, he told his son, that he wished he would make haste and begin courting, for Birly Grange was going to ruin for want of a mistress to keep the hussies in order. This was an opening not to be neglected, and Master Will made a very sensible speech about good wives, and domestic duties, what would be required from the wife who was to be mistress of Birly Grange in particular, winding up with a declaration of his passion for Zoe Cleveland, and an earnest entreaty that his father would speak for him to Parson Oliver to use his influence with Zoe. The old squire listened with a patience that surprised his son. "You seem to have very sensible notions about marriage, Will, I must say, but I am not quite sure that Miss Zoe is just the wife best qualified for you; you could not cast your eye upon her cousin, Miss Sarah Anne, instead, could you? She is not just so handsome, or so pleasant in her ways, but she seems more likely to make the sort of wife you want, and wives should be chosen with an eye to the future, my lad; you know she will last you your life, unless, indeed, she should be taken away like your poor mother, but that we don't calculate upon when we marry."

"Miss Zoe has been brought up by her aunt yonder all the same as her cousin, only she has made different out of it," replied the son.

"May be so, may be so," said the old squire, "and I like the girl well enough, especially of late, she is not so fantastic as she was, but I don't like foreigners, Will, you can never feel sure of them, and though she is the parson's niece, still she is only half an English woman, and not the least bit like your poor mother, Will, and she was the best wife in the country; you could not just ask her cousin instead, could you?"

Master Will was resolute in declaring that if he might not have Zoe, he would marry nobody, and that if his father would not go and speak for him to the parson, he would try his fortune himself. The squire, who was a good-natured man and hated worry, put on his best drab suit with silver buttons and large silver buckles to his shoes, and mounting his black horse, rode off to the Rectory that very afternoon to do his son's bidding. He was shown into the study on his arrival, and unfolded his errand as well as he could.

Uncle Oliver found himself in a perplexed and painful situation. The family secret about Zoe's birth, could not be honourably kept from him. There was no help for it, so after a pause he said, "There is one circumstance, sir, connected with my niece, of which you are unaware, but with which you ought to be made acquainted before your son makes his proposals. I don't know exactly whether, - in fact Zoe is, - in short, my brother was not married to Zoe's mother until long after her birth; but he has taken every needful step to give Zoe all the rights of a legitimate child; - as you know, her mother died when she was a mere infant, and she has been brought up here under her aunt's eye, along with her own daughter."

He might have gone on much longer, for the old squire was fairly struck dumb at the disclosure of such a shameful piece of profligacy occurring as it were under his own eyes, and if the truth must be told, he was not a little scandalised at Parson Oliver for countenancing his brother's conduct, by allowing Zoe to associate with an "honest woman's" child.

"A vile jade!" cried he, as soon as his wrath found words; "were there no justices in those parts to take the baggage up, and hinder such a scandal coming to a credible family? Those impudent minxes have no natural feelings or they would never bring poor children into the world to be looked down upon for what is no fault of theirs! A saucy slut! I warrant, when all the mischief was done, she trapped your brother into a marriage to patch up her character a bit, but I'd have tented her! Oh, the jade! the naughty hussy! but I must say, parson, I don't think you have altogether done your duty in harbouring the daughter of an outlandish foreign tramp in a decent English parish, to say nothing of the shame of such a companion for your own lawful niece. It is going clean against Providence too, for what does the Bible say? but that children are to suffer for the sins of their fathers, to make the fathers more careful of what they do. I declare, how we do get deceived with outside show; I was getting quite fond of the girl myself! Poor Will little knows what an escape he has had!"

In vain did Uncle Oliver try to moderate his vehemence, the old gentleman would not listen to a word he said. To Aunt Martha's great surprise, he did not stop to take a tankard of ale in the parlour with her, and she saw him making his way across the yard to the stable, with a face much redder than usual.

Uncle Oliver said nothing to Zoe about his conference with the squire, but she was conscious of an increased kindness in his voice and manner whenever he spoke to her.

To his sister he was more communicative; she was a worthy woman at the bottom, and felt sorry for poor Zoe in spite of the discomfiture of her worldly hopes for her own Sarah Anne, which is saying a great deal in her favour. As to Sarah Ann, when she heard that the old squire had been to make proposals on behalf of his son for Zoe, she could not conceal her mortification, and her only consolation was, that Zoe was not to be married to him, nor even informed of the honour that had been intended.

Two days afterwards, as the whole family were sitting at tea, a horse was heard at full gallop splashing up the gravel walk, and the next moment the squire's son Will himself, entered the room, his eyes sparkling, and his whole appearance much agitated. He walked, gasping for breath, up to Zoe, and seizing her hand in both his, looked round with an air of defiance and said, "Look ye, Parson Oliver, neither my father nor you shall hinder me from marrying Miss Zoe, if she will only have me, though she may be the daughter of a stage-player or a mountebank from foreign parts! Miss Zoe has been brought up in England, sir, and I say she will make a good wife, and I will make her an honest woman and a lady besides; I should like to see who will throw her mother in her teeth! Let him do that dare!" added he, emphatically clenching his hand. "Bless your beautiful face," said he, turning to Zoe, "it was no fault of yours; I'll teach people how you ought to be treated!" He stopped for breath, and looked at Zoe for a reply to his generosity.

Her eyes were turned away, but her compressed lips, and the full vein starting on her forehead, and the flush that covered her face, neck, and shoulders, showed the struggle that was going on within. She snatched her hand out of his grasp and ran out of the room. A moment after, a heavy fall was heard over head, every one rushed to see what was the matter; they found Zoe lying insensible on the floor, she had fallen with her head against the fender, and the blood was streaming from her mouth and nose. The young squire, without waiting to see further, mounted his horse and galloped for the village doctor. Uncle Oliver, who guessed what had happened, loosened her dress himself, laid her on the bed, and sent every body out of the room. The doctor was announced, who satisfied them that there was nothing serious to be apprehended. Zoe had only fainted, the hurt she had received in her face was very trifling, and there would be no bad results; but what was the dismay of all to discover that, in his agitation, the foolish young squire had told all the particulars of the previous scene, and that it was now a matter of village gossip! However, he administered a composing draught, of which Zoe now stood in additional need, and left the house.

"You stay with me, uncle," said Zoe, as he was preparing to quit her, "I must talk to you before I go to sleep."

"Well, my darling, but keep quiet, and don't hurry yourself just now."

"I shall be better for it afterwards," said she. "It is well that all has happened as it has done, I see now how, do what I will, I shall always be looked upon in England; dear uncle, I will stay no longer in this land of forms and respectabilities, to hear my mother made the subject of brutal remark, and myself the victim of condescending notice. I will go to my father, he loved my mother, he will love me, at least, he will not reproach me for not being respectable. I want you to write to him this very night, and tell him all that has happened, tell him to take me home to him, no matter where."

Uncle Oliver tried to remonstrate, but Zoe was wrought up to a pitch of desperation, and sitting up in bed she said coldly,

"Uncle, you will write to my father, and write to-night, and advise him from yourself, to leave me here no longer, for I will not stay; and if you refuse, I will set off to-morrow, if I have to sing in the streets to pay for my passage to France."

Uncle Oliver saw that in her present state it would be useless to argue with her, so he wisely abstained, kissed her, and promised to do all she wished, if she would only sleep just then, and desiring Nannette to remain with her, he departed.

Zoe awoke the next morning nearly well, and having now a plan which she expected would put an end to all her mortifications, she was quite calm and cheerful at breakfast; as soon as it was over, she followed her uncle to his study, and said, "Well, is the letter gone?"

"No, my darling, but you see I wrote it as you bade me, I waited to see what morning reflection would bring; - you will not mend yourself, Zoe, by going to France, you will not find among strangers a home like this, nor can your father love you better than I do; be not impatient and petulant, my child, you cannot alter your lot in its essential point, we are all of us tried where we feel the most sensibly, or else it would not be trial."

"Dear uncle," replied Zoe, "do not talk to me just now, I cannot bear it, indeed I cannot. I will add a postscript to your letter, and take it to the post myself."

When Captain Cleveland received the letter he was more affected than he had been by any thing since the death of his wife. "Poor child," said he, wiping his eyes, "I ought to have foreseen all this, I have been very cruel to you, but you shall come and live with me, and never leave me again."

He did not write to Zoe, but he did better, he made arrangements for absenting himself from his official duties for a few weeks, set off to England, and arrived one fine evening at his brother's Rectory, as the family were sitting down to supper, before they had begun to calculate when they should receive an answer to the letter.

Zoe knew him at once, and flinging herself in his arms, sobbed passionately for some moments, unable to utter a word.

"My darling child!" said the captain, soothing her, "you shall come back to France with me, and shall never leave me again; you are the very image of your mother, your beautiful, good mother."

"Tell me about my mother," said Zoe. "Was she your wife? Am I really your daughter?"

"Yes, yes, you are my child, my own darling child, and your mother was better than any other woman I ever saw, and I have known a good number. You need never blush for your mother, but feel proud of belonging to her; since she died I have never cared to look at a woman."

Zoe's heart was lightened, there was sympathy between her father and herself from that moment; old Nannette was delighted once more to see the captain, and half out of her wits with joy at the turn things had taken, she began with great zeal to prepare her dear young lady's clothes for departure.

The captain and Uncle Oliver had much to talk about; Captain Cleveland was never weary of expressing his gratitude and delight for all that had been done for Zoe; but Uncle Oliver was very sad at the thoughts of losing his foster-child, and made his brother repeatedly promise that she should come and pay a long visit every year. Even Aunt Martha, when it came to the point, found she loved Zoe a great deal better than she had ever suspected, and was more put out of the way at parting with her, than she had been for years, except by the great household catastrophe of the kitchen chimney falling down in a high wind. The poor young squire was nearly mad with love and desperation. Zoe did her best to console him by her gratitude for his chivalrous spirit in daring to persist in his suit in spite of what had struck every one else dumb with horror, but as she would not consent to marry him, her gratitude was not much of a solace.

The sensation caused in the whole village by Captain Cleveland's visit, his imposing appearance, and the almost veneration with which he regarded his daughter, very much softened down the virtuous indignation of the neighbourhood; now that Zoe was going away, in all appearance to fill a much more brilliant sphere than she had hitherto occupied, a great reaction took place in her favour, and every body was anxious to show her some token of remembrance and attention. The fact is, nothing puts people in such a good humour as a little bustle, in which every one is at liberty to interfere. Half the ill nature in the world arises from people being dull, and having nothing to excite them, and then the temptation to become sententious about their neighbours is beyond the virtue of human nature to resist.

Zoe's departure with her father was an event for the whole country round, and the people shewed their gratitude for it by finding out all sorts of good qualities in her.

Zoe went away loaded with presents, for which we are sorry to say she did not feel above half grateful: she had yet to learn the value of kindly dispositions, even with all the alloy of gossiping vulgarity.

CHAPTER X

Zoe left the Rectory under the idea that she was going straight to a perfect paradise. There are many ideas of paradise entertained by mortal men and women, all differing essentially no doubt, from the orthodox original. With girls of Zoe's age, paradise is the type of ball-rooms filled with adoring partners, all handsome, and all besieging her with declarations of love and marriage. Coronets and carriages are seen vaguely in the background, grouping themselves into a brilliant destiny, to which she is gracefully to yield, the fair victim of honours thrust upon her. Zoe's paradisaical notions took a still higher flight, she dreamed of becoming celebrated as well as grand.

She arrived with her father and Nannette at Bordeaux, where he resided. The sight of his apartment, No. 55, Au troisième, Rue de St Pierre, gave the first shock to Zoe's expectations. The rooms had done well enough for a vieux garçon, or a widower, who would naturally take all his meals at the table-d'hôte, and spend his evenings at a club or the theatre, on the principle of the old French lady, who said, 'Je vais au théâtre par économie,' viz., to save her parlour fire and candles. Indeed what else could poor Captain Cleveland do? He had no companion at home, and did not care for reading - people who have seen a great deal of active life rarely do. Zoe's looks showed her dismay at the sight of the ménage. The bare parquet, the scanty and shabby furniture; the tawdry hangings, and tarnished mirrors, with the untidy livery of the foot-boy; were enough to give disgust to one who had always been accustomed to the bright comfort, good order, and more than Muhammadan cleanliness of Aunt Martha's rectory.

Her father was so kind, and seemed so delighted to have her with him, that she did her best to conceal her feelings. She saw, too, that he had exerted himself to fit up her room in the way he thought most likely to please her. He had purchased a beautiful new harpsichord, and a wholesale supply of music. He had also commissioned the principal bookseller in Bordeaux to select a library proper for a young lady who had just finished a first-rate education; and the books, all bound alike in scarlet leather, were standing neatly arranged on two shelves. They comprised an odd jumble. They had been left entirely to the judgment of the bookseller, who, having understood from some book of travels, that English young ladies were allowed all the freedom of married women, made this selection with the idea of showing his acquaintance with English customs, so side by side with books of delicate rose pink morality were seen 'Les Liaisons Dangereuses' and 'La Nouvelle Héloïse'. Zoe heartily thanked her father for these promising appearances, and trusted, with Nannette's assistance, to get things into better order.

Captain Cleveland thought he had done all that was necessary for the reception of his daughter; and the very next day, after kissing her and telling her to make herself very happy, he went out as usual to his café. He was very proud of Zoe, and would have done any thing to amuse her if he had only known how; but he had lived the life of a garçon, so long, that he could not now alter his habits; besides, he found it very difficult to keep up conversation with a young girl for long together.

Zoe was not dainty about her eating, but the ambitious ragouts and amphibious dishes sent in by the traiteur, were so different from the wholesome appetising viands she had been used to from 'the neat-handed Phillis' at Aunt Martha's, that she ran some risk of being absolutely starved.

Still she did her best to seem contented, but worse remained behind! She soon discovered that her father held very strict notions about the propriety of keeping unmarried young girls shut up from all observation, and allowing them no sort of liberty: he would not even permit her to go out of doors with Nannette, unless he were also of the party, and he hated walking. Sometimes he used to take her a drive into the country, but what was that to a girl who had been accustomed all her life to an unlimited allowance of fresh air and active exercise? She once proposed to dine with him at the table-d'hôte, but it was a proposition she never ventured to make a second time. To all her entreaties that he would take her to the theatre or the opera, he turned a deaf ear, he totally disapproved of the theatre for young ladies, who were not married, especially when they chanced to be as beautiful as he assured Zoe upon all occasions that she was, by way of excusing his unusual care and anxiety. "Why," said he, "if I once allowed you to be seen in public and in full dress, we should have no more peace; all the young rakes and petits maîtres in the place would be parading before the house, and insulting you with billets doux; ah, my child! if you only knew as much of the world as I do, you would never wish to leave your own home. No woman ought to go to the theatre until she is married, and even then the less the better."

"I am sure I wish I could find any body to marry me," said Zoe, pettishly.

"Time enough, time enough, my beauty; you don't want to leave your poor old father yet, do you? why I have had you no time at all, I have hardly seen you yet."

The total absence of all society, and the idea that her exquisite beauty, about which she was so constantly hearing, and her accomplishments, of which she was equally conscious, were even more buried in France than they had been at the Rectory, did not tend to raise her spirits.

Winter came on, and her walks were entirely stopped, for her father was confined to the house by a violent rheumatic attack, which made him very testy. The rooms too, had to be kept at a high temperature, and Zoe grew really ill; her spirits, which she had struggled to keep up, at last gave way; she sat all day, except the hour when she either played at chess with him or read to him after dinner, with her feet on the stove, either sighing for the green fields and fresh air she used to have at her uncle's, or else in building castles in the air for the future.

What she had heard Nannette and her father say about the freedom of married life was not lost upon her, "I wish I could get free," said she to herself one night as she sat at one end of the large ill-lighted room beside the stove, whilst her father and his visitors, the only ones who ever crossed the threshold, sat with the candles at a whist-table deeply absorbed in their game, laughing and joking amongst themselves between the deals, and giving no heed to poor Zoe, who sat moping in the dusk. "My father thinks", continued she to herself, "that because I am well dressed and well fed, I am as happy as a queen; he little knows," thought she as she brushed away the large tears that had gathered in her eyes. She fell into a reverie, looking on the three friends who were with her father. They were about his own age, and all of them old bachelors; one was a retired officer of high family, but reduced fortune; the other two were brothers, Englishmen; one of them was an invalid, who resided in France, because the cold foggy air of England did not suit him, and his brother lived with him because they could not bear to be separated. All ideas of love, marriage, and handsome men, had been completely kept out of Zoe's head by her education; for Aunt Martha always impressed it upon her, as the height of indecorum in a well brought up young woman, to allow the idea of a lover to enter her head, until a proposal had been formally made and accepted, and she had the sanction of the higher powers "to keep company together"; even then she always seemed to consider it a sort of necessary evil, which young people would commit, and the less said about it the better. Since Zoe left England, she had always heard her father and Nannette speak of marriage, as the only honourable emancipation for a girl, and the only means by which she could be made partaker of the rights and privileges of a woman. Zoe had thus grown to look forward to being married, much in the same way that a schoolgirl looks forward to the holidays, or to "leaving school for good". Any sort of a husband who would have presented himself to her just then, would have been gladly accepted, no matter how old or ill favoured, if by that means she might have gained her freedom and a position in society. So much for false maxims instilled betimes, which could mould the feelings of a hot-blooded, passionate young creature into the semblance of those of a cold, calculating merchant! Circumstances and habit had, in those days, given to Zoe an appearance of coldness which deceived even herself, she never for a moment contemplated the possibility of falling in love, or entertaining the feelings she had read about in Ovid's epistles; no dreams of that sort ever entered her head.

This very night, at the moment we are speaking of, when she fell into a reverie, she was speculating, in the extremity of her ennui, whether it would be possible to convert either of the two rich English brothers into her husband; but no, they were both past sixty, and confirmed old bachelors, even the invalid was quite content with the hired nurse who knew his ways, and had lived with him for some years; he could not live without his brother, so there was no hope in that quarter, and as to the French officer, it was clear he could hardly keep himself, much less a wife. Zoe's pride was so completely humbled by sickness, solitude, and absolute want of air, that her next thought was to write to Uncle Oliver (corresponding with whom had been her chief comfort), giving him a little delicate hint, that when he next saw the young squire, he might tell him that she did not like France, and that she often thought of England, and sometimes of him!

The very next morning she put her resolve in practice, she knew that Uncle Oliver would do any thing in the world to get her near him again, so she considered the matter as good as settled. "At least," said she to herself as she rang the bell to send her letter to the post-office, "I shall be able to breathe the fresh air, and walk in the fields again."

The dingy footboy who answered the bell, carried a small wooden box in his hand which had just arrived for her from England; it was directed in her uncle's hand-writing. Zoe broke it open and found a bride-cake, white favours, and a letter announcing the marriage of the young squire to her cousin, Sarah Anne! He had at last followed his father's advice, and cast his eyes on her cousin, to the great joy of Aunt Martha and the young lady herself: he had stipulated that Zoe should know nothing of the matter until they were fairly married, as "she would be so surprised".

Zoe's colour came and went, she tore up her letter, and throwing it into the fire, she exclaimed, "What mean plan must I think of next to obtain my freedom!"

Out of humour with herself, thoroughly mortified, and seeing no hope of any change, her health began rapidly to decline. Captain Cleveland all of a sudden grew terrified, and sent for two physicians, who told him that change of air and scene were absolutely necessary for his daughter. Poor Cleveland was ready to go to the world's end if he could only get Zoe strong again. He asked her if she would like to go back to England, but no, she much preferred a tour on the continent, and they began the tour accordingly upon May day.

They had not been a week en route, before Zoe's colour began to revisit her cheeks, and her spirits resumed their old buoyancy. They were sailing up the Rhine, and Zoe, who had never seen really fine scenery before, was in a state of enchantment. She had the soul of an artist, and every sight or sound of beauty "sent to her heart its choicest impulses". Her father, who had been in too many different countries to be very susceptible to the charms of scenery, thought her almost mad, and could not refrain from entreating her to be "more moderate", but with very little effect.

One morning Zoe had placed herself on deck in her usual place; her father finding it chilly, left her under the care of Nannette, whilst he made himself comfortable down below. Zoe on turning round to speak to Nannette saw a gentleman who had just come on board earnestly regarding her; he was a gentlemanly-looking Englishman, of about fifty, much marked with the small pox, but in spite of that his face had, on the whole, a pleasing and intelligent expression.

He seemed perplexed as he looked at Zoe, and at last, approaching her, said, "Pardonnez, Mademoiselle, but you are so strikingly like a lady whom I formerly knew, the wife of Captain Cleveland, and yet I heard she was dead; in fact your ages would not agree. I beg your pardon, but I was quite startled by the resemblance."

Zoe was equally surprised. "My name is Cleveland," said she, "and Captain Cleveland is below in the cabin." The unknown gentleman uttered an exclamation, and darted away. After a few moments he returned with her father, who introduced him as Mr Gifford, an old friend of his, whom he had not seen for the last seventeen years.

The rest of the day was spent by the gentlemen in talking over old times when they were in Malta and the Mediterranean together. Zoe remained at her old post on deck, quite satisfied with watching the beautiful changes of scenery.

It was not till next morning Zoe heard that Mr Gifford was a Catholic gentleman who had a large estate in Devonshire, that he was a widower, and that he had strong thoughts of entering the priesthood now he was free from secular ties. Zoe did not pay so much attention to this as she would have done some weeks previously. She was now completely absorbed by the excitement of travelling, and the novel scenes presented to her; for the time being all her matrimonial visions were banished from her head. She only felt very glad when she heard he was to join their party, because papa would have some one who could talk to him in his own way, which would keep him from so constantly lamenting after Paris and his nightly whist party.

"Poor Gifford!" said Captain Cleveland, "he knew your mother, Zoe, and admired her so much, that if she had been any other woman I should have felt annoyed; he got married however, himself, soon after we parted; he married some English lady of rank, who died in her first confinement, he tells me, and left her infant daughter to the care of a bosom friend and confidante, Miss Rodney, a prime old maid, and a thorough dévote by Gifford's account."

Gifford, however much he might have admired Zoe's mother, seemed to have transferred all his admiration to the daughter, for he was constantly at her side; he was full of information, and could tell her every thing she wanted to know about the places they passed far better than any guide-book. The sight of Zoe reminded him of many happy days, and brought vividly back the image of the only woman he had ever loved, though both she and Cleveland had been far from suspecting it; for Gifford was an honourable man and a rigid Catholic, who had no notion of disguising illicit passion under false names, or of pleading temptation as an excuse for a breach of friendship. He abruptly quitted Captain Cleveland and his wife when he found that in flight lay his only safety. Zoe was her mother over again, and there was no reason why he should resist the charm of being near her, he fancied that he looked upon her as his own daughter, and one of whom he would have felt proud. Zoe's masculine education had given a tone to her mind which showed itself in her countenance, he was astonished at the power of mind she discovered in conversation, for though so young, and with a judgment unripe, and her intellect altogether unmature, there was still the stamp of genius on all she said.

Whenever they were stationary in a place for a few days, he escorted her to all that was worth seeing, and showed an untiring patience in walking and driving that utterly astonished Cleveland.

They at length took up their abode at Koblenz, intending to remain a few weeks, as Captain Cleveland was threatened with an attack of gout. The day of their arrival, as soon as dinner was despatched, Zoe left the room to prepare for a long exploring walk with Gifford and Nannette, who never quitted her young lady for a moment.

"You will make that girl quite wild," said Captain Cleveland, half in an ill-humour at the idea of being left by himself. "I shall never be able to keep her within bounds when we get home again; she will never settle at home as she used to do."

"Oh, dear papa!" said Zoe, who entered just then, "I had quite forgotten that we should ever have to return to that odious Rue de St Pierre! Thank Heaven, however, it is still so far in the future as to be almost out of sight, or it would spoil all my pleasure here!"

Captain Cleveland gave something between a sigh and a groan of dissatisfaction, and applied himself diligently to his Turkish pipe for consolation.

As Zoe and Gifford went along, Zoe began to tell him about all her miseries at home in the Rue de St Pierre, about the hot rooms, and her papa's oriental notions of the necessity of keeping young ladies closely shut up and never seen; - finding that Gifford listened, and seemed to sympathise with her, she chattered on, and told him about the three visitors who had the entrée to No. 55, to play at whist when her father could not go to his club; she described their portraits and peculiarities at full length, till Gifford was obliged to stand still to laugh. Then she went on to describe the evening when, seriously believing she should die by inches for the want of air and exercise, she speculated on the possibility of persuading one of these ugly old men to marry her, "For then", said she, "I thought that at least I might walk out and be independent like a rational being, which it seems no woman on the continent is considered till she gets married; as papa says, what I shall do when I have to go back, I don't know; and luckily, just now, I need not consider. Look, we are on the top of this hill - what a beautiful view!"

Nothing more was said or done during the remainder of their walk worthy to be recorded. When they reached home they found Captain Cleveland sitting with the chess-table arranged before him, and looking at his watch which was lying upon it.

"Why, you have been gone nearly three hours!" he exclaimed, when they entered, "where can you have been? Zoe, child, you will kill yourself with all this fatigue and racket; here, Gifford, now for the chess; I have been studying all this time an infallible mode to check-mate you."

Gifford sat down rather abstractedly, and soon received the promised check-mate, but it was not attended with the éclat the captain had anticipated, the fact being that Gifford was speculating upon a mate of a different kind. Zoe's random speech about the two old brothers, and the very modest requirements she expected from a husband, had given him the resolution to propose for her himself! Had he met with Zoe when he was surrounded by the formal conventionalities of his ordinary life, it is probable he might never have thought of doing any thing so hazardous; but now, he was in the midst of the most romantic scenery, cut off from every thing that could remind him of the world he lived in, the extraordinary beauty of Zoe, her naïvely expressed desire to become an independent married woman, all conspired to make him forget that he was as old as Zoe's father, that he had a daughter of nearly her own age, that he had formally notified his intention to sell his estate and enter the English College at Rome to study for the priesthood; every thing in short that, at another time, would have weighed with him, was forgotten. Nature seems to have a malicious pleasure in overturning the reputation for wisdom and gravity which it has taken a lifetime to build up, by suddenly inspiring some signal piece of temerity, at which the boldest would have held his breath. So it was with Gifford. His hour of folly was come, when it was written that he was to make a fool of himself in the eyes of all his acquaintance!

He made the most unaccountable moves in the next game, till Captain Cleveland, out of all patience, swept the men off the board and rang for coffee. However, before it arrived, Gifford contrived to make Captain Cleveland understand the secret of his ill play, and had requested his influence with his daughter.

"Make yourself quite easy on that score, my good fellow," said Captain Cleveland, "there is not a man on earth I would sooner give her to than yourself; and depend upon it that Zoe is too good a girl to make any objection. I will speak to her this very night."

Captain Cleveland, like many men who have been very romantic in their youth, had settled down into a most prosaic elderly gentleman: with him "the wine of life was spent". The death of his wife caused a gulf in his career, and when he recovered from the shock, he was no more the same person; all his feelings of youth and passion had been left on the other side. He was too continental in his notions of matrimony to see any thing but what was highly advantageous in the proposed alliance; and it may be doubted whether, at the bottom of his heart, he did not feel better satisfied to commit his daughter to a staid, respectable man, able to take care of her, than he would have been to see her in the hands of one who should be as young and passionate as himself when he first met her mother.

As to Zoe, her courage for matrimony had rather ebbed since she had become more pleasantly circumstanced, and she was startled when her father announced Gifford's proposal, and told her that it had been accepted by him.

Her dread, however, of returning to No. 55, Rue de St Pierre was too great to permit her to make any strenuous objection to what seemed her only resource.

"After all, papa," said she, "Mr Gifford is very good-natured; and he is not so very ugly either, at least not half so bad as either of the two brothers who used to come to play whist with you; and then I shall really be one of the 'county ladies' of whom Aunt Martha used to speak with such reverence. But it will be droll, will it not, to hear myself called mamma by a girl nearly as old as myself?"

So the matter was settled, and in three weeks from the walk and the games of chess above recorded, Zoe became Mrs Gifford.

Gifford had next to write two letters, which taxed his powers of diction to the utmost; one was to Miss Rodney, begging her to inform his daughter of what had occurred, and also saying that the whole party, including Captain Cleveland and Nannette, were on their way to Gifford Castle, where he requested every thing might be put in order for their reception.

The other letter was to the Superior of the English College at Rome, informing him of the change that had taken place in his intentions of entering the priesthood; and this was the letter that caused such a commotion in the refectory as we have before narrated.

Everhard, who shared the curiosity of the rest, was very far from suspecting the influence this marriage was to have on his own destiny; - meanwhile, as he is safe in college, we must still leave him a little longer, whilst we pursue the fortunes of our heroine. He is in the safe keeping of Fate, who never forgets or makes mistakes, but lets every stroke of good or evil fall precisely on the head for which it was destined, when the due season for it arrives.

CHAPTER XI

Success is the true "Tree of Knowledge"; there is no wisdom equal to that which comes after the event. When a man has accomplished any scheme which he has moved heaven and earth to compass, there first follows a pause, a lull, in the storm and strife of the passions that have been aroused, during which, he begins to doubt whether he has not been spending his strength for naught: - then the perception dawns still more forcibly that the object was worth all the pains and labour bestowed upon it, and he wonders why he should ever have felt so anxious about the matter; and finally, he feels quite sure that if it had pleased Providence to thwart the scheme, it would not only have been much better for him in the end, but now that his eyes have been opened by success, he could have borne a disappointment with edifying resignation.

Zoe and Gifford were married. Captain Cleveland's wish to see his daughter honourably settled in life, was thereby fulfilled. Zoe's desire for the freedom and privileges of a married woman, was also satisfied. Gifford was in possession of the woman he desired to make his own. Surely we must express ourselves ill when we record our wishes, or our guardian angels must be very stupid, for they never seem able to understand what it is we want; when they do their best to fulfil our desires to the very letter, we always find some mistake which renders them any thing but what we expected. So it was in the case before us. Gifford had not been married a fortnight, before all the sensible speeches that would or could be made by Miss Rodney, began to ring in his ears with the most appalling distinctness: - then he had a vision of the English College at Rome, with all the scorn and indignation of the ecclesiastical world, the world for which he chiefly lived; - then, almost as disagreeable, were the bad biting jests with which his imagination liberally supplied him, as what would certainly be made at his expense by every body. Twenty times a day he caught himself whispering all the unanswerable reasons that might be urged in defence for what he had done, - but somehow he could never succeed in satisfying a little malicious demon within him. Though he did his best to disguise what was passing in his mind, he was so abrupt and distrait, that Captain Cleveland began to doubt whether, after all, he had done wisely in marrying his darling Zoe to a man not only treble her age, but one who, from his monkish way of life, had contracted many peculiarities in his habits and temper.

As to Zoe herself, - but it may be questioned whether all women, even those who have married for love, would not, in the early days of their matrimony, if the choice were offered to them, gladly return to their former condition, even if it were thenceforth to be irredeemable spinsterhood for life: so poor Zoe's misgivings are not so much to be wondered at. But certainly, never did three people look less like the ideal of mortals crowned with SUCCESS.

They proceeded to Paris immediately after the ceremony, where they remained a few weeks, and arrived in England at the end of August, 17--.

When they drew near to Gifford Castle, Zoe's future home, both she and Gifford looked out for its turrets with anxiety; - she, full of hopes and fears of she scarcely knew what; - he, with some dread of the reception which it might please Miss Rodney to give them. He had only told her in general terms that he had made the daughter of his old friend, Captain Cleveland, his wife, - but he knew that Miss Rodney disliked utterly both naval and military men, believing them to be all reprobates, in virtue of their commission.

Gifford's dread of Miss Rodney is not to be looked at with surprise, nor altogether with contempt - for every body knows how much more influence disagreeable people acquire over us, than pleasant ones; if they are of the silent species, they are like a perpetual nightmare, and if they are of the violent and objurgatory, we dread them like a storm; either way we put ourselves to more pains than we would own, to keep them in their most inoffensive humour.

Miss Rodney was of the silent, sententious genus. On the receipt of Gifford's letter, she had put herself to a little martyrdom of prayers, confessions, and penances, to bring herself to a proper frame of mind to receive the wife whom Gifford had taken, as she conscientiously believed, under a special temptation from the evil one.

Some natural feeling too, there might be, at seeing herself deposed, for she had been a faithful housekeeper to Gifford, and a kind of mother to Clotilde ever since the death of his first wife.

Miss Rodney had, in her youth, been a noted beauty, and a reputed heiress. All her knowledge of the world was derived from six months spent in Paris, just after she left the convent in which she had been educated; - she had been thrown into the gayest circles at the time of the regency, where she was honoured with the notice of that fascinating reprobate, the Duke de Richelieu himself; - no wonder she believed the world to be very wicked indeed. Before, however, she had time to fall into much mischief, she was attacked by the small pox, which destroyed her beauty, but, as she firmly believed, was the means of saving her soul alive.

Almost immediately after her recovery, her father was utterly ruined by the breaking up of Law's banking scheme, and he died of a broken heart in a very little while, leaving his daughter nearly destitute. It was just then that her intimate convent friend, who had married Gifford, hearing of her situation, entreated her to come and live with them, and Gifford Castle had been her home ever since. After the destruction of her beauty, and worldly consideration, Miss Rodney gave herself up to devotion, as the handsomest means de se tirer d'affaires. Her ruling idea became, by degrees, to be self-mortification. Her steady self-denial and innumerable good works, might have challenged respect, had they not arisen more from the desire to benefit her own soul than from any feeling of benevolence to those around her. She farmed out, as it were, the troubles of this life, and endured patiently the many annoyances of her lot, hoping thereby to cover, not only her own expenditure in the way of sins here below, but to lay up a handsome treasure in Heaven, which would enable her to make a respectable figure in the company of the world to come.

To do her justice, she always did thoroughly any disagreeable duty she undertook to perform, and she had prepared her young charge, Clotilde, very judiciously for the step-mother she was to expect. Every thing about the castle was in the most exact order for the reception of the bridal party, and when the carriage stopped at the great entrance, all the servants were drawn up in the hall to receive them.

Gifford was agreeably disappointed. It was like throwing oneself forcibly against a door to break it open, and finding it yield to a touch.

Miss Rodney was in the drawing-room, sitting in an arm chair beside a small table, on which lay an ebony crucifix, a gold snuffbox, and a book of devotions. She was determined not to hide her religion before the heretic new comers. Her dress was more like that of a Benedictine nun than a civilised costume. It consisted of a black stuff gown with one or two shawls, of the same material, pinned over each other; a black silk hood, which nearly covered her tight cambric cap; her powdered hair was turned back over a roll, and exposed in its full, unshaded dimensions, her large flat face, which was so painfully disfigured, that it seemed as if a burn or scald had assisted the ravages of the small pox; her mouth was quite distorted. She rose from her chair as Gifford entered, and tried to utter some proper phrase of congratulation, but burst into tears instead. Gifford had not been prepared for the expression of so much feeling, and his heart smote him for his unkind thoughts of her. She soon recovered herself, however, and received Zoe and Captain Cleveland with a dignity which would have been very dismaying, had not the door at that moment opened, and a slight, fair child entered. She was in black (for since the death of her friend, the old lady could not bear to see colours), her flaxen hair was parted, and fell in natural ringlets over her shoulders, forming a beautiful relief to the deep black dress, and ebony rosary which hung by her side. Gifford flew to embrace her, and presented her to his wife as his only child, Clotilde. Zoe, who had a natural love for children, was delighted, and putting her arms round her, said, "You are to be my little girl, and you must let me love you as well as your papa." Clotilde, who was crimson with emotion, looked at Zoe with a sort of shy astonishment, but she was too gentle to repulse her caresses.

Luncheon was announced, and the whole party repaired to the dining-room, where Zoe gracefully insisted upon the old lady retaining her place at the head of the table, but Miss Rodney was too great a stickler for etiquette to hear of such a thing.

After the repast was over, Zoe retired to what were to be her own apartments, in order to lay aside her travelling-dress; she coaxed Clotilde to accompany her, for she felt anxious to make acquaintance with the timid little being beside her, and her cordial sunny looks were not without their effect. Clotilde looked with amazement on all the treasures of vanity, which the maid was transferring from the trunks and packing-cases to the ponderous chests of drawers, but evidently she was not in the least tempted to possess any thing like them herself she was, however, highly delighted when Zoe gave her a little ivory figure of the Virgin and child, and some coloured prints of different female saints, with a short account of each, written at the bottom.

"Now, Clotilde," said Zoe, "is it possible you can really prefer that trumpery to the beautiful new hat I chose for you myself?"

"Oh, yes, very much!" replied Clotilde. "Aunt Rodney has taught me never to desire the vanities of this world; - it was very good of you to bring me the hat, but I shall ask Father Mulgrave to bless this figure and these prints, and then I can put them into my oratory."

"Will you show me your oratory?" said Zoe.

"Oh, yes, if you will like it,' replied Clotilde, hesitating and blushing. "And you have not seen the rest of the house yet," added she, "I shall like to show you that and the grounds too, if I may."

Zoe assured her that she would rather see them with her than any one else, so they began their progress with Clotilde's oratory. It was a little room in one of the round towers, which stood above a steep cliff covered with wood and all kinds of curious plants, which the regions of Devonshire produce in such abundance. A beautiful view of Porlock Bay and the Bristol Channel was to be seen from the window. The room had once been fitted up as a chapel, but most of the ornaments had been removed to the larger one which Gifford had built when he first came into the property.

"Do you always live here by yourself?" said Zoe, "do you never wish for companions of your own age?"

"Oh no," replied Clotilde, "I am very happy, I wish for nothing, I am very fortunate in being kept from the evil of the world; Aunt Rodney says it is a dreadful place, a dreary wilderness, with the devil, like a roaring lion, going up and down in it. I am so glad papa has brought you here, you will be so much safer."

Zoe smiled, and promised the young saint a beautiful new piece of brocade to make a covering for her altar.

After this Clotilde led Zoe through all the principal rooms of the castle, which was on a very magnificent, but somewhat inconvenient plan. The great drawing-room had a raised daïs at one end, and the ceiling was covered with armorial bearings emblazoned in their proper colours, which took Zoe's fancy much. The furniture was in a style long since obsolete; all the chairs and tables had very thin legs and a great many of them, the hangings were faded, and the carpets scanty, but Zoe did not know much about furniture, and Clotilde declared it to be too magnificent to live amongst every day, and that she much preferred Aunt Rodney's little sitting-room.

When they had gone through all the rooms, Zoe proposed to join the gentlemen out of doors, to look at the grounds.

Gifford Castle was situated about two miles from the village of Culbone, on the confines of Devonshire; the road up to the castle lay through steep cliffs covered with woods, the hills towered above the castle on all sides, except the one open to the sea, to the height of thirteen or fourteen hundred feet, fretted with jutting rocks, and covered with trees of all kinds, grown to an enormous size. The castle itself stood like an eagle's nest in the cleft of a rock, the road to it was barely wide enough for a carriage to pass along; the thick boughs of trees twisting together from each side, formed a canopy, through which the "golden and green light" glanced like waves.

The wall-like rocks were covered with ivy and creeping plants; about half way up, a succession of table lands or terraces had been formed with great labour and expense, and laid out as flower gardens: from the sides of these terraces rose the walls of the old castle, nearly concealed by venerable trees, except at the great east tower, which stood high and naked on the very edge of the precipice, looking down on the sea beneath. The castle had evidently once been a fortress of considerable importance. Zoe was enchanted with all she saw, Gifford thought he had never seen her so charming, and grew quite in a good humour with himself, for the first time since he had been married.

When they rejoined Miss Rodney in the drawing-room, Zoe exerted herself very amiably to conciliate her, for which Gifford felt sensibly obliged. Music was introduced, and Zoe sang a little German hymn so touchingly, that the tears streamed from Clotilde's eyes, and even Gifford and Captain Cleveland were affected; but Miss Rodney was a deaf adder, not to be charmed. She never for a single instant relaxed from the formal ceremonious politeness she had maintained from the first. It does not require a long acquaintance to take a dislike to people - we daguerreotype our characters when we least think of it; and though Zoe had neither said nor done the least thing with which the most fastidious person could find fault, yet Miss Rodney felt by instinct that Zoe neither thought, nor felt, nor believed in a way she approved, and she determined that Clotilde should have as little to do with her beautiful stepmother as possible; indeed, she felt disturbed to see the good understanding that had already commenced between them.

Whilst poor Gifford was pleasing himself with the idea of the advantage Zoe would be to Clotilde, Miss Rodney had come to a very different conclusion.

The next morning she sent to Gifford to request him to give her an audience upon a matter of great importance. Gifford's heart sunk within him; however, he replied that he would wait on Miss Rodney whenever it would best suit her to receive him. The old lady did not make him wait long.

When he was seated in her parlour, he tried to make the interview less formidable by a few cheerful remarks. Now Miss Rodney had carefully abstained from telling him, either by word or look, that she highly disapproved of the wife he had brought home, for that would have been an infringement of her "act of faith, hope, and charity"; but she was not going to indulge him in conversation, as if he had done nothing wrong. She drily cut short his attempts to be agreeable, by telling him that her reason for taking up his valuable time was to inquire whether it were his pleasure that the education of his daughter should remain with her, or pass into the hands of Mrs Gifford. She spoke in that low, even, suppressed tone of voice which, whilst it seems determined to afford no handle against itself, reveals so much inward dissatisfaction. She grew more natural, however, as she pleaded to have Clotilde continued under her own care. She requested it as a favour. "For", continued she, "as it was at my entreaty she was kept from a convent, I am bound to see that her precious soul does not suffer by my human weakness; and I am doubly anxious that she should be kept from all the evil that is in the world."

In vain Gifford tried to point out the advantages that Clotilde would enjoy in being with Zoe. The old lady declared it was a snare of the evil one to wean her heart from religion, and that unhallowed learning would ruin her soul.

There seems to be a sort of magic or free masonry in the name of the devil, by which all who believe in his power try to frighten each other. Gifford did not feel altogether pleased to hear his bride classed among the agents of Satan, still the contradiction to it stuck in his throat; and now that Miss Rodney had taken such high ground, he could not find in his conscience to be disobedient, so he acquiesced, and it was finally settled that Clotilde was to be Miss Rodney's charge as heretofore.

When this was signified to Zoe, she remonstrated warmly, and even penetrated into Miss Rodney's own sanctuary, in the wild hope of persuading an ill-tempered dévote out of a piece of spite, which she had the letter of her conscience for calling a matter of duty. Of course Zoe was obliged to give way, for neither reason nor flattery made any impression on Miss Rodney.

Zoe found her post as mistress of the establishment a complete sinecure, for the old servants were too much accustomed to one regular routine to take any orders from a new comer. She took long walks with Gifford, when he went to visit different parts of the estate. When he was alone it was all very pleasant, for he was fond of making her understand his various plans of improvement; but when the steward was with them, which often happened, they fell into statistical details of draining and manuring, and new modes of ploughing, till Zoe in despair sometimes left them, to go exploring by herself; a proceeding which invariably made Gifford very angry, at what he termed her giddiness and indifference to his interests.

Still he was very fond of her after his own fashion, and never liked to go any where without her, or to have her out of his sight, though it might be that he would not address a word to her for a whole morning together.

We should have told the reader that, soon after his arrival in England, Captain Cleveland had gone into Essex to visit his brother, and Zoe was in great hopes that Uncle Oliver might be induced to return with him.

All the resident country gentry, who lived within a visiting distance, had called on Zoe, as in duty bound, and their visits had been duly returned; advantage had been taken of the moonlight nights to give state dinner parties in her honour.

The people were all dull and stately, as people who live always in the country, and have it on their conscience to keep up their dignity, must needs be; but Zoe was young, and too new to her part of "county lady", not to feel an interest in all that went on; besides, there were races, and assize balls, and assemblies in vague perspective, at which she was to be "patroness". Added to all this, she had to give dinner parties in return, which, we may as well say here, thanks to Miss Rodney's management, went off with great credit, according to the most rigorous etiquette. Fortunately for Zoe's character as a housekeeper, Gifford had laid his commands upon her not to interfere in any thing; he was a thorough Englishman, and had a great dread of any innovation in the economy of his dinner-table.

In this manner the autumn passed away and Gifford's long expeditions with his steward came to an end, to Zoe's great joy. Gifford had formed a plan which completely engrossed him, and allowed Zoe time to follow her old pursuits.

Although Gifford had given up the idea of becoming a priest himself, he was as devoted as ever to the interests of the Church. His present plan was to build a college on his estate, for the education of Catholic youths, and he entered into a correspondence with Rome, to obtain the sanction of the higher powers.

Meanwhile, Captain Cleveland returned home, but unaccompanied by Uncle Oliver, who could not leave his parish. Zoe was terribly shocked at the alteration in her father's appearance. He had taken cold in Essex, which had been succeeded by an ague, from which he seemed to recover, but no sooner had he returned to the castle, than he had a relapse. His constitution seemed altogether breaking up. The medical man who had been summoned from Minehead, gave it as his opinion that he was rapidly breaking; indeed, he continued to grow weaker and weaker throughout the winter. Zoe attended on him indefatigably; one day, early in March, he had been removed to his arm-chair beside the window, and Zoe remarked that he seemed stronger than he had been for some weeks; he shook his head, and said, "I should like to live to see my grandchild, but the will of heaven be done! You must christen it after me, Zoe, if it be a boy; if not, after your mother; and now, my child, whilst I am able, let me say a few words to you. You are not like most other women, Zoe, you are stronger both for good and evil, and it may be that you will be tried. Women like you, seldom pass through life easily. But, my child, whatever temptations assail you, just keep the plain, straightforward, right course, and it will prove wiser in the end, than any scheme you can find out for yourself. And don't fancy that your circumstances are peculiar; people always make mistakes when they fancy themselves exceptions. - Don't juggle with plain right and wrong. Never bring disgrace on the memory of your mother; I leave it with you for a sacred pledge. And now, my darling, I will lie down; this talking tires me sadly. I will go to sleep."

Captain Cleveland never woke out of that sleep, and the next morning Zoe had no more a father.

Zoe's grief was, at first, overwhelming. She was near her confinement; and the only thought that gave her any comfort, was the idea that she should not long survive him.

Losing a parent is like no other grief; it seems to break up the foundation of our resting-place here; other friends and connexions we form for ourselves, but parents are given to us by Providence when we leave that unknown world from which we are called forth; and when they are taken away from us, there seems to remain nothing more to stand between us and death. We may be rich in friends, and their voluntary affection may be very precious to us; but there is a sense of insecurity in it all, when we have lost the only love that was ours of right, and we feel that nothing but natural ties can supply the craving for natural affection. We have no longer a birthright of love in any human heart; they to whom we belong, have been cut away; we have lost the love that came to us with our life, and nothing remaining on earth can replace it.

Zoe continued for many days plunged alternately in a stupor of misery, or else in a paroxysm of grief. She had a sullen pleasure in thinking that the time was drawing near when she should be sure to die; but she was to be undeceived.

However hard mental affliction may be to bear, an attack of fierce bodily pain throws it into the shade, as Zoe found when her day of trial came. There is in acute bodily pain, something that rouses all one's energies to grapple with it; there is no instance on record of a person committing suicide either in a paroxysm of bodily suffering, or to escape the most severe surgical operation.

Zoe was half bewildered at the fierce reality of pain. "What, is all this horror of horrors a law of Nature that cannot be altered!" she exclaimed, between gasps of prayers for mercy, which she felt was mockery. It was not till after her child was born, and she lay feeble and helpless, that she had leisure to meditate on the strange capability of enduring for hours, suffering which once she would have imagined must quickly end in death. Zoe wept in utter weakness, not for herself, but at the thought of all the suffering and agony so many millions of women had borne before her. Her eyes seemed suddenly opened to all the misery there was in the world; she realised with a terrible and morbid vividness the varied forms of human suffering; poor girl! the very hospitals and operation-rooms seemed to open before her eyes, and disclose their secrets. Hitherto she had never thought about evil, - she had not wondered at it; - now, it rose before her in all its awful mystery. She brought to her recollection all she had been taught, all she had read of the well compacted plausible theories by which men, living at ease, and in health, have complacently endeavoured to reconcile and account for every thing. She turned for comfort to the religion she had been taught, but it seemed cold and forced, and to have no tangible meaning. The prayers and praises that were prescribed by all forms of religion, seemed to her only the aspirations of crushed slaves under the hand that lay heavy upon them. Wherever she turned for refuge, she beheld only dimness of anguish; and driven into darkness, she exclaimed in the frenzy of her soul, "Where is the All-powerful, the All-merciful, in whom we are taught to believe?"

When she recollected that even according to the Christian faith, all the complicated miseries of this life, to the greater number, are but the "beginning of sorrows", to be carried to a horrible perfection through all eternity after death - the calm, apathetic belief of Miss Rodney, and the placid acquiescence in this tremendous doctrine by the gentle, unruffled Clotilde, roused her hatred and disbelief in all religion, almost to insanity. She wondered how the purblind old confessor, believing all this as he professed to do, could rest contented in the midst of a world devoted to such horrible torment, thinking he had done his part towards saving it, by his mumbled prayers, his days of abstinence, and his droning sermon once a week; she was astonished that all living creatures did not realise their condition as she did. But as her strength increased, this morbid exaltation passed away. Her attention was diverted to matters more immediately pressing upon herself. Her little boy had an attack of croup when he was three months old, which left him very delicate; he was subject also to violent convulsions, which kept her in constant anxiety, and scarcely allowed her to leave him day or night. Added to this, before twelve months were over, she was confined a second time, and was long reduced to a deplorable state of weakness. The constant watchfulness which both her children required, and the bad nights and broken rest, seriously undermined her health. Gifford feared she was going into a consumption, of which there seemed many symptoms; the medical men recommended change of air both for Zoe and the children. Gifford, anxious to have further advice, and also, if the truth must be told, rather weary of the monotony of his matrimonial life, determined to leave the castle, and reside for some time first at Bath, and afterwards in London. The arrangements were speedily made. Clotilde was to be left with Miss Rodney at the castle, and in due time Gifford, Zoe, and the children, set off on their journey.

CHAPTER XII

All this time Everhard had been at college, completely engrossed in his studies; the days passed over one so like another to the outward eye, that the very nature of time seemed altered, and to bring neither chance nor change; all its work was being done within.

Everhard had become remarkable for talent amongst the most able, and for unwearied perseverance, more than all. A few extracts from his private memorials, will save a great deal of description. The first extract is dated about a year after his entrance into college.

"There are times when the heart is opened in written confession as it never is, never could be, to the dearest or most sympathising friend. It is not sympathy that we require at such times, it is to learn that which is lying hid in our own heart. The thoughts that oppress us have not yet taken a shape, but they are come too near the surface to be longer suppressed. In such a condition is my own mind at this moment; a fire burns within me, and compels me to utterance - but there is no friend to whom I could speak.

"Of all the field of human attainment that lies open before me, that of metaphysical philosophy is the only one that has charms for me. It promises to open all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. I revel in the exercise of the fine-spun questions of the schools, my very senses seem quickened by the subtle dexterity and minute investigation they require. It is a mental gymnasium in which the gloriously gifted of the gods of old rejoiced to try their strength.

"Vague, dreamy feelings after beauty! What are they but childish plays? Graceful in youth, and not without a certain weak and ineffective beautifulness, but can Truth in all her majesty be compelled to disclose herself thereby? For the mind of a man aspiring to attain to the full measure of its stature, what is there to be desired or strived after but strength? Formerly I lived in my feelings, and used to value sensation and emotion beyond all things; now, any appeal to my passions would disgust me; all that cannot be proved, or give a reason for itself, I despise utterly."

"How deeply do I regret that the order of Jesuits is abolished; it would have been the height of my ambition to be one of the body. They alone seem to have had the full comprehension of how to grapple with men; they had a knowledge of all the mysteries of the human heart, and learned how to turn it about whithersoever they listed. Look at their schools; they turned out men able to make use of what they knew, not pedantic schoolboys, crushed under the weight of useless knowledge. There was something almost oppressive to the imagination in their mode of using their power, working together as one man towards the same end. Their motto was obedience to their head - their secret was obedience, and their success was the result of it. What a precision and certainty was there in all they undertook! To this hour the idea of a Jesuit impresses me with the idea of a darker and stronger power than I can express!

"He that would learn, must be obedient in all things, must empty his mind of self; it is the pressure from within, that prevents our seeing that which really is. We contract ourselves together; if we would really lay ourselves open to the influences around us, knowledge would spring up within us, and we should be bathed in an atmosphere of truth. If we were not darkened by conceit and self-fancies, we should be transparent, and the light would shine into us: we should open our eyes and see the world of God lying everywhere around us."

"Become as little children,' - what meaning is there in that phrase! We must give ourselves up with meekness, to receive the instruction of those who teach us, or the light of wisdom can in no wise arise in our hearts. It seems to me that there is a sort of dullness, a simple-hearted, unambitious, but genial slowness, which may at first sight look like stupidity, but which in reality is far more hopeful, more capable of being transmuted into wisdom, than that adroit, brilliant cleverness which plays dexterously with the points and superficies of difficulties, making them puzzles and cramboes, to catch, not wisdom, but praise and applause, like that bestowed on conjurors and rope-dancers.

"I would not be unjust; - it may be that I despise this quickness and dexterity because it is not mine, - but it baffles and distracts me. I get no good at all from such men, - they make a sparkling light on the surface of a question, to leave all beneath in blackness of darkness."

"I blame others for being full of themselves, but am not I full of self also? Do I not feel it as a mill-stone round my neck, impeding my progress, and making base all I strive to obtain? Self! self! - the eternal presence of myself! Seek what I will, go where I will - self creeps like a leprosy eating into my soul! I know that I am a worm - that I am less than nothing; and when I contemplate the greatness which the heaven of heavens cannot contain, I know that I am an atom in creation, of no use, of no consequence to any earthly being, and yet I am absorbed in myself. I feel this wretched, worthless self, is more to me than all the wonders of the universe beside. I have an anxiety for its welfare that I cannot feel for any other thing. Why can I not look upon myself as I really am? I read books of devotion - I read the expressions of self-abasement, uttered by the holiest of saints and martyrs, individuals by the side of whom I am utterly worthless, - but I cannot realise these expressions, though they befit me far more than they who first used them! Oh, if I might but attain the grace of humility! If I might be utterly emptied of my self-love, - so that I could think honestly and soberly of myself as a mere tool to do any work the Almighty may be pleased to appoint for me, - oh, for this I would willingly and joyfully sacrifice all hopes of fame, power, success of any kind, that it may be in me to obtain. Oh, to be clothed with humility!"

The next entry is a year and a half later.

"What is meant by the pleasures of sense? What are those gross desires we are enjoined to subdue? It is not these things that separate me from God. I cannot understand the sort of need the saints of old felt for their savage penances, for their seclusion in rocks and caves, where they let themselves be wet with the dew from heaven, and the hair of their bodies grow like the skins of beasts. A sneaking, grovelling sensuality will eat into the heart, taking all virtue and strength out of it; but there must be a secret clinging to the accursed thing, if such mechanical aids are needed to cleanse the soul. There must be something gross and grovelling ingrained, when sensation is required to stifle sensuality. Unless the heart is in earnest to know no pollution, unless the determination to be pure springs up from the very centre of our being, there is no hope for us.

"That morbid beauty, the half sensual half intellectual guise which emotion takes, filling the heart with a luxurious melancholy, is the beauty of the charnel-house - a beauty not purified with life, but tending to dissolution, its form speedily to be effaced, and its beauty to be trodden out into slime and miry clay."

"Life! What is life? for what end was it bestowed on man? This question has been haunting me of late. I cannot answer it myself. Was it given that the holder of it might be happy? This mysterious and magnificent endowment for such a poor and impotent conclusion? It cannot be, for even I myself can scorn the idea of happiness. 'Majestic pain', an earnest labour, is far rather to be desired; they are indeed blessed, beyond happiness, who have a task given them to do, and who can work, not having their ownselves as the end and centre of their task, but who are willing to spend and be spent for the accomplishment of their labour.

"Let all desire for my own ease, for my own consequence, perish! Let me only find a work worthy to be done, that I may be able to press onward to the mark of my high calling. Let there not be a single feeling of my heart kept back from the perfect surrender I desire to make of myself unto Thee, oh my God! I desire only to be obedient, to do the work thou mayest appoint for me, to be as one with Thee!"

"Pleasure! happiness! There is an austere and majestic beauty in the abnegation of passionate and sensual emotion, which no indulgence of them can bestow, a keenness of perception, a godlike power. Genius is in its nature ascetic, the master and not the slave of passion. That genius which takes its rise in passionate sensibility, and the strength of indulged passion, has a certain earthly beauty indeed; but it leads to sickness and satiety. The glorious colours left by the departing sun, fade away into dullness and darkness.

"There is, if people only knew it, a voluptuousness in the subjection of passion, in the being king over one's own heart, of which they who yield to temptation never dream. It is like the perfect health which follows the rough training of a prize-fighter."

"They who cling to worldly prosperity as if it were the one thing needful to be desired after, who consider 'what they shall eat, what they shall drink, and wherewithal they shall be clothed' as the great problem that life was given them to resolve, - who look on their powers of intellect as the tools which are to obtain for them a portion like Benjamin's, seven times greater than that of their brethren, - these, and such as these, are destined to be servants and slaves to those who can renounce and trample on things deemed so precious. They are the kings of the earth, and in their ranks are found all who stand eminent above their fellows; 'whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are of good report, if there be any virtue, if there be any praise,' it is achieved by those alone who belong to this class.

"Strong passions to teach the secrets of the human heart, and a strong will to hold them in subjection, these are the keys of the kingdom of this world and the next."

The reader will be able to gather from the above disjointed extracts, the prevailing tone of Everhard's mind during the first period of his college life. Neither his moral nor intellectual powers had come to maturity; but men change less than is imagined; their after life is only a kaleidoscope combination of the elements of their character at the period of adolescence. No event worthy of record occurred till about a year after the period of our last extract. When Everhard had been five years an inmate of the college, a letter from his brother came, which we shall lay before the reader, as it contained news of some interest.

"Sutton Manor House

"My dear Everhard,

"I have not written to you of late so frequently as I ought to have done, but I hope you will not set it down to any want of affection, as that is by no means the case; but I have had my mind a good deal occupied for the last three months.

"I think (and have no doubt but what you will agree with me) that as the head of an old family, it becomes me to marry (not but what my mother has presided admirably over all that belongs to the female province). When I was in London lately I met with a young lady, who in every thing seemed adapted to make me an admirable wife. She is the niece to Mr Gifford, of Gifford Castle, in Devonshire, who married a very beautiful Greek lady some years ago. Every body says Mrs Gifford is very clever, but to my thinking, she is neither so handsome, nor so in every way what a woman should be as Marian is. She has large flashing black eyes, which have a kind of bold, saucy look, very different from Marian's, which are light blue, very modest, and downcast, with soft brown hair. She is so gentle and amiable, I am sure you will like her, - nobody can help it, she is so good. She is rather romantic, and very fond of me, which, strange to say, I rather wonder at sometimes. I have had to write her a great many letters, for she likes those sort of things, and that has taken up a great deal of my time, and prevented me writing to you; you know I am not a great scribe. However, I hope the time is near when my letters to her may cease, for seeing one another all day long is much more satisfactory than the best letters that ever were written (and hers are quite beautiful).

"We shall be married, I expect, in a very few weeks from this time. My mother, of course, will continue to live with us, for the house would not seem to be right without her. I shall go to London almost immediately, for Marian's friends all live there. She has no parents, but resides with her uncle, Mr Gifford. He talks of coming to pay us a visit in the autumn, and of bringing Mrs Gifford with him. I hope we shall be able to make all comfortable for them, but I wish you could be here then, for I never feel quite easy with Mrs Gifford, though she is very gracious to me, but somehow she never seems to care about any body, and perhaps you might be able to talk to her in her own way, for of course any body would be glad to listen to you; - but Marian is not at all a fashionable lady, so you need not be afraid of her. My mother, I should tell you, is quite agreeable to the marriage, she considers it a very good connexion, and in these days it is the duty of every good Catholic to consider that we ought never to forget the interests of our religion in any thing that we do.

"I have new furnished the drawing-room. The little room that used to be your study, is fitted up as a private sitting-room for Marian. My mother will have a set of rooms to herself in the gallery that leads to the chapel.

"It is quite time I should end this long letter. My mother sends you her love and her blessing, and

   "Believe me, dear Everhard,

      "Ever and always,

         "Your affectionate brother,

            "LOUIS BURROWS."

Everhard lost no time in sending a letter to his brother, full of affectionate congratulations; he also conveyed a mark of consideration to his fair sister elect, in the shape of a splendid cameo necklace, though Louis, with a lover's pre-occupation, had neglected to inform him of the family name of the fair Marian.

He was glad that in his home things were going on so happily, but it was a happiness he regarded in his own mind with something like contempt. We make some further extracts from his private memoranda, and the reader can judge for himself.

"What a poor thing all the happiness of this world is! We often feel disposed to envy a man for being happy, though at the same time we should for ourselves utterly despise the thing that renders him so.

"My brother is going to be married: he seems overflowing with gentle pleasure and egotism: ever good-natured, he shows his disposition to make every one else who comes across his path a sharer in his happiness, that he may see nothing out of keeping; - but he can enter into no feeling unconnected with himself, - he can see nothing but himself, and the fair creature he has chosen for his bride. Has Heaven bestowed everlasting souls on men, and sent them upon earth for no better purpose than to marry and be given in marriage? Is the circle of man's aims and duties comprised in living in a country mansion, and doing the duties of hospitality to neighbours as full of conventionalities as themselves? to hunt, to fish, to preserve game, to legislate on turnpike roads, to send poor vagabonds to the stocks, - and after a life of sensual trivialities, to die, and lie under a painted monument? Is it the highest duty of which a woman is capable, to see that her house is well swept, her dinners well ordered, her servants well trained, and her children kept beautifully dressed? and yet, is not this the sum of what the majority consider life was given them to accomplish? - do all accomplish even this? True, there is in the world much more wanting to be done - but is it the people leading a secular life who will do it? The cares of this life, and the deceitfulness of riches, choke the inner life out of them.

"What is there that really deserves to have a life spent in doing it? What is there that will not prove in the end, 'Spending money for that which is not bread, and labour for that which satisfieth not?'

"I can feel no interest in the things of this world. How daily does my thankfulness increase, that I and my labour will be absorbed into the Church. What is there on earth to be compared to her?

"Is the love men bear to their wives and children to be compared to that which I feel for the Church? Oh, I feel, I know that I have it in me to devote to her all the energies of my nature. I only know that I am a man of like passions with other men, by the intensity of my love for the Church. She is not an abstraction, as the profane deem, but a living and glorious creature. What object should I have in all my strivings after wisdom and knowledge, if all were not for her sake? it is she who gives a meaning and a value to all I attempt.

"Even infidels are struck with the fascination of the Church, which, terrible in her beauty, stretches her influence from age to age, 'from the rising of the sun to the going down of the same'. As vitality pervades, and takes the shape of the visible universe, so does the religion which came down from God take the form of the Catholic Church, to make itself visible to mortal eyes. She works on, like the operations of the natural world, moving all resources, no matter how distant or how complicated, making them all tend to the furtherance of the same object: all under one wise and perfect governance, working unseen, without noise or confusion, and only recognised in the clear and perfect result: never wearying, nor stopping to wonder or glory over what has already been achieved, but continuing age after age in the same strong, grave, silent course, going on from strength to strength, as unsusceptible of change as the perpetual hills, or the everlasting framework of the earth itself. It is no wonder that 'nations come to her, and kings bow down before her!'

"What then must be her influence over the hearts of those honoured to be her servants? destined to be absorbed as living stones into integral portions of her glory and might!"

Our next extract is dated a year after the preceding one, and will serve to mark the change which was gradually working in his mind.

"It is well for me that my love for the Church, as an institution, is so strong and engrossing: for the love of religion for its own sake, which I had as a child, has of late been greatly modified.

"Four years of theological study have changed its aspect. From being a sacred and mysterious object of belief, it has come to be a collection of doctrines to be disputed, to be stated and proved by premises, to be handled, in short, like any other subject. The foundations on which its external evidences rest, have been laid bare to my eyes; they are to be defended against attacks; there are doubtful points to be skilfully covered, there is defective evidence to be supplied by elaborate argument. A habit of metaphysical subtlety has for ever stripped off the bloom of reverence and awe with which I formerly regarded religion, and it can never come back to me.

"Religion has no evidences independent of the Church; therefore the Church, as an artistical working out, an embodiment of vague doctrines, a gigantic frame work, whereby religion is made available to the wants of men, is all in all. We cannot be left desolate, not entirely orphans, whilst the Church remains with us."

Some months later.

"A strange state is coming upon me more and more. Is it that they who serve at the altar, are to have less faith in the oracles than they who worship in the outer court? My religion seems slipping out of my grasp; the more dim and impalpable that becomes, the more do I cling to the most holy and visible Church, that if so be I may merge myself into her, and by passionate clinging to her, I may press out all disbelief.

"I lay hold upon her with the desperation of a man, who by that grasp alone is suspended over the abyss. If my belief and trust in the Church give way, then indeed I shall fall, and go, I know not whither. Tomorrow is my ordination - I have passed my final examination - I have received compliments on my theological knowledge! Oh mockery, to buy theology at the price of religion.

"I will think no more on these things - After to-morrow I am a vowed servant of the Church - I will do her work faithfully - I have no right to my own judgment - I will make an 'act of obedience', and submit that, along with all my other gifts to her will. I will stay myself upon her, and will she not as a tender mother save me from this horror of great darkness, that is coming upon me?"

We find by the record of the college books that, on the 17th of April, 17--, Everhard Burrows was ordained a priest. The same day he was offered a professorship in the college: it was a great honour for one so young, and he gladly accepted it, as his inclination led him to prefer a college life to any more active or public career. Eight years had passed over between his entrance into the college, and becoming a professor in it.

CHAPTER XIII

Gifford, Zoe, and the two children, with the train of misses, ladies' maids, and other servants, proceeded at once to Chelsea, where Gifford had hired a handsome and commodious house, ready furnished, in a stately row fronting the river, and dignified by the name of the "Manor House". There was an entrance by a glass door into a large hall, paved with black and white marble, which opened on the opposite side by another glass door into a garden of very spacious dimensions for the neighbourhood of London.

Zoe was delighted with the situation, and quite scandalised the sedate Gifford by the eagerness with which she searched out all the traditions connected with the neighbouring localities, and which he declared were not fit to come to the ears of a respectable woman. But the current of Zoe's taste having for the moment set in for secret memoirs and scandalous gossip, his remonstrances were of no avail. One day he solemnly committed to the flames a choice French copy of De Grammont's Memoirs, which Zoe had that morning discovered in an old book shop, and which unfortunately fell in his way as he was waiting for her to come down to dinner. The flames were curling round it when Zoe entered hastily, exclaiming, "Dear me, Mr Gifford, what a terrible smell of burning there is here! Has any thing caught fire?"

"Nothing, madam," replied Gifford severely, "but what ought to have been burned long since by the common hangman; how often am I to declare that I will not have such books in my house?" At the same time he thrust the unfortunate book still deeper into its flaming bed.

Zoe was terribly annoyed, but as she saw there was no possibility of rescuing her book, she did not go into a useless passion; after a minute's silence, she said, "Well, I see you are determined, I shall make what you Catholics call an 'act of obedience' - but you will set the chimney on fire - do let the butler carry it into the kitchen, and let it finish burning there; the lower regions are the fittest locality for such a sacrifice."

Gifford, who had hardened himself in the expectation of a torrent of reproaches, finding both his wrath and his wisdom turned aside, looked a little confused, and perceiving too, as she said, that he had well nigh set the chimney on fire, he told the butler, who just then entered, to see to it, and walked silently into the next room to dinner.

Zoe did not once allude to what had passed, nor showed any discomposure; and by her self-control prevented a quarrel, in which even a good woman might have thought herself justified. However, we are bound to confess that she bought another copy of the same work the very first opportunity, and of which she took better care.

Gifford had, in his own way, both ambition and vanity; as a Catholic he could not enter parliament, which he would dearly have liked, being strongly addicted to making long expositions of his own views and opinions; he was a sensible, sound judging man, only very ponderous, but that did not prevent his being regarded as the leader of the Catholic party in England. His great object in visiting London, was to bring about the means of introducing a Catholic mission into Devonshire, and to obtain the requisite sanction for erecting a college on his estate. His annual income was large, and the economy which had marked the administration of Miss Rodney, enabled him both to support a handsome establishment in London, and to contribute largely to his favourite project.

All the leading Catholic families called on Zoe as soon as she arrived at Chelsea, and the Duchess of N---- offered to present her at the next drawing-room. Gifford was much gratified, and to Zoe's great delight, so far from making any objection, had the family diamonds reset, and made her a very handsome present, in addition to the sum he usually allowed her, to meet all extra expenses; and, as he was in the way of being generous, he selected an elegant "esclavage"; an ornament in those days much coveted and fashionable, gallantly saying it was to make amends for his rudeness in burning her book.

Zoe was, as we have told the reader many times, eminently beautiful; but as the costume of that day is not in accordance with our present notions of the becoming, we shall not describe her court-dress, but only declare that it was in the most approved fashion, and of the most costly material, and that she looked lovely in spite of it. Her appearance at court caused more sensation than any thing that had occurred since the presentation of the two fair Gunnings. In the evening the French ambassador (a personal friend of Gifford's) gave a large assembly, at which Zoe reappeared more radiant than in the morning; all the most noted men of the day crowded to be presented to her, and her chaperone, the Duchess of N----, could hardly keep the peace among so many suitors for her hand during the dance. However, the Earl of March led her out for the first minuet, - and the company climbed upon chairs and tables to see how she would acquit herself. The old duchess, who since the time of Zoe's first coming up to town, had seemed to consider her as her peculiar protégée, had strongly impressed upon her the claims of courtesies and carriage; Zoe, feeling by no means clear of her proficiency, had taken a few lessons from a celebrated dancing-master of the day, and though her skill was not altogether transcendent, yet, thanks to her natural grace and beauty, her success was decisive; it would have warmed the heart of the master of her old dancing-school to see the honour she did to his instructions. When she was led back to her seat, the old duchess graciously commended her, for she felt Zoe's success partly her own property. The Earl of March kept his station beside her chair to prevent any other person making himself too agreeable. Zoe for the first time listened to the conversation of a well-bred man of the world, and was astonished to find, that without a single wise or even witty remark, it was so thoroughly agreeable; however, all the conversation she heard that night had a peculiar charm, for she had never in all her life before been among people who admired her. The sudden burst from freezing indifference to the tropical heat of insane adulation, was enough to have turned a stronger head. Possibly, had Zoe known how very thankful people in general, fine people especially, are for any thing new or piquant to flavour the monotony of their lives, she might have been less grateful for the interest she excited. After the cotillions were over, the earl bounded up to one of the card-tables, and addressing a heavy-looking individual who seemed half asleep over his cards, said, "Come with me, and I will introduce you to her; - get somebody to hold your cards, they cannot have worse luck than with yourself, so open your eyes, and come along to look at a miracle."

"Pooh," replied the other, rising lazily from the table; "she is like the rest of women, I suppose - they are all variations on the same air - who is this you are talking about?"

"Why, good heavens, where have you been not to have heard of the new Venus who has come to visit us, nor how we have been witching the room with our noble dancing? where have you put your senses?"

"Whilst you have been in the seventh heaven, I have been in inferno, losing my money, - so how should I know any thing about you. Is that her by that old dowager?"

By this time they had made their way through the crowd, and March presented his companion to Zoe, who recognised the name as belonging to one of the most noted men of the time. Though she said little, her eyes gave him a flattering welcome, - but the announcement of supper gave her no time for conversation; soon afterwards, Gifford, who had been prevented coming before, made his appearance to take her home. His relationship to the new beauty was quickly known, and caused many remarks on their incongruous assortment.

"The idea of that little ugly fellow, old enough for her father, being the husband of that lovely creature! mais tant pis pour lui."

"My dear March, don't talk so loud, it is of no use to rebel against Providence. She is married any way, her husband holds her by divine right of legitimacy, which does not often sanction you; it is cheering to see virtue rewarded elsewhere than in copy-books."

"Is she not magnificent?" said the earl, paying no attention to his friend's discourse. "Since the Countess of Coventry, I never saw so lovely a woman; but she is a coquette au naturel, and Heaven help the man who falls in love with her! Ah, George," continued he, "if I had only your reputation now, I might present myself boldly before her to-morrow."

"Well," replied the other, "I can only say to you as somebody did to his son, who wished to be thought a great man, 'really be one'; so if you want a reputation, deserve it".

"Merci, non!" cried the other, laughing; "a reputation is a means, not an end, with a wise man; but see, my divinity is preparing to depart. I must not lose my privilege of attending her to the carriage." The graceful profligate moved off.

"Ay," cried a cynical-looking elderly man, who stood near, "you have met with your match. That woman is a thorough coquette, in spite of her engaging openness; she may have a heart, but it is out of one man's power to touch it. Heaven help any man, if she does chance to fall in love with him; he will have his hands full; we shall see the days of Dido and Cleopatra over again. But for beauty, she is nothing to the Countess of Coventry."

The current of Zoe's popularity had too strongly set in to be turned aside; and when she came down to breakfast the next morning, she was installed in the fashionable world as the recognised beauty of the season.

Henceforth, for some weeks, Zoe's life was one scene of brilliant success, amusement, admiration, and dissipation, which for a time dazzled her, and occupied every moment; but she was not among people likely to do her any good, or to obtain any permanent influence over her. Women gifted like Zoe often present instances of aberration from the standard of female rectitude. It is not that high talents are in their own nature inimical to the delicate and refined virtues, but they require, in proportion, a stronger and wiser guidance than they often get. The motives that influence the generality of women, do not touch women of high powers; they do not feel the obligations of those small moralities, the fear of "being singular", of rendering themselves the subject of "remark", which wholesomely qualify the love of admiration and display, in the generality of female breasts. They have more energy of character than is absorbed by the routine of duties women are generally called on to perform, and they have no channel in which their superfluous activity can be expended. Women seldom have their powers equalised and balanced by a thorough education, so it is not wonderful that one gifted with more strongly marked strength of character than the generality should have somewhat of the eccentric and irregular in her actions. Her strength resembles the undirected activity of a child, much promised, and nothing accomplished with it. Besides, women cannot, like men, correct their false and crude notions by intercourse with the actual world; from their natural position, they are prevented taking a broad view of things as they really exist. When a woman steps beyond her own domestic circle, into whatever scene she goes she is the subject of a social fiction: she is treated as a visitor, not as an inhabitant: therefore what a woman calls a "knowledge of the world" is only a fresh source of bewilderment, which, besides being in the highest degree undesirable, is confined to a coarse exaggeration of scenes, which undoubtedly do take place, but which lose their truth by being detached from the course of natural circumstances under which they occur. Women of the class we are describing have often a morbid curiosity for this kind of enlightenment; but it leads them no nearer to their object, viz., something to fill the void in their hearts and intellects. WHO are the only class of women who know the world best, who see it and mix with it in all its hard and appalling realities?

But this is a digression from the apology we were about to offer for the eccentricity which generally marks women of strong energetic character, who chafe against the harmless conventionalities which are a law to their weaker or better broken-in companions, whom they keep in a constant state of discomfort and fear, lest discredit should thereby be brought upon them. Such women are not wisely treated; if they were judged more kindly, and not looked upon with ill-natured criticism, ever on the watch to sneer and find fault, they would not only be saved from much heart-burning and bitterness of feeling (for no woman is insensible to blame whether deserved or not), but eccentricity would be kept from growing into faults of a graver kind, and they might mature into genial and valuable characters, who in times of trouble and distress would be able to support and guide those of a more fragile nature than themselves. Then would the strong sister amply repay to the weaker one the trusting forbearance she showed towards peculiarities she could neither understand nor sympathise with; at such seasons (and they are not of rare occurrence) would the weak ever find reason to rejoice that she had not fretted the strong-minded with petty unkindness; nor driven her out into the highways of the world, where she must have perished for "lack of knowledge". Zoe had no one to judge her kindly, not a single friend to deal honestly by her, and her eyes were not open to the real destitution as to every thing really to be desired in which she was living. Her life was divided between admiration and detraction; she was an object of curiosity and speculation to all, of friendly interest and regard to none. Her most extravagant admirers were those who said the bitterest things of her; no one understood her; her strong and undirected powers of mind had taken their bent at random, had struck root wherever they chanced to find soil. She had much crude information on many subjects about which women seldom trouble themselves, and was profoundly ignorant of the conventionalities of etiquette; yet it was a graceful ignorance redeemed from all appearance of niaserie by a coquetry which might have supplied a whole generation of the sex at once; with quick, artist-like perceptions of the beautiful, and strong passionate emotions gleaming up through all she said and did; but lying far down below the surface, so deep that they defied all the influences around her to rouse them up. For she was true to her own nature, and required something as strong, true, and integral as herself to move her, and she found no mate in the scenes around her; her innate strength kept her from contamination in spite of the handsome, well-bred libertines who surrounded her, and whose brilliancy was like the phosphorescent light streaming from corruption; yet she had an inordinate curiosity to see things and people as they really were, to know the world as women seldom have an opportunity of knowing it, and this kept her from being revolted at a tone of conversation, and a style of confidence, which men seldom feel inclined to address to a woman whose virtue keeps them in awe.

There was a constant speculation going on about her. She puzzled every one; those whom her peculiar style of beauty, and singularly tolerant manners, inspired with the most audacious hopes, were supremely astonished to find they made no way with her, though not a word of sentimental morality ever escaped her lips. She would talk brilliantly, and in a style which startled even the least severe women of society, and caused what they were pleased to call a blush, in the cheeks of women whose divorces and liaisons have become matters of history. Yet with all this, and married to a man whom she confessedly cared very little about, she was faithful in thought, word and deed - "the heart of her husband did safely trust in her" - and with reason. She was a devoted mother to her children, and never for an instant were either their comforts or their education neglected through her dissipation. Yet no one gave her credit for this, her correctness was never set down to her virtue, only to her being difficult to please.

Gifford was too full of his Catholic mission and his new college to pay her much attention. He was satisfied if she went into public, when he could not attend her, under the auspices of the old Catholic Duchess of N---- , a worthy and thoroughly respectable old lady, who continued her countenance to Zoe, in spite of imprudences which would have consigned any one else to the extreme penalties of female reprobation, because she hoped to convert her.

The singular Lady Elizabeth Craven, better known afterwards as Margravine of Anspach, was her great ally. Topham Beauclerk, who had married the divorced Lady Bolingbroke, and of whom Dr Johnson said, "that his mind was all virtue, and his body all vice", was perhaps the only one of the brilliant circle that surrounded her, who really did her justice; at first, he made some pretension to being her lover, but he soon had sense to see that she was not the sort of woman he had imagined, and he had the magnanimity not to resent his want of success.

He stood up for her on all occasions, both among his own set at White's, and in private companies; he did his best to check all scandalous reports about her, and did her all the good in his power. An anomalous sort of friendship sprung up between them; he prided himself on making her his companion, and telling her all the scandalous news of the day; he gave her a great deal of good advice, and told her many truths that women seldom hear, and must have perilled the peculiar divinity which "doth hedge" a woman, before they can be in a position to find of use. He was at any rate a most fascinating companion, and introduced to Zoe all the people worth knowing of his acquaintance.

George Selwyn, as famous for his kindly disposition as for his wit, went a great deal to her house, and she had the honour of knowing Dr Johnson during the last year of his life. The following letter, written by Zoe to her Uncle Oliver, will give a better idea of her character and way of life than many pages of description. Our most indifferent actions have the impress of individuality; we may convey an impression not to be effaced for years, by an unconsidered word, a gesture, nay, by our very silence, and we, all the time, unconscious of having done or said any thing at all: it is never by our deliberate actions that we persuade others to estimate us.

"Chelsea, 17--

   "Dear Uncle,

"Many thanks for your last letter, which ought to have been answered long since; but I have really not had time. I grant you that my time is filled up with trifles, but trifles are just as imperative for the moment as things of importance: on the same principle I suppose, that a fool is harder to deal with than a wise man. However, if you will scold me I shall be very glad, because the scolding must come in a letter, and I want to hear from you. You are very good in wishing me to come and see you - though you little know what you are asking for. I should certainly scandalise you, and drive poor Aunt Martha out of her senses; however, I will, if possible, come to you for a month in the autumn, and bring the children. I hope you will invite my cousin Sarah Anne and her husband and children: what a singular meeting it will be, and how the good man will bless his good angel that would not let him marry me! I give you notice, in order that you may not be startled, that I shall bring my finest finery, and my grandest manners to mystify them. Now, dear uncle, mind you arrange every thing well. I only hope poor little Sarah Anne will not have her head turned in good earnest.

"Like all other good people, you take great interest in the gossip about naughty ones. I shall of course tell you no tales about myself. I was at Newmarket last week; the Duke of Queensbury's horse won, and he was, besides, a winner to the amount of several thousand pounds, a matter of very little importance to him now, one way or the other; he would have been more thankful for his good luck if it had come some years ago. Topham Beauclerk says that there are a set of devils who preside over the dice, and who are named after the points, aces, sizes, deuces, and what not, and their duty is to come to every one who invokes them; but there are so many players calling out at once, that the poor devils, who cannot be everywhere at once, are obliged to go to people in their turn; consequently they often do not arrive till too late, and do as much mischief by their presence as they have caused by their absence; or come when the people don't care whether they come or stay away. As you have to deal with the devil and all his works, perhaps you can tell me whether this is really a fact.

"I had a grand party at my house the other evening, which, as the newspapers would tell you, is one of the most brilliant this season. The Countess of Cork was present, who is the most amusing oddity in the world. She never seems to mind any one but herself, and has very little patience, or ceremony either, with those whom she finds bores; but there is all the difference in the world between the piquant selfishness (for I suppose it must be called so) of a clever person, and that stupid indifference to every thing but yourself, which is the general aspect it assumes; one is willing to forgive a great deal to the person who has the grace to find us interesting, and one has hardly the philanthropy to wish that all the world should be equally well treated. Then there was the Countess of Coventry, a very good, respectable woman, but not specially handsome to my thinking, though she has the reputation of being a fine woman; but she is nothing to her predecessor, the beautiful Maria Gunning, who was her husband's first wife; those who knew her pay me the compliment of thinking me something like her. Then there was Lady Sarah Bunbury, who narrowly missed being married to the king; she is very clever, and certainly no one can deny her beauty; but I don't think she much likes me, she is always civil, but cold and stately. Lady E. Craven was here too, she is dreadfully picturesque, and has a mania for wandering about like Don Quixote's princesses. Selwyn, the wit, whose name you must know well, came also; he is a real good man, and he kept wide awake all the evening, which was a special miracle. By the way, Boswell will be in your neighbourhood shortly, and I shall give him a letter of introduction to you; he is worth your seeing for the sake of that great man. Tell Aunt Martha, who I know loves her novels, that I had Evelina, Cecilia, in one word, Miss Burney herself; she came with her father and one of her married sisters, and they brought the great singer, who is all the rage just now. I cannot say much that will satisfy my aunt's curiosity. Miss Burney is the most consequentially modest little damsel you can imagine; she seems to carry her fame about with her from a sense of duty, and to be almost sinking under the load; her bashful attempts to keep it out of sight, and to look unassumingly are truly comic. She receives all the ordinary compliments which people pay at first addressing her, au pied de la lettre she is very little and young looking; not very pretty, but she has a pair of bright black eyes; and she dresses with exemplary neatness, and would not have a pin or a plait awry for the world. There were a crowd of other people besides, all of much value and importance, doubtless, in their own eyes; but you would not care to hear about them. The evening, altogether, went off brilliantly, and has raised the reputation of my parties even beyond what it was before.

"Mr Gifford is quite well, and in high good-humour, his college goes on prosperously; he made me a present of china on my birthday, which has made me the envy of all my friends, nobody, except Horace Walpole, has any thing to be compared to it.

"I must not forget to tell you that my portrait by Sir Joshua is finished, it is one of his best. Gifford finds fault with the dress, but what should he know about the matter?

"The children are quite well, the air of Chelsea agrees with them. Give my love to my aunt, and wishing you, dear uncle, all sorts of health and happiness, believe me.

"Your affectionate niece,

"ZOE GIFFORD."

One morning, not long after the date of the above letter, Gifford entered his wife's dressing-room. She was lounging upon a settee at the open window, sometimes looking at the boats which were passing gaily up and down, and occasionally on the pages of a book she held in her hand. A little table covered with a dainty breakfast stood beside her. The room was full of elegant trifles, and perfumed like the Temple of Spring itself, by a large vase of choice flowers that stood on a marble slab. The chintz curtains were blown to and fro by the breeze from the river, and the morning sun glanced merrily on the radiant colours of a paroquet which was screaming in its gilt cage for the allowance of muffin its mistress usually bestowed upon it at breakfast. All looked so fresh and pretty, that Gifford paused for a moment to admire it. At length he said, "I am come to beg some breakfast and a short tête-à-tête with you, for you are so répandue in society, there is no finding you alone any other part of the day." Zoe smiled graciously, and having quieted her paroquet, proceeded to do the honours of the breakfast-table.

Gifford had evidently something on his mind which he wished to say, but did not know how to introduce. Zoe did not assist him by expressing the smallest curiosity; at length, when he had finished his last cup of chocolate, and Zoe evidently had no intentions of remaining any longer over breakfast, he mustered courage and began, "You are now such a grand lady that I hardly dare ask your concurrence in a plan I have long entertained."

"Is it about that everlasting college?" said Zoe.

"No, madam, it is not. It is about a niece of mine, the daughter of my only sister, who has just finished her education, and is now of an age to be introduced into society. She is coming to London next Tuesday, and will come here for a short visit; if you do not find her very disagreeable, I should much like her to reside here permanently, and to find a home with us; but I am far from wishing to force her upon you if you feel any objection to receiving her."

"But", said Zoe, almost bewildered, "who is she? Where does she come from, and what does she come here for so suddenly?"

"There is nothing sudden in the matter," said Gifford. "When my sister died, I promised her that when Marian was of an age to leave her convent, she should find a home with me. She has been for the last few months with her father's relations, but they are not persons with whom she can advantageously remain. She is some years younger than yourself, but you need not fear a rival in point of beauty."

Zoe made a scornful mouth, and shrugging her shoulders, said, "Of course if you wish it, I can make no objection; but girls of that age are a great annoyance. I dare say she will not be half so nice as dear little Clotilde, whom that old Miss Rodney keeps shut up in her stifling room. I wonder how you can leave the poor child by herself, without any companions. I think your niece would do her good if she went to keep her company; but we must make the best of her. I am sure I don't know where to put her, we have so little spare room, unless she takes Mrs Brown's room, and Mrs Brown must move up to the attics along with the rest of the servants. The Duchess of Devonshire's ball is next Thursday, so she had better come directly, that I may have time to get her a decent dress for the occasion."

"You are very kind, my dear," replied Gifford; "perhaps you will write to her yourself, and tell her she will be welcome; the poor girl is very timid."

"Ugly and awkward that means, I suppose," thought Zoe, but she did not say so, she merely said, "Well, leave me her address." The hair-dresser was now announced as waiting - and the husband, quite satisfied with his success, retired like a wise man.

Zoe was as good as her word, she wrote a very kind letter, and on the day appointed, sent the carriage to meet her. When she arrived, Zoe ran down stairs with some anxiety to see what she was like. A fair, slight girl was standing in the drawing-room beside the window; she was not exactly pretty, but there was a pleasing expression in her blue eyes, and her soft auburn hair fell in large curls round her neck.

"Thank Heaven!" thought Zoe as she kissed her, "the girl is not vulgar at least. I can do with any thing but that. Now, my dear," said she aloud, "come with me and rest yourself whilst we get better acquainted. You will see your uncle at dinner-time. Is your luggage all gone up-stairs? We must lose no time in seeing after the ball dress, but we will talk whilst you take some refreshment."

CHAPTER XIV

Marian Gifford was in every respect the reverse of her brilliant aunt; she was a gentle and romantic girl, not more averse to the prospect of dissipation, than the generality of girls at sixteen. She made her début at the Duchess of Devonshire's much to her own satisfaction, in a robe of white paduasoy, brocaded with silver. Zoe's acquaintance, anxious to find favour in her sight, vied in paying attention to her protégée, who, in consequence, had a great choice of partners.

Marian had a very tender heart, which was quite at her own disposal, and very much at the service of the first applicant - but unfortunately, she was not in the way of lawful lovers. Few, or none, among Zoe's set, were marrying men. The civilities that were shown to the niece, were for the sake of the aunt, who monopolised all the attention and admiration that any one had to bestow.

Poor Marian was not much to be envied; she went certainly into the best company, and had a sufficiently large allowance of balls, plays and masquerades, to have excited the envy of any Miss Larolles (vide 'Cecilia'); still Marian, after the first week or two, did not find much enjoyment; for though balls, and plays, and public breakfasts, may sound very gay and very dissipated, still there is nothing more flat and insipid when one has neither a special lover nor general admiration to give them a zest and significance. Marian found herself very dull, and not being a metaphysician, could not account for it.

She was thoroughly affectionate, and at first tried to be romantic about her beautiful aunt, but Zoe was too unimpressible ever to see it. She took great pains to make Marian understand that she must not make herself ridiculous by believing a man meant any thing by his civillest speeches, unless he made her an offer in plain words. She told her so many instances of men amusing themselves by flirting with young girls, without the remotest intention of marrying them, that poor Marian began to believe that a genuine lover was a blessing that only existed in novels.

Zoe, however, was very kind to her in her own way, took her everywhere, supplied her plentifully with dresses and trinkets, and never, by word or look, reminded her of her dependent position.

Zoe was too high-minded and generous to do any thing that showed a want of consideration; - but she was also too much occupied with her own affairs to take an interest in a girl of Marian's age; a real English girl as she called her; so poor Marian had no one to love her, and there was no one, except the children, to whom her love was of the slightest importance. The two children, indeed, were never easy when away from Cousin Marian, who would play with them for hours together, and would let them harness her to their carriage, and never weary of "being their horse"; still the heart of a girl of sixteen requires something more romantic to satisfy it.

At length, whatever Power it may be that has the office of rewarding the virtue there is going in the world, seemed disposed to acquit itself towards Marian.

She one night accompanied Zoe to a literary reunion at Mrs Montagu's. At first she had felt very much disposed to repine at the arrangement, because she wanted to go to the opera instead, as had first been arranged. We never know what is best for us.

She sat crushed into one corner of a sofa, listening with all her might to the speeches that were spoken by each one with laboured sprightliness, as a tribute to his own reputation for wit. She wondered in her ignorance why the same things could not have been said in a straightforward way, thinking, though she could not have put in words, that if insipid things must be said, they seem more respectable when they go a steady prose pace, than when they attempt the fantastic steps of a rope-dancer.

There were abundance of pictures and prints and curiosities laid about to be looked at, but they were on a table in the middle of the room, far distant from the corner where Marian was at anchor.

She had resigned herself to her lot, when her hostess approached from the other end of the room, followed by a good-humoured looking young man who seemed much afflicted with mauvaise honte. Addressing Marian in the most silken tones, she presented to her "Mr Burrows", spoke to her as "her most sweet, natural young friend", and assuring Mr Burrows that he would infinitely prefer her society to that of the more shining members of the gifted throng around, she glided off and left them together, with the comfortable persuasion on her mind that she had disposed of two of her dead weights for the evening.

Our old acquaintance, Louis, sat for a few moments silent before he could collect his senses to address his companion, but when he ventured to look at her, there was a sort of quiet, home-look about her, which infinitely relieved his embarrassment; and after another pause, he summoned resolution to tell her that the room was very full. The gentle assent that was given, emboldened him to say further, that he understood nobody came there but distinguished authors, or at least very clever people. This was said in a timid, half-rueful tone, which made Marian feel very much inclined to laugh, and she answered merrily, "Oh, no, they are not all authors, there must be some everyday people to look at them, and listen to the clever things that are said."

"Ah," said he, with a sort of little sigh, "I never read many books, and one feels the want of them when one comes to such places as these. Do you know the names of those who are here?"

"Yes," said Marian; "that is Miss Seward, - the thin lady who is speaking now; and that polite-looking gentleman is Mr Hayley; that lady in the red gown, is Miss Hannah More; and that elderly lady beside her is a very learned woman indeed, she is Mrs Elizabeth Carter, who translated Epictetus, - a Greek philosopher," added she, innocently, seeing that the face of Louis did not brighten as if she had conveyed any intelligence.

"Ah," said he again, "what a number of books there are one ought to read, and I never even heard of their names; have you written any thing?"

"No," replied Marian, half laughing; "I come here with my aunt, and for no merits of my own."

"Then we are equal," said Louis, greatly relieved. "I have a brother, though," continued he, "who has written a great many very learned books, and though you may not have heard of him, he is, I dare say, a great deal cleverer than any of the people here. I wish he were here, it would be in his way, and he could talk, and they would be glad to listen to him."

"I think," said Marian, colouring slightly, "that it must be your brother who wrote a book I like better than any I ever read; it is an abridgement from some large work of his, and my confessor gave it me when I left the country as the most valuable present he could make me. Is not your brother the Father Everhard of Rome?"

"Yes," said Louis, greatly pleased, "and it makes me feel quite friendly with you, to know you have read any of his books. I can hardly fancy we have only just met."

A very promising conversation ensued, in which he told her a great deal about Everhard, and the great person he was in the college at Rome, and the estimation in which he was held by the pope himself. As Marian seemed really interested in listening to him, he grew quite confidential, he told her about Sutton Manor House and the chapel, and that he hoped soon to have a resident priest; nay, he went so far as to tell her about the excellent coursing there was in the neighbourhood, and to give her a special account of his own favourite hunters. But suddenly he stopped in the full tide of his eloquence, and colouring like fire, said, "I quite forgot we are nearly strangers, and you must think me a fool for talking of my own things at this rate." He seemed half vexed at himself, till Marian thanked him for the forgetfulness which he was lamenting, and assured him it was very seldom any one talked to her about any thing in which she had felt so much interested; "The fact is", said she, "nobody here seems at all to care for what they are saying, they seem only to think how they may make fun of it themselves; and one gets so tired of people who only try to make one laugh." Then, in her turn, she told him about the relations she had left in the country, and found that he knew something about them; so by the end of the evening, when he handed her to the carriage, they both felt as if they had known each other all their lives.

"Why, Marian," said Zoe, as soon as they were seated, "you seem to have made a conquest; who is that you have been flirting with all night?"

"Oh, such a delightful young man, aunt, do you know he is brother to that Father Everhard of Rome, whose books you were reading the other day."

"Indeed!" replied Zoe, "I wish I had known, I should like to have spoken to him. - Is he clever?"

"Yes, I am sure he must be, he is so agreeable," said Marian. "I never had such a pleasant evening."

The consciousness of being admired always beautifies a woman, or at least, makes her look to the greatest advantage her case will allow. When Marian came down to breakfast the next morning, the glow of the evening before had not faded away. She was quite radiant as she gave her uncle an account of the party.

"Burrows," said her uncle, "Louis Burrows, why that is the name of the young man who brought me a letter of introduction yesterday, and I have invited him to dine here to-day."

"Marian, you are in luck," said Zoe, laughing, "you must mind and complete your conquest."

Marian was not a coquette, and yet it is an authenticated fact that she went up stairs a full hour before the dressing-bell rang, and came into her aunt's room when she was just descending, to beg that her maid might dress her hair, as she had pulled it down three times, and could not make it fit to be seen.

"Come, I will do it myself," said Zoe, good-naturedly, "you always look best when I dress you." Whether Zoe was successful in her undertaking is not recorded, probably she was, since Louis not only remained as late as he decently could, but contrived to find his way into their pew at chapel the next day, which was Sunday; and accepted with eagerness Gifford's only half expressed invitation to "walk in" when they came to the house door. In short, he contrived all sorts of excuses to be constantly in the way of Zoe and Marian wherever they went; lovers in those days were much more enterprising than they are now, or, as a good lady once said, "Love was the fashion then"; and matrimony too, it would seem, for Gifford very shortly received a formal request from Louis, to be allowed to pay his addresses to his niece. Neither Zoe nor Gifford raised any objections, in fact, the alliance was highly desirable in every point of view. So Louis came every day, and soon succeeded in making Marian in love with him to his heart's content. The children alone found fault with this happy state of things, for Cousin Marian had lost all inclination to sit up in the nursery, and had no more time to be their "horse". They both loudly expressed their joy when Louis had to leave town to make preparations for receiving his bride; but they soon found that matters grew worse; for the first few days after he went, Cousin Marian was very dull, and cried a great deal, which they did not at all like, and afterwards she was always writing letters, so, as Frederick, the eldest boy, said one day, they wished Burrows would come back, for he not only used to play with them sometimes, but cousin Marian always looked happy when he was there to talk to her, and keep her from being always writing. At length all was arranged, Louis came back to London, accompanied by his stately mother, who soon took Marian into high favour for her sweetness and docility. The house at Chelsea was in a bustle of preparation. In addition to her handsome outfit, Gifford had presented his niece with a thousand pounds as a marriage gift. Louis bought a handsome new family carriage, and the evening before the day appointed for the ceremony, a case of valuable jewels came directed to Marian. They were the family jewels, which the old lady had caused to be reset as her present to her daughter-in- law.

"Why, Marian, what is the matter with you?" said Zoe. "Louis will fancy that your heart fails, and that you are repenting, if he sees you with such a sorrowful face."

"I am so happy", replied Marian with a sigh, "that I feel quite afraid to think of it - it is almost like pain - what have I done to deserve so much? I have a sort of dread lest something should come between now and to-morrow. I never used to think much about death, and now it is the one thing in my thoughts."

Zoe looked at the young girl with surprise. She had always considered her as of a different nature to herself, and unable either to think or feel except in the most ordinary fashion: those few words seemed a claim to the sisterhood she had never acknowledged. There is the strong bond of humanity between both wise and simple, they are more alike than they fancy.

In a short time the lover appeared, and all misgivings fled before him.

The next morning rose bright and happy, a train of gay carriages full of wedding guests arrived: the important ceremony was performed, both according to the Romish form in Zoe's drawing-room, and afterwards, according to legal prescription, in the parish church of Chelsea. Then followed the wedding breakfast, after which the new married pair departed for their own home, leaving the ball which was to grace the day, to follow in its due season.

At length all was over, the guests departed, the lights in the dancing room extinguished. Zoe and Gifford were standing in the dressing-room we formerly mentioned; it was the only spot that had not been molested by the revels of the day.

"Poor Marian," said Gifford, "I hope she will not repent the step she has taken. She deserves to be happy."

"Poor Marian," said Zoe, "I think she is sure to be happy. I did not at all expect she would have made such a good match. How late it is. I am glad weddings don't come every day."

The day week after the event recorded above, Zoe found on her breakfast-table a letter sealed with black; it was from Clotilde, telling of the sudden death of Miss Rodney. It was very short, for the poor child was evidently in the deepest affliction; a few lines from the old priest gave a more particular account of the occurrence. The old lady had imprudently remained out of doors late in the evening, and caught a cold which had brought on a sort of croup, of which she died in a few hours. Gifford was much shocked, for he had a great respect for Miss Rodney, and knew how many worthy qualities she possessed; but he felt more than consoled in the idea that now they would all be obliged to return into Devonshire much sooner than he had dared to hope. The college was finished, and he was anxious to make the interior arrangements. He had grown woefully tired of the life of gaiety and dissipation he had been obliged to lead since their arrival in London, yet without this unforeseen event he would hardly have had courage to attempt to take his wife away from scenes in which she naturally found much more satisfaction than he did. It was with a slight trepidation, nevertheless, that he broke to her his wish to return at once to Gifford Castle; and he was both surprised and pleased when Zoe at once replied: "To be sure, we must leave London as soon as possible. Poor dear little Clotilde! how terribly lonely she must be in that old castle. I will write to her by this post to tell her she may expect us forthwith."

"I hardly expected to find you so willing to leave the scene of your triumphs," said Gifford; "but you are really very good whenever it comes to the point; what is the reason you take such pleasure in seeming worse than you are, as if you cared for nobody?"

"Because people are fools, and I feel a pride in imposing upon them," replied Zoe. "They are not worth wasting good feelings upon. I grudge even wearing real jewels for them. I rejoice when I can make them believe that my paste buckles are diamonds like my necklace."

"But that is a sort of insanity, madam; you injure no one but yourself, and you can have no satisfaction from it."

"You are mistaken," said Zoe; "there is great pleasure in feeling that I can see through all the people about me, whilst they know nothing at all about what I really am. What do I care whether they do me justice or not; so long as they can say nothing really bad of me, they may make as many observations as they choose; it is amusing to hear the nonsense they talk."

"Zoe, Zoe, you are like a child playing with fire, who declares that it does not care if it burn its fingers. You will be wiser some time, when you have ruined yourself in gaining experience; but allons - there is only an hour for writing our letters."

Zoe wrote an affectionate letter to Clotilde, - telling her that she should begin to make arrangements for leaving London that very day, and that she should quite rejoice to find herself in the old castle once more.

Zoe's preparations went on rapidly. She was too much of a woman not to have drawn some advantage from the alacrity with which she prepared to return into the country; accordingly Gifford had been made to reward it by purchasing a great quantity of handsome furniture to fit up her own apartments in the castle. This was all sent on before them. Zoe insisted, too, on taking back her French maid with her. She received an infinite number of perfumed notes containing odes, declarations, and desperations, in every approved fashion of elegance. She treated them all with great impartiality. She made them into a bundle, tied round with blue riband, and gave it to her husband, in order, as she told him, "That when she grew old and ugly, it might remain on record what a miracle of perfection she had once been!"

At length all was ready for their departure, and on a fine morning in August, the whole family started on their journey home.

It was a rich, mellow evening, the dark purple sky of night was blended with the golden and gorgeous light which the sunset had left behind, when the travelling-carriage entered the huge portal cut in the rock, which was the entrance to the castle grounds. The thick branches of the trees on each side kept out the little daylight that remained, except when here and there the rich gold light flashed from behind their dark boughs.

"How slow they go!" cried Zoe; "let me get out! - how delicious the air feels! It is like getting suddenly into one of Titian's pictures!" She was out in a moment, in spite of Gifford's remonstrances, and striking into a well-remembered by-path much nearer, but frightfully steep, she clambered up the flights of steps, and in about ten minutes she reached her garden terraces. The castle stood dark and shadowy in the deepening twilight, her pace gradually slackened, and she stood like one entranced. The glitter and noise of the scenes she had so recently left, contrasted strangely with the freshness and solitude of the place where she now was, and raised thoughts and emotions she had never known before. A feeling of reverence and worship arose in her heart, which made her feel as if all the latter part of her life had been one sacrilege; but she was aroused by the noise of the carriages entering the great court-yard, which reminded her that she had still a circuit to make before she could reach the gateway and join the rest.

They were not expected till the next day, and the old servants ran about in great dismay to light the lamps and set the things in order, whilst Zoe's French maid looked wildly about, thinking she had come to some bandit fastness.

Gifford, meanwhile, flew up the creaking oak staircase, and the flight of stone steps that led to Clotilde's oratory. There, unconscious of any arrival, or the bustle that had been going on, knelt his child before the crucifix, her fair hair falling over her throat and shoulders in full contrast to her deep mourning dress. She had been very lonely since Miss Rodney's death, and it was with a violent burst of tears that she flew to her father, and nestled in his arms.

Zoe and the two boys were not far behind, - they all joined in soothing her, and it was a happy group that sat down to supper in the old wainscotted dining-room that night.

CHAPTER XV

Mankind have ever fancied that they hold the reins of destiny; they have struggled, legislated, speculated, hoped, and feared, as if it had been laid upon each individually to keep the world from rolling to perdition.

Men are mostly divided into two classes, one who have their faces resolutely set towards the past, always prone to try the virtue of some "patent drag", and would keep peace by persecuting all expressions of diversity.

The other set incline to rush recklessly forward, always seeking some new thing, some special and compendious theory, for making men happy, and renewing the age of gold. Each set vigorously abuses the other, each accuses its neighbour of "being fatal to the interests of mankind". Meanwhile, the poor old world rolls on in her course, neither better nor worse for all this activity, which seems nothing more than the noise caused by the working of the machine.

In the early part of the 18th century these two parties were in collision. It had long been the fashion either to ask no questions, or to remain satisfied with the answers made and provided. There were then, as now, elaborate specimens of special pleading for the edification of such as inquired, all leading more or less ingeniously to the orthodox and authorised doctrines of the Catholic Church, for the Church legislated upon all points, whether of religion or Philosophy; consequently, independent opinions and private judgment, when they happened to be at variance with the declared code, placed their possessor under a ban; and the social brand that was placed on every one who dared to give ear to differences of interpretations, was enough to induce any but a saint or martyr to hold his tongue, or, at least, to veil his thoughts in discreet and doubtful words.

In this state of things, men were reduced to work off their superabundant activity by perfecting the mechanical detail of literature. Criticism was in repute and flourished; commentaries, notes, and quibbles, abounded on the glorious works of genius that had been written aforetime.

In matters of religion, men were obliged to find what nourishment they could for their souls in settling the Jansenists and the Bull "Unigenitus".

But a strong spirit of reaction was going on under all this.

The unbounded licence of manners at the time of the regency, prepared the way for a free utterance of opinion on all subjects. Voltaire arose, and the school of the philosophers and encyclopediasts. They attacked and turned into ridicule the outer works and external doctrines of Christianity; - they scoffed at scripture history, Church legends, and ecclesiastical authority, and destroying as they did with scathing wit, the prestige connected with those subjects, they imagined that they had entered a successful crusade against religion itself.

The genius and ability of the heads of the movement were unquestionable, but they gave in to a showy, uncandid, superficial way of treating their subjects, and it was no difficult task for the friends of Christianity to refute their cloudy declamations; still, they had struck a chord in the hearts of the people, and the belief in Christianity ceased to be what it had been of old.

Every candid mind felt that the theories set up by philosophers in lieu of Christianity, were false, wild, and impossible as a child's nursery-tale - yet every thinking mind felt also that there lay a deep truth amid all this error, though they might lack strength to distinguish it, and there was a feeling of sympathy with their speculations even in the hearts of those who might not agree to any one of their propositions.

Everhard lived when "infidelity", as the Christians phrased it, walked boldly abroad - when it was the fashion, the mark of a liberal education, to be sceptical.

The works of the encyclopediasts, of course, were read by him, for he was looked to by the Church party as one who promised to become their most powerful champion. He wrote a work, soon after he was elected professor, which had a prodigious success, and provoked a reply from Diderot himself; he had learning and eloquence, he could fight the encyclopediasts with their own weapons, and they felt that in him they had their most formidable controversial antagonist.

But whilst the orthodox party were loud in their praises, and the opposite party were forced into expressions of admiration at his skill, how did it fare with Everhard himself? He was heavy and dissatisfied, and disturbed at heart; he was conscious that those philosophers whom he had assailed with such energy, whose mistakes and false reasonings he had exposed with such pitiless sarcasm, had made at least one thing clear and palpable to him, had fixed in his heart a conviction from which he in vain endeavoured to avert his thoughts; he saw and felt that Christianity, and what we are pleased to call "revealed religion", as far as the external evidences go, rests on no better foundation than those of any other form of religious belief which ruled the world before it was promulgated, and has faded away from men's sympathies. He saw that, struggle to conceal the fact as priests and devotees might, the awe with which religious doctrines had hitherto been handled by the generality, was destroyed; the mystery in which they had been reverendly shrouded, was henceforth irretrievably rent away. He felt bitterly convinced that the Catholic Church - his idol the Church - was not a Truth, but only a form by which truth had once been made manifest, and finally almost obscured by ceremonies which had ceased to be transparent, - that it was ceasing to be the expression of men's adoration, - that it was no longer the form spontaneously assumed by their devotion. He felt wretched and confused; it seemed as if with the vanishing of the decaying temple, the God whose presence had once been felt therein, was passing away also.

When any thing strikes the mind as a truth, however distasteful it may be, or opposed to our former feelings, we have no option - the instant we see it as true, we are constrained to embrace it; - we cannot say we will or we will not - it is a necessity, and we must. The first distinctly recognised doubt is of the same kind; we may struggle against it as we will, but there it is, a wedge inserted into the very fabric of our faith, which splits to the foundation, and falls off from us, leaving us naked and trembling among its ruins. Everhard had loved his Church, had loved his religion as if it had been his life; it would have cost him less pain to have been a martyr than to doubt; he could have cried with Micah, "Ye have taken away the gods which I made, and what have I more?" But he was before all things a sincere man. That which had now come upon him, seemed to raise to distinctness a thousand voices which had for years been murmuring within him; that which was within was leagued to that which was without; all the misgivings of old against which he had struggled, now flashed clear into distinct disbelief. But who may paint the distracted, discordant thoughts that crowd into a heart which is beginning to be severed from its life-long worship and belief? The fear - the uncertainty - the tossing to and fro - the soul cast adrift from its anchorage - no God - no light - no hope - yearning after its old religion, yet having no faith to cling to it - and nothing to supply its place! All the dark questionings which hitherto had been kept like evil spirits bound in the depths by the power of the ineffable name, now that the spell which had held them was broken, rose up to have their time of torment - they came sweeping over his bewildered mind, till he trembled at the blasphemy which was in his heart, and loathed himself; but there was no escape. Who was there to deliver? - on whom now could he call? Oh, God! - hast Thou indeed made all men in vain! He flung himself on the ground in agony, and gave vent to his anguish in groanings which are not to be uttered.

Day after day passed on; but no light broke on his darkness; the very foundations of his being seemed broken up, and out of course; he was desolate, but the calm of desolation was not yet his. In this state of mind, the thought of John Paul Marston came across him, and completed the measure of his perplexity. "Is there no difference", he exclaimed, passionately, "between right and wrong? Is every thing alike? Have I all my life been wrong, and he, the hypocrite, the sensualist, has he been right? Surely I have cleansed my heart in vain, and washed my hands in innocency?"

But his mental struggles at length affected his health; he was seized with a brain fever, and lay for many weeks between life and death.

When Everhard began to regain his consciousness, he had a confused idea of being in a state of "mortal sin"; he seemed to labour under a terrible nightmare of crime, of which he could give no account to himself.

"Deeds to be hid, that were not hid,
And all confused, he did not know
Whether he suffer'd or he did,
But all was sin, and fear, and woe."

His bodily weakness was, however, too great to allow him to think collectedly, and after many fruitless efforts to arrange his thoughts he gave up the attempt, and resigned himself to that dreamy, passionless state, which the entire prostration of bodily strength brings along with it. This again gave place to the irritable impatience of imperfect convalescence, that most weary condition in all this weary life.

When he at length left his bedroom for the first time, and descended to his little parlour, the sun was streaming through the open casement, but shaded by large vases full of flowers and green branches, which some of the students had arranged, in order that all might look cheerful to welcome him back amongst them again. A spring of joy gushed up in Everhard's heart as he looked out on the glorious prospect, a pleasurable sensation of existence poured in upon him, for the time bearing down all sense of sorrow.

The Prince de Ligne says, that one of the three happy days of his life, was the one on which he first went abroad after having the small pox. Everhard experienced the same kind of feeling, he wondered what it was that could have made him wretched; but in that self-same hour, it seemed as if that burst of joy had only raised him up, to cast him down still lower into the depths from which he had for a moment emerged: a sudden darkness fell upon the face of nature, he recollected that he had not now the God towards whom beforetimes in such scenes as the present, he lifted up his thoughts; he had no religion now to give significance to the appearance of nature: the prodigal wealth of life and sunshine, which pervaded all things, had become to him only a vast enigma; and the broad surface of beauty spread over all, barely concealed the dark and inscrutable abyss over which it was flung. The thoughts of his past life, and all the labours in which he had delighted, rose up before him, striking his mind with a morbidly vivid conviction of their worthlessness. What was there now left for him to do in the world? He wished in his heart that he had died as he lay sick upon his bed.

The next day there was high mass in the chapel, at which he had to assist to return thanks for his recovery. He ascended the altar and heard the organ pealing "Gloria in excelsis", and he felt himself an apostate, having no part nor lot in the hopes and worship around him. All the reasons which had led him to this change had vanished for the moment; nothing remained but the sense of having by his own act cut himself off from the congregation.

To stand among the ruins of our home after it has fallen a prey to the spoiler, is a calamity so heavy that there are no words by which its bitterness can be expressed; but even that is a light thing compared to standing among the relics of a religion, under which we once dwelt in safety, none making us afraid, but whence we have been obliged to go forth, confused and trembling, to encounter the mysteries of life and death as best we may, alone, in utter ignorance, without either a hope or a belief to guide us, or any God to whom we may cry for help. This calamity was Everhard's.

The service proceeded until it came to the "Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis", the "Dona nobis pacem" came in notes which were the very embodiment of human misery and human appeal, in tones that gave utterance to all the inexpressible emotions of a soul prostrate before its God. Everhard's heart was cloven by that prayer; it was the voice of his own soul, crying in its agony; but WHERE could he go? To whom could he appeal? There was none that answered, neither any that regarded; "The God that heareth prayer" had for him departed thence. Then came the recollection of the blessedness he had formerly known at such seasons, when as a child, at the elevation of the Host, he believed that God had indeed descended to be bodily present with men; he felt that if this belief might but come again he could never know sorrow more.

Everhard's infidelity, apostasy as some might call it, was the strongest test of his sincerity that could be given - a test far beyond that of martyrdom. The whole economy of life was deprived of the clue by which he had hitherto guided himself, and his feet were left "to stumble amongst the dark mountains". Added to all this, there came doubts and misgivings whether, along with the support of his religion, he should not also be deprived of his moral integrity; whether, though at present his whole soul recoiled from the idea of sin, he might not eventually be "let alone" to plunge into all the unutterable pollutions that are rife among men. This fear haunted him like madness. Strange as it may seem, a sense of guiltiness for his unbelief pursued him; he had no religion, and yet his whole soul yearned after God.

To perfect his convalescence, which his mental uneasiness much retarded, he accepted an invitation from the Prince de B---- to spend a short time at his villa on the Tiber. A large party was assembled there, some distinguished foreigners, and several artists and poets, all were men of note. The princess, his wife, was there also, with a circle of ladies, rendering the whole place like an Armida palace. The gardens, which were laid out in the old Italian fashion, were filled with statues, fountains, and stately terraces; it was not in the heart of man to resist such enchantment, and yet to Everhard all seemed like the treasures that Solomon got together, to prove whether there were any thing good for the sons of men to do under heaven; and as the answer had once been obtained from Destiny, it seemed to him a strange infatuation to go on repeating it to all eternity. His invalid condition gave him the privilege of being much alone, and he availed himself of it to keep himself aloof from all the wit and merriment going on around him.

The window of his sitting-room opened on to a lawn of elastic moss, covered with wild aromatic plants; a little beyond was a grove of myrtle and orange trees. One evening he had been walking up and down the broad path beneath their branches, and when he emerged from the grove the moon had risen high in the heavens, surrounded by stars, and bathing all beneath in a flood of silver radiance. The glory of the scene struck upon Everhard, as if now, for the first time, his eyes were opened to behold it. His heart overflowed within him; by an uncontrollable impulse, he prostrated himself upon the ground in an agony of speechless devotion.

The absolute need of some Being to whom he might give thanks - whom he might adore - pressed upon his soul, as upon a man who is suffocated for want of air to breathe. His passion found itself way in tears and inarticulate groans. The presence of the Invisible was upon him.

How long he had lain there he knew not, but he was roused by hearing the sound of voices and light laughter, mixed with the tones of a guitar, coming in that direction. He sprang up, and took quick refuge in his own apartment.

The spell was broken; but though he did not regain the rapture of devotion, the blessed influence remained behind, and for the present at any rate, the blackness of despair, "the darkness that could be felt", was lifted from his heart.

End of Volume I

ZOE

VOLUME II

CHAPTER I

When Everhard returned to Rome, which was a few days after the occurrence related in the last chapter, the first thing he did was to send and request an audience with the superior. He determined to explain the change which had taken place in his views, and to submit to his decision the course he ought to pursue. A blind instinct of integrity alone remained to guide him: he saw his future course no further than this one step, this interview with the superior: as to how or where it would lead him, he was unable even to form a wish. The superior was in the apartment where Everhard had been received on his entrance in the college, and in which, with a beating heart, he had undergone his examination. The portraits of former pupils who had become distinguished men, still hung on the walls around, and Everhard's own portrait, in his professor's robes, had recently been added to their number, by the command of his Holiness himself.

The superior received Everhard with great courtesy, and expressed sincere pleasure at his restored health. Afterwards he began a light conversation on the topics of the day, made many inquiries after the Prince de B----, and showed much curiosity about the distinguished guests who had been of the party; but Everhard was constrained and absent, showing by his replies how little he had understood of the questions. He was thinking how he should introduce the object he came about, amidst the trivial discourse that jarred upon him like the sound of a revel on the ears of a sick man. At length, with a sort of half smile, he said, "You must think my illness has left me strangely imbecile; but the fact is, I am come to speak to you on other matters than these. I came to speak to you about myself; to submit myself to your authority."

The bland, gossiping manner of the superior became instantly changed for a mechanical, business-like austerity, and, inclining his head slightly, he intimated that he was prepared to listen.

Everhard paused for one moment, and then, making an effort, he gave a distinct account of the change his opinions had undergone: not the process through which he had reached his present condition; for he instinctively felt that his auditor could comprehend nothing of it: but he spoke as to his superior in the Church, who had the power to decide on his future connexion with that body. "Now, Father," he concluded, "you will take what steps you see fit to dismiss me from among you. I submit myself unreservedly to you; for the solemn vow of obedience which I have taken, cannot be cancelled by any personal change of sentiment."

"My dear friend," replied the superior, in some dismay, "you must surely be labouring under the effects of your fever! What has come over you? You, our most able champion! you must not give way to these fancies. They are, no doubt, temptations from the Evil One, with whom you have so manfully fought, and he has prevailed to wound you. Do not give ear to them. We are all liable to such delusions; I myself, if I dared to give way, should soon be in your state; but I do not suffer my mind to dwell on those matters. Keep yourself quiet for a few days, and just make an 'Act of Faith', and you can pray to Our Blessed Lady to dissipate these shadows; but that, no doubt, you have done; and a - struggle against unbelieving thoughts, and - a - you will be restored to your right mind in a little while. We will not let you throw yourself out of the reach of succour. You must not depart out of the pale of the Holy Church for fancies like these. There is much work for you yet to do: the people must have a form of doctrines; a worship that will gather them together; and you can have no call to instruct them in subtle doubts, that lead to no result. Even if you did, you have nothing to give them instead of the religion they have been brought up in. Our Holy Church is a fold for the people, and they must be gathered together into it, or perish among the wolves in the wilderness. You are in an excited state of mind. Keep yourself quiet, and make an 'Act of Faith', as I said; you will find comfort from it no doubt. And now I have urgent business, and must pray you to excuse me." He accompanied Everhard a few steps towards the door. The interview was over, and in a few moments Everhard was in his room alone.

It is to be questioned, whether there is a matter of any real importance under the sun. We see what costs us days of anxiety and nights of sleeplessness, treated as a thing of no moment by people who are just as well able to judge of it as we ourselves. If one could only realise this, it would go far towards making us take every thing much more quietly than we do. Everhard felt that what had shook his inmost soul to the centre, was of no consequence to any one but himself. Two days afterwards he received a message requesting him again to go to the superior's apartments, who, after a few words of inquiry about his health and state of mind since their last interview, proceeded to inform him, that he had been appointed by his Holiness himself on a special and confidential mission to Paris, in which dexterity and despatch were both required: there were only a few hours to prepare for the journey. Everhard received his instructions, and in less than two hours he had quitted Rome, not sorry to have his thoughts diverted to other objects. During his absence a communication came from Gifford, stating that his college was now built, and entreating that some able and zealous man might be appointed head of it. Much was said of the opening afforded for a mission in that part of England.

"Everhard Burrows, the young professor in the English College, will be the very person to fill this position," said Cardinal Morosini, the friend and favourite of his Holiness, whom he had consulted on the subject of Gifford's request.

"I don't know," replied the Pope, doubtfully; "they tell me that all these controversies have shaken his faith. It is not wise to send uncertain men to fill places of trust, and if this Everhard takes it into his head to turn round upon us, we shall have our hands full, for no one could make head against him; and, besides, his defection would make less éclat where he is now, than if we elevated him to a conspicuous station; where it would not say much for our gift of discerning of spirits."

"There is a flaw in Everhard's faith, as regards religion, certainly," replied the cardinal, returning to the charge; "but not as regards the Church. He is not prepared to leave that; at least not at this present time, and it would be highly unwise to suffer him to depart from it; secure his allegiance by giving him a place of trust; his liberalism in matters of religion will recommend him to the people he is to go amongst; it would not do to send a bigot, as matters stand at present. This Everhard is an Englishman, to begin with; he will be able to conciliate and disarm suspicion and distrust, and establish the Catholic faith on a footing that can be made the most of hereafter. His works are in great repute in England, even amongst the most ultra Protestants; they look upon him less as a Catholic priest than as the champion of Christianity."

"Well," replied the Pope, "if we could but feel sure that he would keep his doubts to himself; but he has a strange mania for being sincere, which with him, as with every body else who takes it up, means saying the most inconvenient truths, at the most inconvenient times, to other people; and he has a disregard for consequences that is quite appalling. Truth is not a virtue intended to grow wild in the highways of the world; it ought not to be administered without due authority; otherwise it may act as a deadly poison; you know what Solomon said, 'I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence.'"

"Everhard is an enthusiast in his own way, your Holiness," rejoined the cardinal, "and we want men of that stamp among us."

"There again," replied the Pope, "enthusiasm is too mighty a power to be trifled with, according to the caprice or judgment of one man; there is no directing it, or calculating on its effects. When great masses have to be moved, and the progress of events is on a large scale, enthusiasm is necessary. In early ages, when the machinery of society is coarse and simple, halting and hitching at every turn, it needs the outbreak of a wild enthusiasm to overcome the friction, and get the machine to move onwards at all. But, in the present day, where the affairs of the world are complicated by innumerable individual interests, where every thing is fine drawn and elaborated by a thousand different influences, where no single action is impelled by a simple motive, and the whole mechanism of life is so complicated, a burst of enthusiasm, no matter about what, would break up the existing order of things, and destroy in an instant the elaborate policy of years. In these days of ours enthusiasm is not safe. There is neither strength, nor knowledge, nor device left in the world to direct its course, to shape its ends; we are not strong enough to stand against its first outbreak; it would sweep every thing before it up from the foundations. Nevertheless," continued he, after a pause, "perhaps the best thing we can do with this Everhard will be to make him superior of this college."

So the appointment was made, and on Everhard's return to Rome he found all prepared for his departure, and his professorship filled up. After a most gracious audience of leave taking, he departed for England.

Everhard would have preferred paying a visit to his brother, before going to see his new college, but his orders were to proceed at once to Gifford Castle, as soon as he landed.

It was a bright autumnal evening when he drew to the last stage of his journey; he left his luggage to follow him, and getting out of the chaise, proceeded on foot towards the village of Culbone, in the neighbourhood of which Gifford Castle was situated.

The mountains were tinged with the hues of sunset, and the corn-fields were vying with each other in their golden beauty. The first thing that strikes an eye long accustomed to foreign scenery, on returning to England, is the peculiar freshness and richness of the green foliage; the green fields and trees of England are as peculiar to it, and as unapproached in beauty, as the sky of Italy.

It was a village holiday, nothing less than the Wakes; all the lower orders were abroad in their best and gayest dresses; the red cloaks of the elder women, and the many-coloured dresses of the young girls sitting in carts driven by their brothers and sweethearts, looking like gaudy beds of tulips, or walking along the road and seen glancing through the trees and tall hedgerows; the sounds of their laughing and talking resounded far and wide on the still air: now and then snatches of a song, shouted on the top of a rough, strong, but merry voice: the poetical-looking cottages with which that district of England abounds - all contributed to make Everhard feel, on returning to the land of his birth, that it indeed merited the epithet of "happy England". The sweet odours, that were borne to him on all sides by the breeze, intoxicated his senses. The face of nature again looked to him as he had seen it in his boyhood, she was again "a glory and a joy", and he felt that "light is indeed good, and a pleasant thing it is for a man to behold the sun."

It was not till night appeared in all her shades, turning to blackness what the sunset had left gold and purple, that Everhard fully awoke to the reality of his situation, and recollected that he must make the best of his way, or else his chaise and luggage would arrive without him at the castle. He quickened his steps and beckoned to a young man who was lounging near, to show him the nearest way.

In the castle, meanwhile, all had been hurry and business since the arrival of Zoe and the family. The great room, wainscotted with richly carved oak, was henceforth to be the drawing-room; an odd room for that purpose, certainly, with its four little corner rooms like cloisters peeping through fretted oak arches and balustrades; but still it was much more picturesque than the one that had hitherto figured as drawing-room, and which Zoe now took for the library. In a little time there was a most novel air of luxury and comfort which astonished the old domestics, and made them bode speedy ruin to their master from the extravagance of their mistress; though to do Zoe justice, the changed aspect of the whole place was much more owing to her own taste and personal exertions, than to any lavish expenditure. Sofas, couches, stands for flowers and shrubs, were all indebted to her hands for their graceful arrangements, which gave an air of recherche not always achieved by costly materials.

The children, assisted by Clotilde, planted flower-roots in the fancifully-shaped flowerbeds, and then they had their own little gardens where they might dig and plant to their hearts' content, undisturbed by any remonstrance from the gardener.

It was evening, and they were still working away at a fish-pond which was to match with a pyramid on the opposite side, when the elder boy, looking up, met the eyes of a tall, grave stranger fixed upon him with a mild yet somewhat absent look. He was leaning against a large tree, and had been silently watching them for some time with his thoughts far back in the past; - it was Everhard - and the present seemed like a revived scene of his own childhood.

The boy called the attention of the rest to the stranger, and Clotilde, who saw directly that he was a priest, invited him with great reverence to go with her to the castle. As they proceeded, Everhard tried to make friends with the children, but the boys looked shyly at him and lagged behind, peeping curiously at him when they were not seen, and looking in great confusion on the ground when he turned his head.

Clotilde regarded all priests with too much reverence to enter into any conversation with them, so they performed the short walk in silence. At the door they met Gifford, who, saluting Everhard with great courtesy, informed him that his chaise had just then arrived; he then conducted him into the house, where he proceeded to look for Zoe. They had to pass the chapel, the door was open, and they caught sight of a female form high up on the ladder, over which the light streamed in from a small painted window, making the figure look scarcely like an inhabitant of earth, for the mechanical contrivance of the ladder on which she stood, was almost concealed in the gloom; a silver lamp stood on a table near, which was covered with pictures and frames, and balls of crimson cord. Zoe was, indeed, standing as we have described, contemplating a picture of St Francis in the Wilderness, which had just been hung under her directions. On hearing the voice of Gifford, she quickly descended; her long hair, which was bound round her small Greek- shaped head, had half escaped from its confinement, and hung in heavy masses over her neck. The flowing Parisian négligée in which she was attired, the embroidered slippers, the bracelets on the round white arms beneath the hanging sleeves, marking the little hands which grasped a hammer, made a graceful and singular picture.

She received Everhard with a gracious cordiality, and apologised blushingly for having meddled with the chapel with what he might consider sacrilegious hands. Everhard told her that on the contrary, he was glad she took interest in such matters; and after viewing the new pictures, and also two splendid candelabras for the altar, the whole party proceeded to the drawing-room, where they had much conversation.

Everhard retired at night surprised at the interest he felt in Zoe; her very worldliness and coquetry seemed to sit upon her like graces. "Certainly", said he to himself, "she is far too good for the life she has hitherto led - full of passions and capabilities, which have as yet found no outlet." It is what may be said of many persons, for very few in the world have their passions adequately occupied; almost everybody has it in them to be better than they are, but it is only when we see beings so largely endowed as Zoe, wearing themselves out with the trifles of life, that the discrepancy strikes us forcibly enough to lament about. But Everhard was too weary with his day's journey to moralise that night, even upon Zoe, - still, it seemed as if a new element had mingled with his life.

CHAPTER II

The next day there were too many things to be done to allow Everhard to bestow any thought upon Zoe, who would hardly have believed her senses could she have known how completely the new college and its arrangements occupied his mind. Zoe with all her beauty, coquetry, and studiously arranged comings and goings, and lookings and sayings, were quite lost upon him; but Zoe never suspected the possibility of this, and accordingly, though she desired beyond measure to take the third place in the carriage that was to drive them over to look at the college, she would not propose it herself, lest Everhard "should suspect something". She therefore ordered her riding horse, and declared her intention of going in a contrary direction to pay a morning call; Gifford only said, "Well, my dear, if you prefer it, go there, and if you will order dinner half an hour later, we need none of us be hurried."

Everhard looked perfectly indifferent, and was quite unconscious that the arrangement was any thing but a matter of course.

The two gentlemen set off on their expedition, and Zoe annoyed, she could hardly tell why, went to perform her visit in no very good humour.

Gifford's intention in erecting a college, had been to supply a place of education for the sons of the English Catholic gentry, so as to obviate the necessity of sending them abroad; he hoped this would prove a means of raising the Catholic body in England from its depressed and broken condition. Trifling as the undertaking may seem in these days, it was at that time a singularly bold step. To keep silent evil tongues, and to avoid publicity as much as possible, he allowed it to assume merely the appearance of a school for Catholic boys, but it was regarded in head quarters (or they would hardly have sent over so distinguished a man as Everhard to be at its head) as the nucleus of a clerical seminary, where a class of priests could be trained and adapted to the genius and temper of an English mission.

Gifford had given the ground on which the building was erected, and had invested ten thousand pounds as a permanent endowment; he had also given the use of one of his valuable quarries for as much stone as was required. Contributions from other Catholic families completed all that remained to be done, and Everhard was agreeably surprised at the tasteful but unostentatious edifice which had been erected. There were accommodations for about thirty inmates, besides the president and four resident professors, who were to be appointed by Everhard. The grounds attached to the college were extensive and well laid out. Everhard warmly expressed his admiration, and congratulated Gifford on his success.

"It must", said Gifford, "seem strange in the eyes of the world, (if the world takes the trouble of thinking on the subject) to see one so distinguished as yourself, the master of a boys' school, but we do not judge things according to their outward appearance; if by your instrumentality this place is honoured to become a home where a race of priests may be trained in wisdom and prudence, to overcome the enmity with which Catholics in this country are regarded, it will be as noble a work as any that would sound your name from one end of the world to the other; and I feel convinced that our holy religion will yet raise her head even in this apostate land."

"I think so too," replied Everhard, "but it will be a work of time, the Catholics must live down the prejudices against them; modified views must be presented of their tenets, for Catholicism, as it exists in Italy, will never obtain a footing in England; it must adapt itself to the genius of the people.

"Protestantism in all its phases, is a system of negations; it has more affinity with scepticism than belief. No form of Protestantism can, for any length of time, satisfy the devotional feelings and aspirations of a nation. For the multitude, you must not refine doctrines too much, you must give them something tangible to believe, something that can take a quick and stringent hold upon their heart and conduct. The multitude, in all ages, require to have high truths dramatised in forms, creeds, and symbols, before they can be made to apprehend them.

"The Catholic Church alone, has taught the truths of Christianity, on a large scale, with any thing like success. As to the small number of men who strive to pierce into the heart of things, it is no matter what form of doctrine prevails, they must, and always will, believe in a different spirit to that of the mass. Their grand mistake has been in uttering their subtilised doctrines, to the gross, dull ears of the multitude, who can see, hear, and understand nothing, except through the medium of their coarse passions and sensual appetites; hence arises the herd of infidels, who make a mock at all religion; as if to disprove a tradition, or raise an objection to a creed, were an emancipation from the law of wisdom to which that creed or tradition endeavoured to give utterance. For myself, I consider that in coming here, I have undertaken the most awfully responsible office that can be laid upon a man, that of educating a body of youths, who may hereafter be called upon to instruct their fellow-men in religious matters."

Everhard ceased, and there was a pause for some moments; had the speaker been one with a less established reputation than Everhard, it is certain that Gifford would have found matter of scandal and cavil in what had just been said; but coming, as it did, from one who had so well fought the battles of the Church, he was fain to believe that it must be more orthodox than it sounded.

From the college Gifford took Everhard to see some improvements he had been making in that neighbourhood, particularly a hamlet of singularly neat and well-built cottages, inhabited altogether by Catholic peasants and their families.

"I have", said he, "drafted as many as possible of my poor Catholic tenants to my own immediate neighbourhood. I wish to have no party spirit, and the less intercourse there is between them and my Protestant tenants the more peace there will be. Neither side is as yet sufficiently well instructed to understand the beauty of mutual toleration. I expect much good from your labours amongst them."

As they rode home they passed a row of almshouses that Gifford had built and endowed for the widows of small Catholic tradesmen who had been left in destitute circumstances.

"You are in a fortunate position, Mr Gifford," said Everhard, with a smile, "and you are able to feel interest in all the objects that surround you, which is a blessing much more rare than actual prosperity. Many men have the materials of happiness placed within their reach; but not one in ten knows how to manufacture any thing out of them except ennui."

"Father Everhard," said Gifford after a pause, "I often think of the punishment of unthankful souls in Dante's 'Inferno', where they who perversely encouraged a gloomy disposition, are punished by being kept from the pleasant light of day, and condemned to plunge about in darkness and the bottomless Slough of Despond. When I first read that, I was much impressed by it, and I resolved in my heart never to give way to a spirit of repining or indifference to the blessings of my lot. I prayed earnestly that I might be kept from that sin, and I think it has, at least, been kept in subjection; otherwise - but listen: From my childhood I have loved every one more than any ever loved me in return. If one showed me but common kindness, I repaid it with affection. I could not exist without the sympathy of those around me; without loving them. For a long time I had a sort of faith that my love must of necessity cause me to be beloved again; the more insensibility I met with, the more I poured out my whole heart to melt and overcome it. There were some whom I called friends, and whom I loved too earnestly to be able to stop and examine what they gave me in return; but they had always a sort of half smile at my headlong devotion; and I overheard them laughingly boast of it to others, as a singularity, of which they hardly seemed to know whether to feel vain, or ashamed. I had a vague sense of outrage at this; but I could hardly make my feelings tangible even to myself. In a little while I grew older, and able better to understand the meaning of what passed around me, and I discovered that I was of no use, or value, or pleasure to those on whom I had bestowed affection that was without alloy. They did not know what to make of me; they considered me as eccentric, and their good will was dashed with contempt.

"When I first discovered this I was very miserable; more miserable than I have ever been, either before or since. It is such a sense of helplessness that takes possession of us when we have loved with all our energy, and it has obtained no affection for us in return. After we have given our love to a friend, there remains nothing more that we can do for him: we have bestowed our most precious gift, and found it valueless. Do not mistake me; I did not indulge in any sentimental passion; the heart love I gave was to the companions of my own sex, to the members of my own family. I never fell in love, as it is called, but ONCE in all my life. At first, after my eyes had been opened as I have described, I am sure I must have become very disagreeable, for the worst feelings of my nature were roused; I became exigeant and distrustful. I tried to look upon myself as a kind of martyr; and yet, martyr is not the exact word; for I had a strange kind of admiration for the coldness and worldliness by which I was suffering. There seemed to be something clever about it; and I thought there was something very fine in being able to think one thing, and make people believe another. I was sincere and single-hearted literally because I could not help it, and not because I reverenced that 'beauty of holiness'. In this miserable plunging state I continued for some time, without enough sternness of nature to hate, and without sufficient faith in my natural impulses to live on in a spirit of love, when I met with such poor encouragement."

"Well," said Everhard, "and did you work your way out of this?"

"Yes," replied Gifford, "after a while I did; but from no thanks to myself. One day I was walking very disconsolately by myself, in a retired part of the park, when it suddenly flashed upon me, like lightning, that after all, there was really nothing in me to excite the love and admiration of men; that if I had been worth it, I should have had their love spontaneously, and without any striving on my part. You will think this sudden conviction an odd source of comfort; yet so it was. The instant I felt convinced that I was nothing, all the unreasonableness and anomaly of my situation ceased. I felt content to be as I was; all bitterness of spirit was effaced; I felt to lie still, if you can understand that. I now saw, for the first time, that to be beloved is not the highest motive from which a man can act. 'Do good, looking for nothing again,' rushed into my mind, and I saw how poorly and childishly I had felt. I had been tormented by a vague idea, that it was poor-spirited to do other than resent the slights which I had received, and that I ought not to do such a thing as love those who did not care about me; but now I seemed suddenly set at liberty from thraldom. I was relieved from all obligations to care about myself or my own dignity, and you cannot imagine the relief it was to me. I had no further concern with what people thought about me; I saw myself as I must appear to them, heavy in conversation, shy and awkward in manner, and wearisome to those I most wished to please. I perceived, in fact, that I was what people call a bore; and I felt that I was bound to have some consideration, and not inflict myself too much upon those who happened to be more amusing than myself. Since that time, it is wonderful how much better I have got on: there are some people who really care for me, and seem to set store by my friendship."

"Many more perhaps than you imagine," said Everhard, smiling. "Yes, Mr Gifford, the gift of humility is far more to be desired than either love or gold."

"Indeed you are right," said Gifford, with great naïveté, "but what I have been telling you is a mere matter of fact."

Everhard did not reply, for he had no wish to awaken the burden of consciousness in the worthy man. After another pause, during which they turned homewards, Gifford spoke again.

"Father Everhard," said he, "there is one thing that makes me very uneasy; it is about my wife. Mrs Gifford is a singular character, and I do not think that I have been quite wise in my conduct to her. I cannot understand her, and I fear I have not made her happy; she has many fine qualities, but she turns them to no good purpose; I have not the gift of drawing them out and directing them. I wish you would consent to spend as much of your time as you can with us; she worships intellect in all its shapes, and though she has very little sense of religion or belief of any sort, yet she has romantic notions about the Catholic religion, and would, I think, listen to a priest, when she would hear nobody else. She has, I know, long known and reverenced you, and is familiar with all your works; if any one can obtain a salutary influence over her it is yourself; you must be sensible that I cannot help being very anxious that she should not continue the infidel she is."

"Does she read much?" asked Everhard.

"A vast deal more than ever did a woman good yet," replied Gifford. "Women have no imperative and engrossing employments to work off what they read, or to correct their notions by practical experience; therefore they grow positive and extravagant, and their mind has no balance; it is a thousand pities she was not a man. It often frightens me to see a woman holding the views she does."

The conversation that followed was desultory; Gifford gave Everhard many particulars about Zoe, with which the reader is already acquainted, and this lasted till they reached home. Everhard knew nothing of women, and certainly he could not have commenced his acquaintance with a more puzzling specimen of the sex. On reaching the castle they found dinner waiting for them, and also two letters, one for Everhard from his brother, who was on a tour in Scotland with Marian, and the other from Marian herself to Zoe, full of wife-like admiration for the "angel of a husband" who had fallen to her lot, and expressive of her conviction that he must be quite as learned and clever as his celebrated brother, "though he was too modest to show it". Certainly there must be many virtues hidden under the matrimonial bushel, which the graceless and unbelieving world can neither see nor feel. The letter contained an earnest petition that Clotilde might be allowed to go and pay her a long visit as soon as she should be settled at home again; a postscript added by Louis himself seconded his wife's request; and poor little Clotilde, who had never been twenty miles from home in her life, did not know whether to hope or fear that the invitation would be accepted; all discussion was, however, by common consent postponed till after dinner.

Zoe had recovered from her temporary ill-humour, and was curious to know how Everhard and Gifford had spent the morning; she had a most amusing account to give of her own expedition; but the calm, grave manners of Everhard piqued her, for she felt that she made no impression upon him, or at least if she did, she could not discover what it was. She set herself to elicit some expression of admiration or surprise, some emotion, no matter what; she had not of late been accustomed to indifference, and she could not endure it. She uttered brilliant paradoxes, he listened with gentleness and did not contradict her; she talked sense, and he did not seem surprised; she had never before exerted herself so much to please, or produced so little apparent effect. This arose in part, undoubtedly, from the secluded manner in which Everhard had so long lived, and from his being so utterly unaccustomed to the society of women, which rendered his mode of addressing them both gauche and shy; he literally did not know how to keep up a conversation with them; Zoe, with all her beauty and brilliancy, positively bewildered him. It was not long before she perceived that this was the case, and it tended in some degree to pacify her; and it made her feel all the more interested, and all the more determined to conquer him.

As some time was still required to complete the arrangements for beginning the business of the college, Everhard remained an inmate of the castle for a fortnight longer, during which he made more progress with the nun-like Clotilde than with Zoe. Clotilde had still the appearance of being a child; her pale, sweet features and unconscious manner inspired Everhard with an interest he had never felt for any human being; her simple-hearted piety seemed to him like a reflection from the days of his own childhood, and to bring back the time when he wandered in the woods with Father Martin, listening to his legends. As to Clotilde, she soon invested Everhard with all the attributes of her most favourite saints; he went with her to visit her pensioners, and did not disdain to take an interest in the garden she had succeeded in coaxing at the top of a rock, and which she insisted was like the wilderness in which John the Baptist lived. Clotilde was the most complete contrast to her beautiful mother-in-law that can be conceived. She was more like a woman of the middle ages, than an educated young lady of the eighteenth century. She embroidered beautifully; was skilled in the mystery of compounding simples, cordials, and condiments of all sorts for the use of her poor sick people. She could certainly both read and write, but her acquaintance with books did not go beyond the "Garden of the Soul" and a few favourite books of devotion; - her ignorance, however, was graceful, and her sweet docile nature, made her heart far richer than her head. Full of all gentle and feminine instincts, she felt no desire for more extended knowledge, and Everhard could not help secretly hoping that Zoe would not spoil her by the endeavour to impart any of her fashionable accomplishments. Speaking of accomplishments, we forgot to state one that Clotilde really did possess; she danced beautifully; graceful she was by nature, and Miss Rodney, who retained enough of her aristocratic prejudices to think that an elegant carriage was the birthright and prerogative of a gentlewoman, had herself superintended the lessons of the master. Clotilde soon overcame her reserve, and trusted Everhard with all the little trials and scruples which could trouble so pure and gentle a heart.

One day as they were walking in the garden, she said to him, "I feel so glad that mamma is come back to live here, I like her so much better now than I did formerly; do you know, I fear it was very wicked, but she always frightened me, she seemed to be like one of those evil spirits who formerly used to assume the shape of beautiful women, and appear to the saints to tempt them; and yet she was always very kind to me; but now I love her very much, and don't feel afraid of her at all; perhaps I understand her better."

"Perhaps you do," replied Everhard, hardly able to repress a smile at Clotilde's simile, which had also occurred more than once to himself. During the whole time he remained at the castle, he kept aloof from Zoe with an instinct he could hardly account for; the consequence was that Zoe felt her pride engaged to subdue and punish such a defiance of her charms. She had no ill intentions; when she thus ventured on such slippery ground, it was in a spirit of mischief and curiosity, not of deliberate wickedness. Zoe was a proud, spoiled, petted beauty, and had led a prosperous life, which goes for a great deal in blunting the moral perceptions both of men and women. She had great talents and strong passions, and, alas! she had neither food for one nor employment for the other. A woman's wisdom always comes from love, and Zoe had never loved in the whole course of her life. Half the wickedness that gets committed in the world, arises more from the absence of some engrossing employment than from any special depravity.

In about a fortnight Everhard left the castle, and the business of the college began in earnest. Everhard was too much occupied in laying down rules for the management of the establishment, forming plans of study, and in giving to the whole undertaking a form and body, to be able to bestow a thought upon any thing else. Gifford often rode over to the college, but Everhard had no time to visit the castle. An accident occurred, however, that entirely changed the face of affairs.

One day, just before the commencement of the first vacation, Gifford was thrown from his horse at his own door, and his leg was severely fractured. On hearing of the accident, Everhard went over instantly. Gifford, who had a horror of the prospect of his long confinement, expressed such an earnest desire that he would spend the vacation at the castle, that Everhard could not find it in his heart to refuse; he had fixed to pay a visit to his mother and brother, and he felt great reluctance to give it up, but he consented at least to delay his visit to Sutton, and finally he came to the castle, from which, however, it would have been much better if he had stayed away.

CHAPTER III

There is a pleasure in being ill, or rather in the recovery from an illness, which none but the patient can tell. It is so soothing to one's self-importance to find our most unreasonable whims suddenly become laws to the whole household, - one's nightcap invested with all the virtues of a wishing-cap, as we listen to the reiterated entreaties from all around, to know "if there is any thing we could fancy". Then the pleasant little surprises of all kinds that we imagined; and the pleasant looks that greet us when we condescend to accept them; the patience that can translate our most unwarrantable "crossness", because there has been some trifling difficulty in obtaining the half of a star or the corner of a moon which it had pleased us to require, into "such a good sign of being really better"; and then our appetite (which the gods know is at that season singularly keen), how is it not tempted with unutterable dainties and friande morsels, all sorts of amateur cookery in our behalf, where Love himself has not disdained to turn the spit, and look into the stewpan! and all served up so gracefully on the small tray, covered with its delicate white damask cloth, arraying with more than mortal charms the moulds of crystal jelly and pure-looking blanc mange! Then there is the arrival of the doctor (the grand event in our day), who comes, - sits beside us - encourages us to complain, and listens. Oh, what can equal the blandness and sympathy of a listening doctor! We detail our minutest sensations with a modest pride at possessing so many indisputable claims on his attention; he is our doctor, we never realise the fact that he has other patients; - they only form the shadowy background of our doctor's reputation, skill, and immense practice; by a pleasant fiction we monopolise his sympathy, whole and undivided. Then there are the libraries ransacked for the new books to read to us, and the neighbourhood scoured for the newest of news! Ah, it is a reverse to come down from this to the ordinary accommodation of everyday mortals, - to hear the chilling words, "Oh, he is quite well now, and may do any thing"; which "any thing", by the way, is always bounded by an injunction to avoid evening parties, the night air, and to get up early in the morning. Till people have tried, they cannot know how affectionately one gets to feel towards the bed where we have lain so long!

This had been Gifford's experience of the last six weeks, and if the reader will look into Zoe's little library, which we have described as opening into the drawing-room, he will there see Gifford lying on a sofa, for he is well enough now to be removed there. Everhard sits on the other side of the sofa-table, arranging a chess-board - in the distance Zoe is extended on a couch, sometimes following the train of argument in a theological work of Everhard's, which she holds in her hand, and sometimes watching the calm Madonna-like figure of Clotilde, who sits in the window-seat under one of the tall Gothic windows, employed in embroidering a wreath of roses round the "sacred heart of Mary". Such a picture of purity and faith she looks, sitting there unconscious of any observation - now lifting her blue eyes from the golden sunset which seems to veil heaven and its hosts from her view, longing to pierce through them and mingle with those favourite saints and martyrs, with Christ and his mother, and all those wonderful and holy beings ever present to her imagination - Zoe longed to paint her. The book falling from her hands, startled Clotilde from her reverie. "What are you thinking about, Clotilde?" asked she. Clotilde blushed and hesitated, but on Zoe asking her with a smile, she answered, "I was wishing I had wings like the angels, to go and see them all, and poor Miss Rodney and mamma, who was so good, they say. I was thinking what a pity it is that we must die and be put in the dark earth, before we can have such great happiness; but so it always is, as our Church teaches - mortification first, and then -----." What the "then" was, Zoe did not get to hear, for the door was flung open, and the servant announced "Mr Burrows!" Everhard started up, overturning the chess-board, and sprang to meet him. "Louis!" "Everhard!" was all they could either of them utter, - they had not seen each other since they parted in the inn yard at Coventry - how many years before? Then followed cordial greetings, exclamations of surprise, and inquiries from Gifford and Zoe after Marian.

"Oh", said Louis, "I was so disappointed when Everhard did not come (though I had hardly the heart to wish it when I knew the reason that kept him here), that I determined to come to him myself, for I could not bear to be any longer without seeing him. Marian did not much like parting with me, but she could not accompany me, because", said he, with a sort of half bashful importance, "the medical man thought it would not be prudent in her condition to undertake such a long journey. I have promised to bring back Miss Clotilde with me, - Marian has quite set her heart on having her, and she must stay until Everhard can come and fetch her back. Oh, Everhard! - my mother is so anxious to see you, - you cannot think how proud she feels of you, - she does nothing but talk about you, and the blessing you are to the Church, and the credit to us all."

It was long before there was space for any thing like continued conversation; but when they were seated round the tea-table there were many inquiries to be made, and remembrances of people as they were twenty years before, to be compared with the actual state of things, and much new matter to be communicated, that never had been dreamed of under the old régime. "Old Sarah Matchet, who used to keep the gingerbread shop, must be dead by this time," said Everhard.

"No; only bed-ridden. She lives with her grand-daughter, that pretty girl whose father got transported for sheep-stealing. Oh, I forgot; that is since your time. He was to have been hanged, but we contrived to get it commuted to transportation. You remember his wife; she used to be the prettiest woman in the parish; but soon fell off in her looks after she married that great good-for-nothing scamp, who broke her heart. She died of shame and grief soon after his trial."

"Do you remember Jack Bolt, who used to help us to get birdnests, and make our fishing-tackle?"

"To be sure," said Everhard.

"Well, he has taken to poaching; he was brought up before me the other day for snaring hares: three pheasants were found in their feathers, lying behind his door. I was sorry to commit him, but there was no help. Poaching is no joke, and it is getting quite a common offence. Marian will take care of his family whilst he is in gaol."

"Let me intercede for him," said Everhard; "it seems to me such a hard thing to imprison a man for killing a wild animal belonging to nobody."

Louis looked up perfectly aghast at this heresy; but, recollecting that it was Everhard who spoke, he only said, "Ah, you are too tender-hearted, you don't understand these things. You remember old Stringer, the gardener," continued he; "well, he is dead - followed his own tree roses; but his son, to whom we have always been so kind, and considered him as belonging to the family; well, do you know, he has gone over to the other side!"

"What other side?" asked Everhard.

"Why the dirty dog has turned Protestant - no less! The new Irish rector, who came to the living on the death of the old man, is very zealous and evangelical as they call it now; he is very bitter against our religion, gives out tracts and Bibles; has a Sunday-school, and all that. He goes into all the houses to instruct the people, he says, and he got hold of Stringer, and, by some means, persuaded him to leave the religion of his forefathers, and to join their crew. I never was so mortified. Then the tea-drinkings at the Sunday-school, and the speechifyings there were about it, as if it at all signified what such curs as he believed! And because I turned him off, they made him think himself a martyr. He began to make speeches too, about the delusions of popery, and that O'Brian put it all into a tract, and got it printed, and distributed it about the parish, forgetting to say he was such a drunken dog nobody could depend upon him for a day's work, and that I had kept him on, out of respect to his father, till he disgraced himself by leaving his religion. So pitiful, too, when there are so few to stand by it in England!"

Zoe laughed outright at the indignant eloquence of Louis, and began to ask further particulars about the Reverend Horace O'Brian, who had been the means of seducing such an ornament into the Protestant community.

"Oh," said Louis, "he is an Irishman, and full of blarney. He is a gentleman, however, as far as family goes; but his father was a renegade, and got a post under government for changing his religion; his son has got this fine fat living, and wants to make himself popular. People come from far and near to hear him preach: he is very bitter against us Catholics, declares we are dangerous to the country, and that to tolerate us is a sin against God. Considering that we are the only Catholic family in his parish, I must say it is very personal and ungentlemanly; but we must none of us complain of suffering for our religion."

"Is he handsome as well as eloquent?" asked Zoe.

"Yes, the women all say so; but for my part, I cannot endure those great, tall, black-whiskered fellows, with their white hands and drawling voices, as if it were a sin to speak bluffly and honestly. However, they say that Miss Smith, of the Hollows, admires him. It will be a fine thing for him if he can marry her; and then, I suppose, he will live at his ease, as his predecessor did before him. There is a cotton factory, too, established since you left, and printworks; besides, Sutton is as large again as when you knew it, Everhard. When you come you shall try to convert some of the people, for I cannot bear that fellow to have it all his own way. I tried to argue with him one day, but he could talk better than I could. I made nothing of him; but it will be different when he has to deal with you."

"Thank you," said Everhard; "but I do not want to get into controversy."

Louis remained a week at the castle, during which time, though the brothers walked, and talked, and rode, as in former days - a sense of mutual strangeness and restraint was between them. This was not to be attributed to any actual want of attachment, nor even to their long separation. On the side of Louis there was an instinct that he could not talk to one whose name ranked along with those of the fathers in the Church, as he would to a neighbouring squire, and the attempt to keep up to what he considered the mark, made him feel sadly gêné; then, too, he had interests and pursuits that had arisen since they parted; the chain of mutual association which holds members of the same family together, in spite of difference and tastes and habits, was broken between Louis and Everhard. Everhard, with every possible wish to be affectionate, felt that somehow his brother was a sad interruption to the pleasant mode in which the time had hitherto glided on. Zoe felt it too, and had naturally much less patience with the author of it; so she occupied herself in preparing Clotilde's simple wardrobe, in order that when Louis brought his visit to a conclusion, there might be no sort of delay. Gifford was the only one of the party who found any satisfaction in his presence; they were both amateur farmers, and they had a wide field of sympathy in the different modes of manuring and cultivating land, mangel-wurzel, and Swedish turnips, to say nothing of an improved plough that Gifford had invented, to which Louis became so great a convert that he promised to bring it into use on one of his farms. No wonder Gifford thought him "a very superior, sensible young man, with no nonsense about him". Zoe grew every day more impatient for the departure of this "superior young man", for he had quite lost all that awe of her presence, and the diffidence which had made him tolerable before. The dignity of marriage had given him confidence to speak his mind on all he saw.

The evening before the day fixed for their journey, Clotilde brought the embroidery of her "Sacred Heart" to a conclusion. She had worked it for Everhard, as a chalice cover for the college chapel.

"Really, Clotilde," said Zoe, "this is beautifully done. I wish you would work something for my library; all you do goes to the chapel. How many sets of vestments and ornaments have you worked in your time?"

"Oh," said Louis, "you should see Marian's work; this is nothing to what she can do; she too, has worked a set of vestments. You never do any thing, Mrs Gifford, you fashionable ladies are all for ornament, like the cups on the mantel-shelf."

"Mrs Gifford", replied Everhard, hastily, "is capable of doing much better things than sewing with coloured silks."

"No doubt," said Louis, "when she gives her mind to it; it may be all very well for people of fashion, but I confess I like to see English wives employ themselves in a rational manner. I think nothing marks a superior woman so much as being constantly occupied. There is Marian for instance: she is always up by seven o'clock in the morning; she spends all the morning regularly in the housekeeper's room, looking after every thing in the house, and making all the jellies, and preserves, and potted meats, with her own hands; and then, though she is so economical, and such a good manager, she finds time for work. Catch her when you will, she is always busy; she has begun a large carpet of a most beautiful pattern, as she says it will be something for her grandchildren to remember her by; and now she is making all her baby clothes with her own hands. I tell her sometimes, I feel quite jealous of her needle, and often beg her to give herself a holiday; but she says when a woman is married she ought to set an example of practical usefulness."

"But", said Zoe, gravely, "could not the housekeeper or the cook make the jellies? and it seems almost a pity to take the trouble of working a carpet, when there are such pretty ones to be bought."

"That may be," said Louis, "but if women did not occupy themselves in those matters, what better things would they do? I do not wish my wife to be a fashionable, fine lady; it is all very well for women to lose their time in reading books, and playing music, before they are married, but after that they have things of more importance to attend to, in looking after their house and family, and seeing that they are not imposed upon; but of course you will only laugh at such notions."

"Indeed," replied Zoe gravely, "I am quite aware how liable we women are to be imposed on, and I quite agree with you, that if a woman is wise she cannot look too narrowly, or watch too strictly, in order to avoid it; and yet," said she, turning with a smile to Everhard, "it is not the delusion which gives us pain, but the discovery of it. I often think of the prayer of the poet, 'Long and deeply let me be beguiled.'"

"I think they must be very weak-minded, foolish people", said Louis, "who can prefer being deceived to finding it out, they then know what they have to guard against in future; now I will give you a case in point. Marian found that the butcher had made an overcharge of five pounds in his bill last Christmas. Now do you think it would have been better to go on being cheated, than to find it out?"

"We are imposed upon in many ways besides butchers' bills," said Zoe.

"Will you have a game of chess, Mr Gifford?" said Everhard, hastily.

"Why no, thank you, not to-night," said Gifford, "it is your brother's last night, and I want his opinion on this sample of wheat for seed, that I received this morning, when you have finished what you are talking about."

This broke up the conversation. Zoe went into the drawing-room, and began to practise some new music, which had arrived along with the "sample of wheat". Clotilde began to cut out some work for poor people, to take along with her; and Everhard seemed to fall into a reverie, as he stood leaning on the mantel-piece.

The next morning, at ten o'clock, the post-chaise came to the door, and Louis and Clotilde, having bade "good bye" for at least the twentieth time, got into it, and were driven off. Clotilde did not seem at all disturbed or agitated in going alone to visit one whom she had never seen. Ever since Louis came, she had seemed strangely anxious for the journey, and had shown an eagerness so different from her usual timidity, that Zoe was quite puzzled; but the child had formed a project, which had taken possession of her dear little heart; she had entrusted it in confidence to Everhard, and the reader shall know what it was all in good time.

After the departure of the travellers, things did not fall back into their old train; the spell was broken, Everhard was obliged to return to the college, and Gifford, who had grown very anxious to superintend some farming operations, got dreadfully impatient at being confined so long; interviews with his steward took the place of chess, he grew cross, and poor Zoe grew dreadfully dull, till she was almost tempted to emulate Marian, and work a carpet in sheer despair. There seemed nothing before her, but a long dreary six months of solitude; for she had grown too much accustomed to the society of one superior to herself, to be able to fall back into toleration for the second rate persons who formed the society of her neighbourhood. Complete solitude was far more endurable; so, shutting herself up in her boudoir, she began strenuously to rub up her knowledge of Greek, in order to read some of the Platonic philosophers, whose works Everhard had lent her at her own special request. She certainly found it rather dry work, but she persevered and read as hard as if she were going to be examined for her degree.

One fine morning, however, about three weeks after his departure, the door of her library opened, and "Father Everhard' entered. The thrill of pleasure which Zoe felt, was quite worth all her previous ennui; till he came back, she did not know how very much she had missed him. There was nothing extraordinary in his visit; he had come to inquire after Gifford, and pay his respects to the family; but, somehow, Zoe had not expected him. She had feared it would be as it was before, when he got back to his business at college; so the sight of him was gratifying in more ways than one. Gifford, who was now able to ride about in a low carriage, was just setting off; he looked in however for a moment, was delighted to see Everhard, and begged him to come very often; but he had an appointment with his steward just then, and could not delay any longer. Zoe and Everhard went to the hall-door with him, to see him start, and then returned to the library together.

CHAPTER IV

Whether Everhard had less business than formerly to occupy his time, we do not know, but it is certain that his visits to the castle were much more frequent. Sometimes he came to examine into the progress the two boys were making under their tutor; but the tutor of Gifford's children was a dull plodding man, who disliked interference. Sometimes he came to see Gifford, but it soon grew to be a habit about which he ceased to give any reasons to himself.

When Gifford was at home and disengaged, they sat in the study, at other times they were in Zoe's little boudoir. Every day he felt himself more strongly attracted to the strange, beautiful being who had thus come across his path. He felt his mind grow, and his perceptions become clearer, under the quick and glancing impulses of her genius. She unveiled for him the resources of his own mind, - she gave a force, and meaning, and use to learning, which till now had lain crude and inert. He was startled by the intuitive perception she seemed to have of the state of his mind; her voice seemed the "voice of his own soul, heard in the calm of thought"; - his intercourse with her calmed down into mature thought, much that, experienced in solitude, and seen only from the fitful light of his own feelings, had become fantastic and exaggerated. A man is in an unhealthy disposition when he fancies that he has a monopoly of any peculiar feeling or opinion; if it be true, other people have known it also. When Zoe spoke, he found she looked from the same point of view as himself, and this is the secret of all sympathy. The crust of reserve which his isolated and anomalous position had caused, was broken up; he began to speak and feel more truthfully and naturally than he had done for years; a strain seemed taken off his life, and his mind put forth fresh growth. He was like a fertile soil, teeming with the seeds of life and vegetation, basking for the first time in an atmosphere able to draw them forth, and bring them to perfection.

Zoe on her side, with all her undisciplined and undirected powers, was gaining strength and knowledge by working in the mine of Everhard's attainments. He was the first person she had ever met with in the least qualified to obtain an influence over her. Women like her are only to be influenced by those they can recognise as their masters. Still there were other elements at work; there was too much of the priest and Jesuit about Everhard to permit his making her in so many words his confidante; much of what Zoe knew about him was tacitly assumed. She always felt that there was a point beyond which she could not go, and this, to a woman of her disposition, was the charm of his influence, for it must be remembered that Zoe was a coquette in grain.

The first annual examination of the scholars was about to take place, and the castle was expected to be full of company, as Gifford had made open house to the friends of the youths who were in the college.

Zoe, with a brilliant party from the castle, went to grace the occasion.

In addition to the usual phenomena, the boys had got up a Latin play, for which Zoe had invented and furnished the dresses. Then there were English recitations, and several essays on various subjects; amongst others, there was a theological thesis read by one of the boys, which obtained great applause.

Gifford had marquees erected in the grounds, and entertained the whole college. In short, it was a very splendid affair, and found its way into the county newspapers; but as there were no "reformation societies" in that neighbourhood, it only passed for a liberal and friendly entertainment, and not for a "Catholic demonstration".

When the bustle had subsided, and the students were dismissed to their different residences, Everhard found time to visit the castle, to which he had been a stranger for the last few weeks, owing to the accumulation of college business.

Zoe was alone when he entered the boudoir. "You see," said he, with a smile, "I dedicate to you the first fruits of my leisure."

"And, according to your brother Louis, you get nothing but the fruits of my idleness in return," she said. "After all, I begin to think his way of employing women is the best, and I don't know but what Marian does more good than I do."

"Since when have you thought so?"

"Oh, I am only beginning to wonder whether it may not be. It is very little use that can be made of what we any of us do. I don't know what we come into the world for, I am sure. It is that fine exhibition at your college the other day, that has set me thinking about it. Cobwebs to catch flies, seemed about the pitch of its utility; - that thesis on theology, which was the best thing, only set me wondering whether that youth, as a man, would ever be able to find his way out of the labyrinth of absurdity in which he had been walled up."

"Would you not have young men instructed in their religion?" asked Everhard.

"Creed, you mean," said Zoe. "With all the fine things that are said and sung about religion, as it is called, there is a want of frankness that disgusts me. The priests of all creeds never tell their own experience, or their own belief; they fight for the side they have taken vows upon, they pretend to argue, but it is all make-believe, - they are pledged to a foregone conclusion, and nothing beyond that can be got out of them; they are especial pleaders, retained for a cause about which they feel no personal interest. I have seen first-rate preachers descend from the pulpit, where they have just spoken like angels, to whom all the mysteries of the invisible world are laid bare; and then, like actors, come off the scene, speak in the dialect and with the feelings of men of this world. Do you think, if they were interpenetrated with the truth of those tremendous mysteries about which they discourse, if they realised the fact that the eternal welfare of those who listened to them probably depended on the faithfulness with which they should instruct them, that heaven or hell were the stakes. - Oh! if they really believed all they preach, how would any priest or preacher be able to sleep in his bed under the tremendous responsibility, and with the declaration ringing in his ears of, 'Surely the souls of these men will I require at thy hand!' But they do not believe what they talk about; they grow sleek and rich, and live to an untroubled 'old age'!"

"You are warm, lady," replied Everhard, somewhat disconcerted.

"I know I am," said Zoe. "I am out of patience when I think how insincerity has grown into the heart of the most sacred things; if people would only speak simply their own belief, and tell the feelings and principles which influence their own life, they would not infect each other with practical atheism in the way they now do."

"But", replied Everhard, "the people, the majority of those who live in the world, must have a form of doctrine, something definite by which they may shape their belief. They cannot see the force of moral truths, until they are promulgated from authority; made dogmatic, - enforced under a penalty, - 'thou shalt and thou shalt not.' 'Cursed shall he be who doeth this,' and 'blessed shall he be who doeth' so and so. If it were not for these stiff creeds and commandments, enforced by blessings and cursings, we should either get nothing done at all - the world would relapse into a state of anarchy - or else mere notions of expediency, of social convenience, would become the highest recognised motives of action. They who are enlightened, have in all ages seen more in those religious doctrines which so move your scorn, than the ignorant mass of people, those 'poor,' to whom the gospel was sent; they have always believed in the essence, and not in the form; but for the people we must beware of refining too much, lest they lose the active principle, along with the coarser elements.

"Those legends and miracles which form part of every religion that has ever been promulgated, are to the uninstructed, literal truths - mere matters of fact - whilst to the more intelligent, they are only types of truth. All religious forms are but the shell which covers the spiritual meaning, the body by which it is made manifest. Do not take away from the people that which they have, until you can give them power to discern something better. There are many who realise, as you call it, their belief, and who are far happier and safer under it than you in your scepticism."

"That may very possibly be, Father Everhard; but why are the people who do not believe, to go on pretending that they do? How can it be either wise or healthy to go on making believe, as St John says, 'neither entering into the kingdom of heaven themselves, nor suffering men to enter it?' For we are told by the same authority, 'that nothing which maketh or loveth a lie', shall find a place therein; and surely to profess a form of belief for the sake of looking respectable in the eyes of that part of the world where we happen to be thrown, is the most pitiful of all false pretences. Then your argument does not always hold good, for we have lately seen in France how delighted people are when it becomes the fashion to throw off all religious belief, because the generality imagine that with a religious creed they may also throw off those moral requirements that press upon their vices. They can disprove a legend or tradition, and then they imagine that a moral law is thereby rescinded. How much better to teach people that whatever it is really right to do, would have been equally right and equally imperative upon them, even though Moses never had delivered the ten commandments."

"Your plan", replied Everhard, "might do for Utopia, but it would never work here. Who shall begin the crusade against the doctrines of religion? Where, in the present state of society, would you find people who have not taken up some set of opinions or another; and though there are men who would be willing to ruin their prospects in life for the sake of religion, you would hardly find one man who would do so for the sake of that which was none.

"In the working out of your plan, if it were attempted, sad scandal would arise; men are not refined enough in their consciences to do right for its own sake alone; they are too blind and gross to feel the influence of an abstract idea, unsupported by some extraneous notice; they cannot see beyond the present moment, and will not act against their apparent interest, unless there be a penalty attached, or a future reward annexed. Your doctrine would be a cloak for every kind of ill deed, under the plea (for they are a perverse generation) that each man thought it right. The greatest seasons of anarchy have been those emphatically described, as when 'the people did each man what was right in his own eyes.' In fact, mankind have deceitful hearts and corrupt consciences; it is useless to try to argue with them on abstract grounds; the actual working of their wickedness must be provided for in the best way it can be done; and if you take away men's belief in religion, such as it is, what can you propose as a practical restraint instead?

"You see there is much to be considered, and the peace of Christendom ought not to be rashly disturbed; begin your labours by bestowing a pure heart and understanding upon the world, and after that you may begin your crusade against the creeds, as soon as you please, without the risk of doing much mischief."

"Well," said Zoe, "I must have the last word in right of my sex; I don't see how people, if left to themselves, could contrive to be much worse than they are now, under the government of a religion that not one in ten bestows a serious thought upon, and that not a great proportion amongst those who do think on the subject, believe in at all. Don't you think it would be possible to teach people, and to make them feel that to do right is to act wisely, even in a mere worldly sense? We cannot see the event of any action we undertake; we do not know the consequences of our most trivial act, - we are so much mixed up with the detail of affairs, that we cannot see the end to which they tend; our reason is not strong enough to grasp the plan of our life, our instinct is not pure enough to be depended upon; we are like those unlucky animals which are placed as the connected link between two species, without the full capacities of either. Our conscience seems to have been bestowed as a balance. If we would but simply do what is right, and dispense with the cumbrous machinery of policy and second motives - if we would but eschew the false wisdom of expediency, there would not be so many elaborate blunders committed; we should be wiser, and bid fair to become greater that we have ever yet been.

"I never heard of a system either of philosophy or religion, that could solve all the difficulties and perplexities of our position in this world; they all fall to pieces, and get themselves disproved in the common wear and tear of life; we have to fight for the creed or system we adopt; we are obliged to make laws for its furtherance and preservation; instead of finding it what it professes to be, a teacher and guide for ourselves; it is a regular King Log, without King Log's inoffensiveness. Oh! if every one of us would only act by what we honestly believe to be true; do, in simple truth and singleness of purpose, that which in our own soul we feel to be right; instead of trying to impose on those around us, by making them think us a little more of this, or a little less of the other, than we really are; oh! what a strain would be taken off life! We should respect ourselves, and love our neighbours, instead of despising them for looking so much like our secret selves!

"If men honestly believe any sort of creed, let them believe it in all peace; what I am complaining of is, that those who do not believe in it, make a pretence of following their example. It was by having a firm belief in the doctrines they preached, a faith in their internal convictions of what ought to be done, that your saints of old achieved their wonders. They did not act with an eye to men's approval; they saw work lying to be done, and they did it.

"'We are not careful to justify ourselves,' was their motto, and must be the watchword of whoever seeks to act up to the gift that is in them, if in their turn they would fulfil the work they were sent into life to do; and no man can work who 'holds a lie in his right hand'."

Zoe had risen from her seat, as she uttered these last words, her face glowed, and tears of passionate earnestness flashed in her eyes. Everhard did not feel at all disposed to dispute her claim to its being the "last word"; her words burnt into his heart like lightning; he remained for a moment gazing at her, after she had ceased to speak, and then hastily averted his looks. At that moment, Gifford entered, "Ah!" he said, "I am so glad to find you here, I was afraid you would be gone; farmer Ball, down in the hamlet, is dying, the doctor does not think he will live out the day, he is quite sensible at present, and very anxious to receive the last sacraments. They were sending off to the college when I got there, but I promised to send you, as I could be quicker than their messenger."

"How very sudden," said Everhard, "I saw him only two days ago, and he seemed quite well then."

"It is inflammation of the bowels," replied Gifford, "and they fear that mortification has already begun. I ordered a horse to be prepared for you, as I came in, and here it is at the door."

"Is there nothing that we can send?" asked Zoe.

"Oh no, he is past all that now; but you can go over to-morrow to see the family."

Everhard had departed whilst Gifford spoke, without even saying good bye; and Zoe was left alone to meditate upon the efficacy of the "Last Sacraments".

CHAPTER V

When Everhard arrived at the college, after closing the eyes of poor farmer Ball, he found a packet that had come during his absence; it contained a most flattering letter of thanks from the pope himself, for all his exertions at the college, and expressive of the high sense entertained of the value of his services in England; concluding with a personal request that Everhard would find time to edit a translation of the principal works of the Fathers of the first four centuries.

It seemed, as if all his honours had conspired to come at the same time, for during the evening of the same day, another parcel came containing a gold chain, which had been sent by the University of Göttingen for his work on Philology, with a diploma conferring on him the degree of doctor in their university. A very short time previously, Everhard would have been gratified by all this, but now thoughts had been aroused by the conversation of the morning, that none of these things could still. He sat gazing at the chain and letters for some time, and then, impatiently sweeping them into a drawer, he exclaimed bitterly, "Would that I had never been born!"

That same evening, Zoe, according to her usual habit, was reclining on the little blue satin sofa, thinking over her morning's conversation with Everhard, and speculating upon the peculiar and hasty manner in which he had averted his head when she finished speaking; but she could not make any theory about it that satisfied her. "I wish", thought she, "Gifford had not come in just then; I wonder when Father Everhard will be coming again, I shall be able to make it better out then."

Tea was now brought in, and with it, the post-bag. Zoe opened it with all the eagerness that such an event always causes in a country house. To her great delight, she drew out a highly-scented, and elegant looking letter, that bore the Parisian post-mark. It was from a certain Lady Clara Mandeville, who, in London, had been Zoe's bosom friend and confidante: a clever, witty, unscrupulous, good-hearted woman. Zoe was precisely in the humour to enjoy any thing coming from her. She read the letter over twice, and when the tea-things were removed, and Gifford had departed to play chess with the tutor, she sat down to answer it. Her letter, thanks to the great carelessness and indiscretion of Lady Clara, we are enabled to lay before our readers, who, of course, share that usual infirmity in human nature of delighting to hear matters which were intended to be specially kept from them. If Lady Clara had done as she ought to have done, she would have put this letter into the fire the moment she had read it. But Lady Clara did not understand the responsibility of confidential letters; she always either left her friends' letters on the chimney-piece, for the benefit of the footman, or else she made them into very broad spills, and when she wished to be very careful indeed, she put them into a desk which would not lock!

There are wonderfully few secrets in this world; "tôt ou tard, tout se sait," said Madame de Maintenon, whose prudence almost amounted to genius. At the same time, if people would only keep their own counsel, and not confess all their indiscretions on paper, their secrets would stand some chance of enduring till the day of judgment, when the lawful term of their existence expires. If Zoe had only abstained from letter-writing, she might have gone to her grave with the reputation of a second Egeria, and the respectability of Theresa Tidy and Mrs Chapone rolled into one! What our readers are going to think of her now, we dare not anticipate; we can only say, that our own sense of propriety received a severe shock when we read this letter; and let it be remembered that we are beforehand with them in the expression of our grave disapprobation. Zoe has been arraigned at the bar of our private judgment, and reprimanded accordingly. The letter which has caused us such a virtuous sensation, was as follows:

"Dearest Clara,

"Yes, here we are settled down into what you call our prison. I assure you it is no prison to me, after so long a residence in London, where I had begun to forget the natural colour of daylight.

"The only London thing I miss, is yourself. What would I not give for one of our old tête-à-têtes just now! one cannot write down one's feelings, they look so absurd; at least mine would to-day. Poor dear Clara! you thought when I came down here that I should find nothing to do, but to take to moralising with Gifford (who really says some good things now and then), or to saying my rosary with Clotilde, or feeding poultry. When a woman can find no mischief to do, your doctrine is, that her vocation is over, and she had better go to heaven at once. I fear my time for going to heaven is as yet far distant, for I feel the greatest possible vocation for mischief at this moment. Good heaven how I write! I, talking of mischief, who have turned a deaf ear all my life to every thing in the shape of love and lovers, and with fifty admirers sighing after me, have lived as soberly as the ugliest German frau. To change the subject, let me tell you how I have furnished the wild old halls here. I have contrived to make them look as splendid as those of Madame de G. The couches, the fauteuils, and marble tables, and those splendid candelabras, and Dresden vases look brighter than ever, in contrast with the oak and ebony wainscotting. Now try to fancy that great, dim room, I have so often described to you, fitted up with every luxury of fashion and tasteful furniture; try to fancy you see me, dressed in my last pink cashmere negligée à la sultane, and coiffée à l'abandon, reclining on a velvet couch in a huge alcove, carved all over with Gothic grinning faces, furies, flowers, and griffins entwined; and sitting on another couch opposite to me (with a table of books between us), fancy a tall, large, earnest-looking man, of - (no matter what age, I don't know), in black from head to foot, oftenest in a cassock, in deep conversation with me. He is the head of Gifford's new college here, and was sent from Rome express, where he was held in wonderful estimation.

"I can't tell you how this man interests me; with all the learning of the Sorbonne, he is as ignorant of the world (at least of the world of women) as a young child. So much genuine feeling, not mere sentiment, such freshness and originality of thought! And he is as modest, nay, even blushes like a woman; he has got a habit of silence, yet at times he breaks out into the most touching eloquence. Above all, his passions have never been broken up, to this day he has never known the meaning of that most hackneyed word, 'amore'. Shut up from boyhood in a cloister, he has been kept clear from all the fascinations of our sex, and never tampered with by any excitement whatever. If he could be made to love - how different from those roués of young men, blasé with pleasure, old in worldliness before they reach the term of middle life; oh! how I have always loathed them all. Courtly, graceful, despicable things, I hated them with a more genuine hatred than such fictions of men deserved. It was all very well to let them rave about me and my beauty; they were the fashion, and I chose to be in the fashion with my lovers as well as with my fans and jewels; but how tenfold more loathsome would they all seem now.

"I have already told you that Father Everhard is a priest, and consequently bound down by a creed, as far as words and outward expressions go: he seldom says in words that he thinks with me, but how I am learning to read his thoughts. Now, Clara, do not imagine that I for the first time in my life am going to fall in love, after keeping free from it all these years, and passing for a cold English woman, - love is a word quite out of my vocabulary; but I do confess that I would rather have the friendship of this man, than the love and rhapsody of the whole sex besides. It is a strange providence that has thrown him in my way, and I hope to put him in my power. What I wish is, to make him taste a happiness he has never yet known nor dreamed of. I shall be his keeper, and he shall never do any thing of which he can afterwards repent; meantime, he is too unsophisticated to dream of any danger in our long tête-à-têtes, he remembers that he never came here at all, during the first six months of his residence at the college, and now he comes once a week to visit me, - there's all the difference.

"Do get his celebrated work against Bayle, Diderot, d'Holbach, and the encyclopediasts: he handles them like a giant: and yet what creed does this man hold in his secret soul? not much more than they, if I read him aright; but I think he does not own his doubts even to himself. At all events the man puzzles me, and to study him is the only occupation I feel inclined to attend to.

"Write to me, dear Clara, and let it be one of your wittiest letters. Do you ask pourquoi? Why then, because I want to read it to Father Everhard. What a quaint name, is it not? and yet I am beginning to think it the most graceful combination of letters in any language.

"I have nothing to tell you that you would consider news, unless it be that Clotilde is gone on a visit to Gifford's niece, who was married whilst we were in London, to Everhard's only brother. We have had monsieur le mari for a whole week here, such a contrast, oh, ye gods! A regular English husband of the most insipid kind, and Marian, from what he says, must have settled down into a most intolerable specimen of female respectability; but they seem very happy together, and no doubt consider each other a great blessing.

"Once more write, write, write, and soon,

"Ever yours,         

"ZOE GIFFORD.

"P.S. I forgot to tell you that poor Gifford met with a serious accident some time ago, which confined him to the house for nearly two months: he is quite recovered now. Really I made a capital nurse, and liked it moreover."

CHAPTER VI

What would become of the world without the Devil?

Under all the different systems of religion that have guided or misguided the world for the last six thousand years, the Devil has been the grand scapegoat. He has had to bear the blame of every thing that has gone wrong. All the evil that gets committed is laid to his door, and he has, besides, the credit of hindering all the good that has never got done at all.

If mankind were not thus one and all victims to the Devil, what an irredeemable set of scoundrels they would be obliged to confess themselves!

But men, not content with laying the blame of all their wickedness upon the Devil, likewise charge him with all their own folly and blundering stupidity.

When we consider, above all, the long sermons, all the ponderous books that have been levelled against him for so many ages, without, so far as we can perceive, making the smallest impression upon him, we are forced to conclude one of two things, either that he is utterly destitute of all gentlemanly susceptibilities, or else, "that the Devil is not so black as he is painted": for which latter opinion there is the authority of the old proverb.

For our own part, we are inclined to adopt the policy of the Spanish nobleman, who, when he made his last confession, removed his cap, and reverendly styled him, "my good lord the Devil", every time he had occasion to name him. He was a prudent man as well as polite, for he considered that as there was some danger of eventually falling into his hands, civil words were best.

Our friend Everhard had however offered an insult to the said Devil, far worse than the most bitter revilings; - he had actually brought himself to disbelieve in his existence altogether; and the Devil, though much enduring, was piqued into playing him a shrewd turn which seemed likely to set the question effectually at rest. We shall watch the progress of the struggle between them with great interest, for it involves a very important principle.

It is hard to say on which side victory will incline. Everhard has a strong desire to do right, and an upright heart, which is goodly armour for the soul. The match is not so unequal, if he will only rouse himself and put forth honestly the strength that lies in him. But will he? Can he? Is it strength at all that he has, or only a mist arising from the untried depths of self-confidence? Can a man who has no religious belief, have any moral strength? Is a sense of moral duty sufficient to keep him firm in the day of temptation? Can he pass through the fire and not be burned? Can a man in short, who has neither hope nor fear of any thing after this life, be a law to himself, and strive earnestly to do right, simply because it is right?

This is an important question, and can only be answered by the result. Everhard must fight it out. There is no one to whisper danger in his ear; fair-play even for the Devil!

Some time had now elapsed since the violent crisis in Everhard's religious opinions. He had become accustomed to the change; the strange fear and dread with which he had at first been haunted, subsided; he had ceased to perplex himself by obstinate questionings, and had sunk down half in patience and half in apathy, to await the result. The reaction was in proportion to the violent agitation he had undergone. We are tied to a centre, from which we advance in one direction to rebound as far in the opposite one, but we can only go the length of our tether any way. We should go mad, could we constantly see the things around us in their true bearing. Our perceptions cannot remain long on the stretch; our indolence blunts our feelings and blinds our eyes. A most merciful provision! So we continue to stumble amongst the mysteries that surround us, without being aware of them; or else we become accustomed to them, and they cease to surprise us.

Poor Everhard! he had, as the reader may have learned from Zoe's letter, got wonderfully into the habit of visiting at the castle; and yet he never went except when there appeared to be an imperative necessity for going. It had grown to be the most natural thing in the world to spend long mornings there; it seemed as if he could not do otherwise.

The acts that have in the end the most important influence over our life, do not appear at the time they take place, of a different texture to all the other acts that fill up the rest of our days and years. We understand the full meaning of nothing that we do, until it is over; and when the husk which shrouds the present moment from us, is burst by the event, then, and not till then, we become conscious of what it is we have really done.

Time glided on quietly; nothing occurred to open Everhard's eyes to the danger of such constant intercourse with a most fascinating and gifted woman. There was no one to dispute with him the smiles and conversation of Zoe, so there was no possibility of his being brought to consciousness by a flash of jealousy. A constant steady pressure, will throw down a stone wall in time; but it will take longer, and be more quietly done, than by a series of battering-ram assaults.

Everhard was so comfortable, and so well satisfied with the footing he was on with Zoe, that it never occurred to him to inquire into the nature of his sentiments for her.

It was a few days after the conversation recorded in a foregoing chapter, that Everhard, taking an evening walk, had wandered to some distance in the intricate mazes of a wood, that lay between the castle and the college. A sudden turning in the path, brought him unexpectedly upon Zoe and the two boys. They had their hats full of nuts, and had adorned Zoe's hat with a garland of cowslips and wild roses.

The children both bounded forwards at the sight of him, and began to talk, both together, about the delightful afternoon they had been spending in the wood, and all the wonderful things they had done. Zoe, who just then came up, seemed singularly disconcerted; she blushed, and tried to think of something natural to say.

Everhard remarked that it was "a very fine, cool evening", as he took out his handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Both of them were unaccountably embarrassed.

Luckily, Zoe had in her hand a new French work, which had just been sent down from London. She turned hastily over the leaves, wondering she could think of nothing to say. Somewhat ashamed of being silent, she began to read aloud a passage she had found at random. It was singularly mal à propos. The passage went to prove that people always take to religion when they have been unsuccessful in love, and that religion is the only thing that does not seem insipid after it.

"I wonder whether that is really the case," said Zoe.

"Yes," replied Everhard, smilingly, "there is one great point in which religion is far better than love (not that I profess, or, indeed, ought to know any thing of such matters). In religion we have no need to suppress or disguise our feelings; we may utter every thing without restraint."

"And why may we not do the same when we love?" asked Zoe.

"Because", said Everhard, "that would too often be followed by the loss of the beloved object. The Deity is the only being before whom we can be perfectly true; for He is the only being who can comprehend all our infirmities, and who will not misunderstand us."

"Should we not also", said Zoe, "love better those whom we love already, for knowing their weakness; knowing them as they really are; than when they keep themselves shrouded in motives of which we are ignorant. Should we not love them better for being quite sure that all we see and hear really is?"

"No," replied he, "we must be content to believe it so. Knowledge is not for this life, faith is our element here. There is no man living who is so far exalted above his fellows, as to make it safe to trust him with a human heart laid bare before him; even our own is hidden from us; the instinct of concealment lies at the very foundation of our nature, and we always suffer when we neglect its impulses. The moment we suspect the extent of our influence over another, a disposition to tyrannise and give pain is aroused; and that not so much from cruelty, as because none are strong enough to bear the burden of the entire and clinging love of a human heart, without staggering under it. God, who made us, is alone strong enough to bear with us. He alone can be loved with safety. He will not weary of us, nor throw us back upon ourselves when our affection is the most ardent."

"You are a true Jesuit," said Zoe, with a slight shrug of dissatisfaction. "You, at least, never told your secret thoughts, and never will."

They walked towards the castle in silence. When they arrived, Gifford was in the library reading the "London Gazette". He was delighted to see Everhard, and would not hear of his leaving that night. All his objections were over-ruled, and a servant was despatched on horseback to the college with a message, to say that he would not return.

Gifford, as soon as they were settled, proceeded to inflict the whole of the ponderous leading article upon Everhard aux petits coups d'épingles, along with his own comments upon the same.

Zoe, when she found she could no longer have all the conversation to herself, stretched herself on the sofa, where she appeared to be busily employed in cutting the leaves of her new book, but from time to time, she contrived to throw such glances upon poor Everhard as perfectly bewildered him, and contributed not a little to reduce him to that state of passiveness which is the perfection of a good listener; Gifford thought he had never met with such a good one before!

Was the Devil in the wood that night or not?

CHAPTER VII

We must now for a short time follow the fortunes of Clotilde. A family visit to a dull country house seems, at first sight, a reasonably peaceable adventure, promising nothing beyond a great trial of patience, and threatening nothing worse than an attack of ennui; but in this world it is a rule absolute, that every thing must be judged comparatively; what are little matters to one, become things of importance to another, so that it is hard to say whether it is that every thing is trifling, or that nothing is trifling; people are apt to speak of things as they find them. Any way, this journey was a grand event to Clotilde, not only because it was the first she had ever made, but also because there was a design, that lay very near her dear little heart, and this journey was to be made the means of accomplishing it. What this design was she had imparted in solemn confidence to Father Everhard, and had begged his blessing upon it; and it was a delightful sensation to her, to know that every step taken by the four post-horses brought her nearer to the scene of her undertaking.

At length the carriage drove up to the entrance of the Manor House, about eight o'clock in the evening. Marian, who had been expecting them since noon, or rather looking out for them, as they could not in reason be expected before the time when they actually arrived, rushed into the courtyard to welcome them. Clotilde was half smothered with kisses, and dragged, without giving her time to get rid of any of her mufflings, into the parlour, where the fire was blazing brightly, and the table laid for supper. Dazzled by the sudden change from darkness, Clotilde did not at first perceive a stately old lady dressed in black silk, with a bonnet of the same upon her head, and a white shawl pinned over her shoulders, who occupied a large three-cornered arm-chair on one side of the fireplace. It was Madame Burrows, somewhat less active than when she was last presented to the reader, but still erect in her carriage, and her faculties as vigorous as ever. She rose from her chair to embrace her son, who presented Clotilde to her. The old lady looked at her with a keen, scrutinising glance, which might have been expected to disconcert her, but Clotilde had been used to Miss Rodney, so she only curtseyed very reverently, and cast her eyes to the ground.

"Ah! I like your manner," said Madame Burrows, abruptly; "you have been well brought up, and have none of the flippancy of the young girls now-a-days. How is your father and Mrs Gifford?" continued she. Questions and replies followed each other rapidly, Louis was the speaker by common consent, and he had much to tell. The old lady listened to his accounts of Everhard, with a dignified sort of satisfaction. He was also very warm in his praises of Gifford, declaring him to be far the most sensible fellow he had ever seen. Somehow, very little was said or asked about Zoe. Supper, however, now interrupted the torrent of conversation. Marian had herself superintended the cooking of the woodcocks, and the delicious spiced beef had been prepared with her own hands, expressly against her husband's return. Whatever people may say or write about the comforts of tea, on coming in from a journey, our own opinion is, that on such occasions a dainty, well-appointed supper-table is a far more satisfactory sight: and could our readers have looked in at the parlour where they were all assembled, it would have been a sure and certain mode of converting all who differ from us. Marian was a first-rate housekeeper, and had a thorough understanding of what is meant by comfort. One way in which she showed her love to her husband, was by studying his dinners and suppers; - a stronger hold upon men's tender sensibilities than they might be willing to acknowledge.

As soon as supper was over, Clotilde, being very tired with her day's journey, was conducted to a charming little bed-room, where a bright fire was burning in a grate surrounded by curious Dutch tiles. A large old-fashioned looking-glass stood opposite, on its embroidered white muslin toilet-cover. A crucifix with a cushion of Marian's own working before it, stood in a recess on one side of the fire-place, and a small carved ebony clothes-press occupied the other. There was a mixture of old-fashioned quaintness and homely comfort, that gave it an extremely attractive air. "Oh, how very comfortable it is!" cried Clotilde, as she looked around. "I never saw any thing so delightful!"

"I hope you will be comfortable, too," said Marian, kissing her, "and make yourself very happy with us. If you want any thing ring your bell - our room is close by, so do not be alarmed or feel lonely. I am so glad you are come, we shall be so happy together. I am sure we shall be great friends. If you should feel tired, do not get up in the morning, and I will bring you some breakfast." And with another kiss, Marian bade her "good night".

Clotilde first examined the room, and the old-fashioned portraits on the wall, representing Everhard and Louis at a very juvenile period of their career, and Madame Burrows as a little girl dressed in pink brocade and a lace cap, playing with a lamb in an elaborately curled white fleece. Having finished her examination, and satisfied her curiosity, she sat down for a long time in the large easy chair, gazing on the fire in a profound reverie; her musings were not unpleasant apparently, for her face brightened, her lips parted into a smile, and raising her eyes, which were full of soft tears, she prostrated herself before the crucifix, and remained long at her devotions, then, like the Lady Christabel,

"Her gentle limbs she did undress,
And lay down in her loveliness."

The next morning she did not require the promised breakfast, but was up and dressed when Marian entered the room. "Why, how early you are!" she exclaimed. "I hope you slept well; don't plague yourself about unpacking, which is a hateful job, only a degree better than packing. Faucit shall put all your things into the drawers - she is quite a treasure, she does every thing for me." Clotilde left her keys for the "treasure", and went down stairs with Marian.

After breakfast Louis went to see after his farm, promising to take the ladies a drive at noon; and Marian in the full pride of a married woman, took Clotilde to see her house, and all the wonders of her still-room and dairy. An air of the most shining cleanliness and comfort pervaded every thing. Louis was quite right when he boasted of Marian as an excellent wife. Then there was the garden to be explored, which Marian had brought into the most splendid order, for she delighted in gardening; but now, as she said it was a bad time to see it, there were so few flowers. Clotilde gave all the admiration that could possibly be claimed; but she was thinking how she should introduce her scheme to her cousin. "Your gardener turned Protestant and forsook his religion," said she, suddenly, in reply to a speech of Marian's, about a plantation of monthly roses.

"Yes," said Marian, "and he was quite the hero of the village for it; but I think he is a little bit repenting now; his wife, whom he married for her money, is a great deal older than himself, and a fierce evangelical; she leads him a terrible life, for a pious shrew is a formidable person to deal with."

"Where does he live? Do you ever see him?" asked Clotilde.

"No," replied Marian, "Mr O'Brian takes charge of him, and would be very sorry to see the face of either you or me in the house of any of his flock. The man has turned shoemaker since he left us, and as long as Mr O'Brian and his congregation are his customers, it is not likely he will ever come near us."

Poor Clotilde felt terribly disappointed, but she did not despair. "Do you know," said she, "I am sure we ought to try to reclaim him; it is terrible to allow a soul to fall away from the true faith without an effort to save him. I have thought of this poor man, and prayed for him night and day ever since I heard of his terrible falling away, and I feel convinced that if I could see him and speak to him he would hear me. I have had an assurance given me that it will be so; only last night," said she, in a solemn tone, and crossing herself as she spoke, "only last night after I went to bed I lay awake meditating on this affair, and I suppose I must have fallen asleep, for the blessed Virgin appeared to me in a dream, with stars under her feet and a crown of stars upon her head, and she looked sweetly, though with great majesty upon me. I did not hear the sound of her voice, but I felt it in my heart. 'My child,' she said, 'be constant and fear not, there is a crown laid up in heaven for you,' and then her garment seemed to touch my cheek as she rose up in the air, and vanished out of my sight; now you see, I must go to see this poor man, and try to convince him."

"But", said Marian, almost bewildered by Clotilde's earnestness, "what will you say to him? What excuse will you make for calling at his house?"

"Our Blessed Lady will put it into my heart what to say," replied Clotilde; "only tell me my way to the village, and where he lives."

Marian saw how fully impressed she was with the idea that had taken possession of her, and besides, she was too good a Catholic to throw obstacles in the way, even if it would have been of any use: so she contented herself with saying, "Well then, remember, if Mr O'Brian complains, and Louis scolds, you must look to it, and get me out of the scrape: so, that understood, you must go across the fields there, and over the bridge by the row of oak trees, which will bring you to the village, and the first house you come to is Andrew Stringer's; it is a little red cottage in a garden with palings before it, and he is a shoemaker, remember. You will have a better chance by yourself, than if I went with you, and besides, mamma will be dressed by this time, and want me to help her down stairs to the parlour, she does not like to have any one but me." As they had now reached the end of the park, they separated, Marian returning home, and Clotilde pursuing her way across the very field, where, in days long ago, Everhard had met with his memorable adventure in search of the mushrooms.

In spite of the assurance with which she had spoken, poor Clotilde felt sadly perplexed how she was to introduce herself and her errand, "Surely", cried she, "Our Blessed Lady, who inspired the idea, will not abandon me in my need!" Scarcely had she uttered this exclamation, than it seemed as if Our Lady really intended to vindicate the faith of her votary, for Clotilde heard sounds of sorrow, and on looking round, perceived a girl who might be about twelve years old, sitting upon the grass, apparently in great pain, and sobbing bitterly, whilst a baby that lay in her lap, was screaming an accompaniment.

"What is the matter, my good girl?" asked Clotilde, going up to her. The child wiped her eyes with her blue pinafore, and only sobbed the more, without speaking.

"If you will only tell me what is the matter, I will try to help you," said Clotilde again, at the same time taking up the baby, and trying to pacify it.

"What is your name, and where do you live?"

"Susan Brown," said the child, still crying, "and I live with the shoemaker's wife, to take care of the baby, and I was getting over that stile, and my foot slipped, and I can't walk on it at all, and missis will beat me when I get home - Oh!" here a fresh burst of tears drowned her voice.

"Let me look at your foot," said Clotilde, stooping down; it was terribly sprained and swollen, "My poor little girl," said she, "you must not try to walk, sit still here, and I will take the baby home, and send some one to carry you. Where does your mistress live?"

"At the red cottage, the first you come to in the village; but tell her I could not help it, and don't let her beat me." Clotilde did her best to comfort the poor girl, and then, scarcely able to contain her joy, she set off with the baby in her arms. Here was an introduction not only to the renegade shoemaker, but to the heart of his redoubtable wife also. Clotilde felt as if her way were indeed being made plain before her. On coming near the "red cottage", Clotilde saw Mrs Andrew Stringer standing at the garden-gate, looking up and down the road, with a look of mingled crossness and anxiety; "Only to think of the idle hussy," she muttered, "that poor baby will be famished to death, it has never tasted since morning, poor lamb! Ah! but I will give it her well!" On perceiving a strange lady carrying her baby, she looked very much surprised.

"Your little servant has met with an accident," said Clotilde, "she is not able to walk home. I have brought the baby, and promised to send some one to help her."

"I am sure your ladyship is main good," replied the woman, taking the child from her. "You must be tired to death, carrying such a load - will you condescend to come in and rest awhile?"

It is needless to say that Clotilde gladly consented. The neat little kitchen with its white floor sprinkled with red sand; the eight-day clock; the curiously carved oak settle with its pink gingham cushion; all bore witness that the owners of the house were well to do in the world. A row of thriving plants in bright red pots, stood in the well-cleaned window; and in the black-leaded recess of the chimney, were a dazzling array of shining pots and pans. A "no Popery" tract lay upon the dresser, and a broadside was fastened against the wall, having a flaming many-coloured print of a beast at the top, which would have defied Cuvier himself to classify: it seemed a complication of scales and claws; a serpent's tail; and more heads than could conveniently be counted, each furnished with an unlimited supply of horns. It appeared in a very lively condition, as it was represented in the act of executing a pas de bête peculiar to itself.

"Ah!" said the woman, complacently, when she perceived that Clotilde's attention was drawn to this wonderful production. "That is a representation of Popery; what a blessing it is, as dear Mr O'Brian says, that we live in a Protestant country, and are saved from its ravages!"

"I wish, wife, you would not talk such nonsense; that beast is no more like Popery than you are, and I ought to know something of it," cried a husky voice from within, and a man in a leathern apron and a red shiny face came into the kitchen.

"Aren't you ashamed to expose yourself before quality in that way?" said his wife, in an angry tone. "But you will bring us all to shame before we die."

The man seemed somewhat abashed, and was slinking off, when Clotilde hastily called him back, by inquiring whether he could make ladies' walking-shoes.

"Indeed can I," said the man, "since I left off being a gardener, I have had nothing better to do."

"Do you make for many families about here?" asked Clotilde, by way of beginning a conversation, as he knelt down to measure her.

"Yes, pretty well - but all the family at the Manor House go to Coventry for what they want, and it is a good twenty pound a year out of my way; but it's no use hoping," added he, with a sort of sigh.

"Why not?" asked Clotilde.

"Because, d'ye see, I used to be gardener there, but I turned Protestant, and ever since, none of them will speak to me. Mr O'Brian says it is because it is in the nature of Popery to be persecuting; God knows! It was a good berth whilst I had it, and this I will say, that a more liberal, open-handed gentleman never stept than the squire."

"Do you regret turning Protestant, then?" asked Clotilde.

"Why as to that d'ye see," replied he, looking round with rather a perplexed air, "there are many things beside religion that go to make one glad or sorry. I don't know - but, you see Mr O'Brian has such a power of strong words, one cannot think one is wrong when one listens to him - but I often think of the old place, too."

"You remember Father Everhard when he was a boy, do you not?"

"Ay, for sure do I; they say he is grown a grand man now, and much made of by the Pope himself: many is the bird's nest I've got for him and his brother, Mr Louis, and many is the fishing-rod I have made and mended for them; - but, may I be so bold as to ask if you know him?"

Before Clotilde could reply, they were interrupted by the entrance of his wife, who had been herself to see after her "little hussy of a servant", and who now returned, followed by a labourer who carried the poor child in his arms. Clotilde's experience amongst her pensioners at home, made her quite au fait at all required to be done. She made a fomentation, applied it with her own hands, and promised to come again in the afternoon with a proper lotion.

"It is some lady who is come to visit at the Manor House," said the wife, as soon as she was gone, "it is little they will let her bring from there."

"Well, what success?" cried Marian, as Clotilde, radiant with smiles and flushed with exertion, entered the breakfast-room.

"Oh, there seems quite a way opened for me," said Clotilde, and she began a detailed account of all that had happened.

"I fear it will only prove a way to my store-room," said Marian, laughingly; "however, you shall have the benefit of all I can do for you."

"I fear the promise of our custom for boots and shoes would do more to turn the heart both of Andrew and his wife, than all your missionary efforts; for his wife is a thrifty body, and has a dangerous taste for getting rich," said old Madame Burrows, from the corner where she was knitting a lamb's wool stocking: the ball of worsted rolled on the floor, and Clotilde hastened to pick it up. "You are a good child," said Madame Burrows, complacently; "but take care how you meddle with these people, it may have more consequences for you than you think."

Clotilde was too full of her schemes, to pay any attention to the good lady; indeed if warnings of any sort were ever heeded till too late, it would be contrary to the order of nature; wisdom has grown so used to calling aloud without attracting attention, that the good lady would be actually embarrassed if any mortal chanced to turn his head at her first summons.

Clotilde went in the afternoon, followed by a footman carrying a covered basket, such as the shoemaker well remembered in the days when he lived at the Manor.

Clotilde dismissed her attendant at the entrance of the village, and went alone to the cottage. Andrew and his wife were both very civil, the little girl was lying on the settle, in great pain, but her face brightened up when Clotilde entered. She charged the woman on no account to allow her to walk, and that she herself would pay some one to hold her baby for her. The woman curtseyed down to the ground, but seemed rather surprised at so much generosity, and, like all vulgar people, began to think there must be some motive at the bottom of it. When Clotilde turned to Andrew and gave him a beautiful clasp knife that Father Everhard had sent him as a remembrance, she pursed her lips, tossed her head, gave an uneasy cough, and finally said, "That certainly it was very good of the gentleman to recollect her husband so long, but that she must say" - what, has never transpired, for Andrew himself stopped her by fairly drowning her voice in the expression of his own satisfaction.

Clotilde soon after took her leave, promising to return again. As she went out at the gate she heard Andrew saying, in an angry voice, "I tell thee what, I never did beat thee, but if thou dost not hush directly I will."

The next morning it rained, and as it was impossible to go out of doors, Marian and Clotilde sat at their work in the breakfast-room. Marian was employed in making some marvellously small and dainty lace caps, whilst Clotilde was getting on with the carpet, which Marian had begun to have some fears of never being able to finish, so she hailed with rapture Clotilde's offer to undertake the remaining portion of it.

They had been industriously employed for some time, when Marian, looking out on the weather, said, "It has set in for the day, we shall have no visitors to interrupt us."

At this moment a ring came to the hail door, and the old butler putting his head into the room, said, with a look of great astonishment, "It is Mr O'Brian, ma'am, the rector himself, I saw him come along, and I just made bold to see you, if you would please to be at home to him."

"Mr O'Brian!" screamed Marian. "Surely, Maurice, you must be mistaken, what can he want here? Clotilde, this comes of your going after these people yesterday, what must we do?"

"Oh, let him come in!" said Clotilde. "It is not for us to shrink from seeing him; let us at least hear what he comes for."

"Ah! you are not a married woman," said Marian, "what will Louis say? Still, I can't help feeling rather curious to know what he comes for, and, as you say, one ought not to be rude; so, Maurice, we are at home; and pray make haste, for there is his second ring."

Marian and Clotilde sat looking towrds the door in silent expectation.

"I hope Louis will not come in till he is gone," said Marian; "perhaps I have done wrong, but it can't be helped now."

The door opened, and Maurice ushered in the "Reverend Horace O'Brian!" He placed a chair for him, looking on him all the while as if he had been some highly curious beast, for Maurice had never come so close to a Protestant clergyman in his life before; and could hardly persuade himself to leave the room; indeed, the footman declared that he saw Maurice with his ear to the key-hole a full quarter of an hour after he had shown the Reverend Horace O'Brian into the room. At this accusation, Maurice only "phawed", and, with all the dignity of a butler, ordered the footman to mind his own affairs.

The Reverend Horace O'Brian was left face to face before two ladies whom he had never spoken to, and between whom and himself there existed a sort of theoretical hatred. But the Reverend Horace O'Brian was a tall, graceful, singularly handsome man, with a magnificent pair of large black eyes, one glance of which, as he bowed with a deprecating air to the two ladies, considerably modified the stately reserve with which they had prepared to receive him.

"You, doubtless, are surprised at my intrusion," said he, in a bland, silvery tone of voice; "but the kindness of Mrs Burrows towards one of my parishioners yesterday, has given me confidence to request her assistance again. A family, consisting of the father and mother and two children, came into Sutton by the coach last night; the poor man is this morning too ill to proceed on his journey; I was sent for and saw them, their case is really most distressing. The man belongs to a respectable family in the west of England; but disobliged all his friends by marrying a young woman who was a Catholic. He was then in a good way of business, but losses and casualties which he could not foresee, reduced him to difficulties, and finally to bankruptcy. His friends would do nothing for him, and they were on their way to Preston, where she has friends who promised to assist them if they came there; it seems really as if every thing were against them, for first the children fell ill, then the wife, and now at last the husband, who has been ailing for some weeks, but who would not own it, has been taken so much worse that I fear he will not be able to continue his journey for some time, if, indeed, he ever recovers, for he seems quite broken down with sorrow and anxiety: he is a superior man, and has evidently been used to good society. I shall try to raise a little money for them, but I thought that if you or Mr Burrows would call to see them, a little comfort would cheer them even more than money, and besides," concluded he, with a slight emotion perceptible in his finely modulated voice, "you have most nobly stepped forward the first, to give the hand of fellowship to necessity without consideration of sect, and I am proud to follow such an example in well-doing."

Long before he came to this point, all prejudice against him had faded away from the minds of his hearers. Clotilde eagerly declared her intention of going down that very afternoon, whilst Marian, with more matronly prudence, assured him, "that she would speak to Mr Burrows, who, she had no doubt, would be most happy to do any thing that lay in his power."

The conversation then took a general turn; having learned from Andrew that the young lady came from Devonshire, he began adroitly to speak of the country about there: he had an intimate friend in the neighbourhood of Gifford Castle; on mentioning his name, it proved to be an acquaintance of Gifford's who had often dined there. Behold then, an acquaintance already struck up, and the blushing Clotilde talking at her ease, to one who was not only a perfect stranger, but a Protestant clergyman.

To Marian he spoke of his children, and the melancholy lonely life he led at the great Rectory; he asked her advice most deferentially about the management of his children, whether it were better to send them to a school, or to have a competent person to attend on them at home. He stated his perplexities about them; lamented in the most feeling terms, that there was no superior woman living near, amongst his congregation, to whom he might apply in the many emergencies where a man could not advise. He spoke of his sisters, and said how much disappointed he had been, that they both refused to be buried alive, as they called it, in Sutton; and, finally, remarking that he had trespassed terribly on their time, the Reverend Horace O'Brian rose, and, with a graceful bow, glided out of the room, having fascinated his auditors as completely as heart could wish.

"What a very superior man!" exclaimed Marian, the instant the door had closed upon him.

"Yes," said Clotilde; "and how uncharitably I have judged him," continued she, in a reproachful tone. "Dear Marian! let us go and see these poor people this very afternoon."

"With all my heart; and I will try and persuade Louis to return his call; it quite does one good to see such an intelligent person."

"And oh!" cried Clotilde, "if we could but convert him too! Who knows for what purpose he has been brought here?"

The Reverend Horace O'Brian went home, which he reached pretty nearly wet through. "Humph," said he to himself, as, enveloped in his dressing-gown, he threw himself in a luxurious fauteuil by his study fire; "I think I have made an impression in that quarter, and it shall not be my fault if I do not get a footing in their house. Clotilde is a nice little thing, and will be as well endowed as a queen dowager, Montague says - "

Here his musings were interrupted by Alice, his housekeeper, who bore in, with her own hands, a tray of dinner on which she had exhausted all her skill in cookery; for she had a sort of prescience, that on such a miserably wet day, a good dinner would be more than usually welcome.

"Thank you, Alice, this is delicious; and how are the children?"

"Oh, sir, they are well enough; - but are you sure you have changed every thing that was wet, and don't you think you have taken cold? You ought to consider what will become of the parish if any thing should happen to you; but you are just so venturesome."

Whilst the handsome rector eats his dinner, and pacifies the anxiety of his housekeeper, we will tell the reader a little of his history.

The Reverend Horace O'Brian was the nephew of an Irish earl, and the eldest son of a man who had changed his religion for a clerkship in the Treasury. He had been educated for the Church, because the reversion of the rectory of Sutton had been promised to his father for him; - he himself would much have preferred pushing his fortune in the army, but as it was the Church who opened her arms for him, he was obliged to take the good the gods provided, and be content. He had been very extravagant at college, and contracted many debts; his only hope of liquidating them was from the economies of his living, and this tended in some degree to reconcile him to his lot.

Till he was fairly installed in his new career, the idea of self-control or self-denial, had never occurred to him, not even in the lowest form, that of refusing a present gratification to obtain a greater after a while. He was rich in that species of genius, which is the result of a strong passionate temperament; he had a vivid susceptibility to external influences; a love of luxury, that seemed rather an innate and artist-like perception of the beautiful, than a vulgar love of gratification; he was rich in poetical and general impulses; his whole being was saturated with a sense of pleasure; and he shrunk from pain, either endured or inflicted, as an anomaly in nature. But there was no sternness of principle to keep all these gifts from running to waste.

There is a period in the life of such beings as these, when all the possible perfections of humanity seem invested in them; they have a richness and ripeness peculiar to themselves; but they "hold in perfection but a little moment", they have no principle of endurance within them, and they shrink from pain, which is the secret source of all the excellence that is manifested in the world. They are cowards at heart, and cowardice is the root from which all base and craven deeds spring.

To this class belonged Horace O'Brian. Forced into the Church from motives of expediency - examples of time-serving, and subserviency to the powers that be, constantly presented to him, disguised in the epithets of prudence and wisdom - no one lesson of honesty or honourableness ever taught him from his cradle upwards - nothing like conscience or duty ever recognised in his hearing; - but carefully taught that to "rise in life", was the first and last duty of every man who was not a fool - placed in an uncongenial profession with the injunction to become a bishop - buried in an obscure provincial town, in order that the income of the living might pay his debts, and the practice form his style for a higher sphere - the great wonder is, that the Reverend Horace O'Brian was not an irredeemable scoundrel. Hypocrisy seemed forced upon him by circumstances. We are bound to say that he was kind and attentive to his parishioners, who all idolised him.

His sermons were eloquent; he had a perfect voice, a graceful delivery, and a very flowing and flowery style, so of course he could not well help becoming a popular preacher. He was a zealous no popery man; not because he had any antipathy to Catholics or their doctrines, but "no popery", happened to be the government watchword just then: to say all in one word, the Reverend Horace O'Brian did not think the Church the profession for a high-spirited gentleman; he hated it from the bottom of his soul, and nothing but the hope of rising to distinction, kept him patient in the ranks.

It was the weariness of ennui, and the wish for something to break this monotony, that inspired the sudden whim of calling at the Manor House. He had a curiosity to see Clotilde, whom his friend Montague had mentioned as a little saint, who was to be the largest heiress in the county.

We had almost forgotten to say, that when a mere boy he had made a run-away match with a beautiful girl of low family, with whom he had fallen madly in love, and whom he could not obtain on other terms. His father was highly incensed, and only forgave him when she died (quite providentially, as he thought), the year after their marriage, in her first confinement, leaving him the young father of twin girls: the children of whom he spoke to Marian.

CHAPTER VIII

"Who do you think has been here?" exclaimed Marian, the instant Louis entered the room.

"Pshaw! how should I know?" replied he, pettishly (for he had just come in, hungry, and wet through besides); "I wish you would tell them to be quick with dinner, instead of chattering about your visitors; I suppose, as usual, it will be half an hour before we get it."

Whenever we are peculiarly exalted in our imaginations, we are sure to be within a moment of running our heads against some prosaical post that stands ready to mar our swimming progress; so it was with Marian and Clotilde, who were both thrown from their complacent frame of mind by the casualty of a husband coming home out of sorts, and wanting his dinner before it fell due. In an instant Mr O'Brian, his grace and his gentleness, were swept away like the properties of a wrong scene on the stage. Marian left the room to persuade the cook to do the impossible about dinner, and Clotilde shrank into a corner, feeling that her dreams for the comfort and conversion of various individuals were not couleur de rose, as they had been a few moments ago, but had decidedly assumed a very leaden-coloured hue. However, by the time Louis had divested himself of his comfortless attire, dinner was announced, and, still more luckily, he found the soup and game unusually excellent; so that when dessert was on the table, he had relapsed into his normal state of good humour.

"Well! who was it you were beginning to talk about just now? you women have no discretion, but begin to talk of just what runs in your head, when a man is tired to death, and thinking of his dinner; now I can listen, who was it?"

"You will never guess," said Marian; "and I am not sure when it comes to the point, that you will be very much pleased either; we have had Mr O'Brian, of all people!"

"A very great piece of impudence in him; and how came you to receive him?"

"Oh," replied Marian, "he made many apologies for intruding, but he wanted your advice and assistance in a very distressing case that has just occurred. A man, who has been quite a gentleman, and is of a good family, is lying ill at a little ale-house in the town, his wife and two children are with him, they are in the greatest distress; his friends have thrown him off, because he married a Catholic; he has met with the cruellest misfortunes, which have reduced him to absolute beggary, and they were on their way to some of her relations when he was taken ill. Mr O'Brian called first to thank us for our, or rather Clotilde's, kindness, yesterday; and, also to ask if you would do something for this poor man."

"Ay, ay, I suppose this poor man might starve, before he or any of his set would help him."

"Oh, no!" cried Clotilde, "on the contrary, he said he had already called on him, and intends to make his congregation help him."

"And," continued Marian, "he spoke very prettily about not wishing there to be such a line of demarcation between Catholics and Protestants; but both to unite in doing good; he spoke so respectfully about you, and was so gentlemanly and intelligent, that, though I was as stiff as possible at first, I could not help quite liking him before he went away."

"Well, and what did you say to him?"

"Oh, of course I said I could do nothing till I had asked you, but that I was sure you would do all that was right."

"Ah, Miss Clotilde," said Louis, half smiling, as he turned towards her, "this comes through you. You have quite a vocation to be a sister of charity, you bring work of that sort wherever you go. What is your opinion of this, madam?" said he, addressing his mother, who had not spoken.

"I did not see the gentleman," replied the old lady; "but though you have no right to turn aside from a work of charity, the less dealing you have with Mr O'Brian, the better. I think he wants to get a footing here; but go by all means, and see the poor man."

When they rose from the table, Clotilde was in great haste to get ready, and hurried Marian unmercifully, who, content with having obtained the requisite permission, would have delayed till the next morning, in the hope of a finer day; but Clotilde, like all quiet people, when they are set upon a plan, was very obstinate, so accordingly they set off.

They found the sick man and his family exactly as Mr O'Brian had represented; but they did not find Mr O'Brian himself; and Clotilde had a vague sort of feeling that she did not find so much interest as she expected. It is a bad thing to be impatient; she should have waited till the next morning, as Marian proposed.

The next day, Louis came home in high good-humour, saying, "Well, I have seen your Mr O'Brian, and I must say he is a very gentlemanly fellow; how one does get prejudices into one's head! I have asked him to dinner to-morrow, and then we can settle the best means of setting this poor man up again in the world; it is a hard case, and O'Brian spoke very sensibly and liberally about the matter."

The next day, the Reverend Horace O'Brian duly arrived to dinner. With his graceful and adaptive manners, he soon won the heart of his entertainers; even Madame Burrows, who had been inclined to distrust his advances, was charmed by his deference towards her, and pronounced him, in Marian's words, to be "a very superior young man, indeed", and was as cordial as the others in hoping to see him whenever he could find time.

During the whole visit, he scarcely spoke to Clotilde; - there was no need of it, for the looks he bestowed upon her from eyes that actually seemed to give light, took the full effect he intended they should upon the unsuspecting child. When he took his departure, she felt as if all his conversation had been directed to her alone, and expected that Marian would rally her upon the circumstance; she, therefore, made her escape as soon as she could; but Marian, to whom most of his words had been addressed, only remarked to her husband, when they were alone, "Is it not strange that Clotilde should attract so little notice? How different she is from Mrs Gifford, who attracts every body towards her."

"No, my dear," replied Louis, "not every body; but no doubt Clotilde and she agree all the better for not clashing. Clotilde is a sweet little creature, and to my mind, worth a hundred of her stepmother any day."

The O'Brian acquaintance thus auspiciously begun, went on prosperously, and a decided intimacy soon sprung up. The great interest felt both by Marian and Clotilde for the children cemented it.

At first, Mr O'Brian felt some scruples as to what his congregation might say, if he allowed his children to go to a Catholic house; but Marian met them one day, near the park gates, and beguiled them in, along with their nurse, to see a beautiful peacock she had recently added to her poultry yard. They were delighted, and gave their papa no peace till he promised to take them again to see the peacock and the pretty ladies.

Marian offered the park and gardens for their walks, and O'Brian, who was devotedly fond of his children, could not bear to disappoint or thwart them; so it soon grew to be a matter of course that they should go down every day to the Manor House.

They were lovely children, and it did not need their father's influence to make them darlings wherever they came; Clotilde was passionately fond of them, and could not rest with them out of her sight. Fortunately, Marian was propitiated by the respect Mr O'Brian showed for her judgment, and the half-confidential manner in which he talked to her about his affairs; nay, more, asking her advice on one or two occasions, and following it! Otherwise, it is possible she might have felt annoyed by her young companion being so completely engrossed by her convert's protégés and children, as to have very little time left for working at the carpet, or talking to her.

It was one morning, about six weeks after the eventful dinner, that Mr O'Brian walked into the oak-room, where the ladies usually sat. Marian was at work, and Clotilde, with the two children before her, was teaching them to dance; her back was to the door, so she did not perceive his entrance, but went on with her lesson; she stood with her dress raised above her instep, and her little flexible foot pointed before her; she was laughing with gentle merriment at some blunders of the children's, and was bidding them "try again", when the little ones bounding away, calling "papa! papa!" caused her to turn round in too much confusion to hear his well-turned compliment on the graceful sight he had so unexpectedly witnessed.

He did not distress her long by his observation, for he at once turned to Marian, saying, "I should hardly have ventured to intrude thus early, but I want Mrs Burrows to do a good action, and I know that can never come unseasonably to her. In my Sunday-school there is a young girl, very superior to the general run of Sunday scholars, whom I am anxious to train for a higher service than that of the farmers' families about, or the tradesmen in town; in short, my dear madam, if I could place her with you, my most sanguine wishes would be met; she would be thoroughly trained, and to have been under your care, would be of itself a recommendation; a servant of your training would be indeed a treasure."

Marian smiled, and asked what sort of situation he wished her to become qualified for.

"I am desirous she should obtain a reasonable proficiency in every household department; I must say my request sounds audacious, but in time she would become useful to you."

"Oh!" said Marian, "let her come by all means, I am quite glad to be made useful. Of course I need not say she shall attend both church and school regularly: I am sure Mr Burrows will feel gratified by the confidence you have in us."

The business was graciously concluded, and they proceeded to talk of other things, and finally adjourned to the garden; for the children had all along kept pulling at Clotilde's gown, to tell her that she had promised to show them where they might dig a garden, and build a castle for their great doll; so, to keep the peace they all went together to lay the foundation. Clotilde, who was very expert at this sort of architecture, was obliged to remain with the children, whilst Marian and O'Brian walked on, for standing spectator is cold work in a March wind. Marian was just as well pleased to have all the talk to herself. There was a comfortable complacency in the idea of having influence over Mr O'Brian, and to have him talking to her, as if she were his greatest friend; and as she did not much care to hear what all the world beside might listen to, she naturally preferred a tête-à-tête; - all women do. All this was without the smallest infringement on her sense of married woman propriety; she was too thoroughly ENGLISH in all her notions, to have an idea of the possibility of caring for any one except her own husband; hers was nothing more than the truly feminine love of being made much of. She often thought, if he were a Catholic gentleman instead of a Protestant clergyman, that Mr O'Brian would just suit Clotilde; but, as there seemed no prospect of this, she was content to enjoy the present good without entering into the metaphysics of it. And Clotilde? Clotilde was happier than she had ever been in her life before; she asked no questions, and we can give the reader no information beyond; it had never been put into her head to analyse her emotions; and her nature was too single to feel any interest in that sort of occupation. "Nothing but Frenchwomen", as a friend of ours once said, "can analyse their feelings at the time they are passing."

In the afternoon of the day when the visit above related took place, Clotilde said she would take the children home herself, and afterwards go and see Andrew the shoemaker, and call on the Catholic wife of Mr O'Brian's protégé. Marian was too much fatigued to accompany her, so she and the children set off together.

Her scheme of conversion seemed to be going on prosperously, though the method she pursued has not reached us; she had completely tamed the ultra Protestant wife; who always, when speaking of her, remarked that "She was a very gracious young lady, and 'had the root of the matter in her', though she was a Papist."

Possibly the patience with which Clotilde listened to her ardent accounts of Mr O'Brian's goodness and greatness, and learning, might have had their effect; indeed, Clotilde never seemed so well pleased as when he was the theme of her discourse; besides, Clotilde had plagued Marian into giving Andrew an order for sundry pairs of boots and shoes, so perhaps the favour she found was not quite miraculous.

From Andrew's cottage she went to call on Mr Woolgar, as the sick gentleman, Mr O'Brian's protégé, was named; he was much better, though still very weak; his mental anxiety had caused a relapse more than once, but to-day he was in good spirits; Mr O'Brian's representations had stimulated either the pride or the compassion of some of his rich relations, and they had contrived to procure him a situation in the excise, and had sent him money to prosecute his journey; so that now all he wanted was bodily strength, which he seemed in a fair way for gaining. There again Clotilde had to listen to all that could be uttered in the praise of mortal man, and that man, Mr O'Brian; she said very little herself, but she was a wonderfully patient auditor; every body knows how insipid it generally is to listen to the praises of other people.

During her stay with Marian, she had discovered many poor people standing in peculiar need of assistance, and it was to the cottage of one of these, that she bent her way on leaving the Woolgars. Her timidity with Mr O'Brian was so great, that she could never address him without blushing and stammering to a most painful degree; and yet he always contrived to discover her wishes with regard to her protégés, and all that it would please her to have done for them, in a way quite wonderful; and then the poor people had often to tell her, in the most artless way, all the beautiful things Mr O'Brian said of her.

This afternoon, as she left the last cottage, and turned her face homewards, she was met by Mr O'Brian himself; it was beginning to get dusk, so without making any question about the matter, he turned back to accompany her. He had never on any occasion been struck dumb in his intercourse with her; on the contrary, he had always, when he had an opportunity, poured forth his most eloquent and graceful conversation for her benefit: he had never paid her a single compliment, but every look, tone, and word that he addressed to her, was flattery itself.

On this occasion, however, his genius had deserted him; he walked by her side, slowly and in silence; at length he ventured a sigh, and exclaimed, "How happy you are in your religious feelings! What would I not give to be like you!" Then, in a confidential tone, which he had never assumed before, he began to tell her that he had gone through many struggles in his mind, and had felt great difficulties before he could bring himself to embrace his present profession. After a pause, he added, with hesitation and apparent difficulty, "Miss Gifford, how shall I tell you that every year of my life, I feel myself more and more drawn towards the religion of my fathers. I preach against Catholicity; I have spoken bitterly of its professors; but it has been in the hope to drown the secret voice of my own heart. I have never thoroughly examined the doctrines of the Church, because I fear to be convinced. My call at the Manor House, was from an impulse I could neither resist nor explain; I was restless and unhappy at heart. I did not foresee what the consequences would be to myself," added he, in a lower tone, and with a passionate glance at Clotilde.

Clotilde was, on many accounts, too troubled to speak; Mr O'Brian himself seemed agitated, and they walked on in silence; at length, with a sort of forced calmness he spoke: "Will you keep my strange confession a secret? You are the only being to whom I ever opened my heart; you are like one of the saints in heaven, you can pity and pardon my inconsistency!"

"I will pray for you," said Clotilde, in a broken voice; "God knows we all need His help."

They had by this time reached the inner park gates that led to the garden; they both stood for a moment, he took hold of her hand and pressed it gently, very gently; - she looked up for a second, and saw his burning eyes fixed upon her face with a look of passionate tenderness, enough to change a saint of snow or marble into a most yielding woman. "You have been sent for my guardian angel," said he, in a tone so low, that it might have escaped her ears, but it did not. "I cannot go in with you," added he, in an abrupt hurried tone; "I am too stunned to see any one." Then, once more pressing the hand he still retained, he struck into a bye path amongst the trees, which immediately concealed him from view.

Clotilde walked as in a dream to the house, and went straight up stairs to her own room; she did not take off her walking things, but sat down on a large chair.

When the tea bell had rung twice for her, she was found by Marian in a deep reverie. Marian succeeded in rousing her by numberless exclamations of extreme astonishment as to "Where she had been, and what she had been doing so long in the dark?" - Clotilde returned very distrait answers. When they emerged into the full lighted dining-room, Marian was quite startled to see the soft troubled dreaming look, which had taken the place of her usual sweet and composed expression of countenance. She scarcely spoke the whole evening, but remained plunged in a happy abstraction. Marian did not say to her husband, when Clotilde had retired, "I wonder whether Mr O'Brian has said any thing to her?" but she thought, "I will soon find it out if he has."

CHAPTER IX

When the Rev. Horace O'Brian reached home, he saw a postchaise driving away from the gate.

"Mr Montague, sir, is come whilst you have been away," said old Alice, as she opened the door; "he is in your study. I asked him to have some dinner, but he said - "

Her master did not stay to hear the end of what she was saying, but strode on, - "Why, Montague, my dear fellow! where do you come from? Who ever expected to see you here?"

"Oh, I have a few days' holiday, and a little business in this neighbourhood, and I wanted to see you; so me voici; is it a supernatural appearance? I made love to Mrs Alice in your absence to find me a bed, which she has done; but she is so used to her master's sweet speeches, that mine sounded very tame, I fear, after them - "

"Has she given you any thing to eat?" interrupted Horace.

"She offered it, but I prefer waiting for one of her delicate petit soupers, to efface the memory of a villainous dinner and British brandy; - so now sit down in peace, I have a thousand things to say. Here, I have taken your own peculiar chair, and it is too comfortable to resign, so you must find yourself another."

The new comer was a tall dashing-looking man, with large red whiskers and a shrewd, good-humoured expression of face; he was a London barrister in good practice, and Horace O'Brian's most intimate friend. - They had not met for a long time; - consequently, for the next two hours they chattered like a couple of women. At length, after the supper which Mrs Alice served up punctually at nine o'clock, had been duly honoured, there was a pause, during which both gentlemen lighted a cigar; and Montague, setting his feet on each side the grate, said abruptly, "All this time you have not told me one word about Miss Gifford; what are you going to do with her?"

"Faith, I hardly know," replied O'Brian; "it is lucky you are come, or in another week I should have been in love with her beyond redemption. I am in love with her as it is, whilst I am with her."

"Oh! - have you said any thing to give her an idea how matters stand with you?"

"N - o, I don't think I have at all committed myself."

"I suppose you mean you have kept clear of an action for breach of promise; but I know it's not in your nature to see a girl day after day with impunity, for you never can resist an opportunity for love making. How far have you gone? She is a good little soul as ever lived."

"So she is," said Horace; "I don't know when I have been so much occupied as I have been the last six weeks; I think I fired the train this afternoon, and her sweet little innocent heart is ready to surrender at discretion."

"Have you summoned it?"

"No, I tell you; I have not committed myself at all."

"Then you still have an idea of Miss Smith, of the Hollows?"

"Yes, I suppose so, - as soon as I can get my courage up. I have had great difficulty to keep her pacified, for she did not like my getting intimate at the Manor, only I told her I thought they would, some of them, turn Protestant. I don't know how I shall keep up with them if I propose to Miss Smith; I should be very sorry to lose them, for they are the nicest people in the parish - Clotilde out of the question. I don't see, after all, why I should not marry Clotilde; I like her better than Miss Smith, and I am sure she is very fond of me. What is your idea? - why should I not?"

"Miss Gifford's fortune is as large as Miss Smith's," replied Montague, deliberately, "but Miss Gifford is a rigid Catholic, and Miss Smith is the favourite niece of the Bishop of L----; both ladies are willing to accept you, by your own account, but you like Miss Gifford rather the best; I dare say she is the nicest, for you have good taste; but so far, it has only been a love and idleness sort of affair, because you were ennuyé to death, and the girl was in your way; if you marry her, you will remain rector of Sutton all your days, with a faded popularity, and no possibility of regaining it; if you marry Miss Smith, you will have all her uncle's influence to push you on; and the Church must be a bore of a profession if you have not the hope of rising in it. I think I have stated the case pretty fairly; you must decide for yourself."

At this instant, so critical for the prospect of both ladies, old Alice came into the room with a note that a groom had brought on horseback from the Hollows, with orders to wait for an answer.

"At this time of the night! what can it be?" said Montague, whilst Horace broke the seal. The note was as follows:

"Dear Sir,

"Will you favour me with a copy of your sermon on the 'Two Witnesses', and if you have your book on the 'Mystery of Iniquity', please send it also. I am writing to my uncle, the bishop, by the early mail, and wish to enclose them. Excuse my troubling you at this late hour, and believe me in Christian regard,

"Truly yours,

"MARGARET SMITH

"P.S. The Dean of ---- died last night."

"That's what I call having a friend!" said Montague, after he had read it, "that clinches the matter; send the man off, and go and see her to-morrow."

"But after all," said Horace, "it is only a chance whether she succeeds; I don't want to marry her for nothing; and then she is so horribly evangelical and dogmatic."

"Well, man, you cannot have every thing; in matters of such importance, you must not stand upon trifles, but strike the balance with regard to the whole. What are faults in Miss Smith will be virtues, or at least conveniences, in the wife of a dean. And now let us go to bed, for I am tired, and Mrs Alice will not thank us for keeping her up any longer. To-morrow, remember, we are to commence the campaign in due form."

The friends separated. "At any rate," said the Reverend Horace O'Brian to himself, "I may go to sleep now, and need not think of any thing till morning."

The next morning when he descended, he found Montague playing with the children, and they were telling him about Miss Gifford, and the beautiful house she was building for their doll; they sprang to their father as he entered, crying, "Papa, you must be very quick with breakfast, for Miss Gifford told us to come very early, and bring the great doll, to see how high the house must be made. Oh Alice! Alice! bring breakfast quick."

"But, my queens," said Horace, taking both on his knee, "don't you see it is raining?"

"Then we will be carried," said they both together, "and you will come and fetch us. Miss Gifford is always pleased when you come, her eyes get quite bright, and she always kisses us, though she won't come into the room till you have been there a long time!"

"Don't you wish, Susan," said the other little one, "that Miss Gifford lived here, and then we could have her all the day without going out in the rain?"

"So much for disinterested affection!" said Montague, laughing. "No, your papa and I are going to see Miss Smith to-day, and we will go and see Miss Gifford to-morrow; which do you like the best?"

"I don't like Miss Smith," said the little one, with a petted toss of the head; "she is so cross, and tells us not to make a noise. We won't go to see her, will we, Susan?"

"No, we will go to Miss Gifford, now directly; ring the bell, papa, and tell John to carry us."

"Poor things!" said Horace, "I know who they would like for a mamma!"

After the noisy little ones had been despatched, the horses were brought round, and despite the rain, the gentlemen set off to pay their devoirs to the niece of the bishop. - "Turning out such a morning as this, ought to mollify the heart of any woman," said Horace.

"No doubt it will take due effect on Miss Smith," said Montague; "it will not do to wait till the vacancy is filled up to pay your homage, - you must go, for once, in faith: to-morrow, no doubt, we shall hear something definite about the deanery."

"Well," said Horace, shrugging his shoulders, "what must be must; but what a farce to talk of men having a free choice in matters of matrimony!"

After a ride of about six miles, they arrived at the Hollows, a large old-fashioned English country house. An air of prim decorum reigned around: one felt the atmosphere of propriety before the green gate that led to the carriage sweep had closed. Their ring at the hall-door was answered by a demure-looking servant man, out of livery. They were shown across a hall paved with black and white marble, and with family portraits let into the walls; from this, they were ushered into a drawing-room, handsomely and heavily furnished. No expense had been spared, every article was the largest and handsomest that could be got for money; but not a particle of taste or fancy was to be discerned. A few religious books, expensively bound, lay on the table, mingled with Missionary Registers and Tracts; a large work-basket, filled with Dorcas clothing, stood beside the black horse-hair covered sofa; and in a corner of the said sofa, sat Miss Smith, herself - a tall, severe-looking woman of thirty, in a brown stuff gown, made high in the neck, a precisely plaited ruff round her throat, and a pair of black kid gloves, with the fingers cut half off completed her costume. She put down her work as the gentlemen entered, and received them with a formal curtsey, to which, as regarded Horace, she added a stiff shake of the hand.

"I don't wonder that Horace felt frightened," thought Montague to himself whilst he felt that his own dashing air was terribly out of keeping with all around him; indeed, the chaste eyes of Miss Smith did not seem to know where to turn for refuge, and she showed her embarrassment by becoming more cold and stiff than ever. But if the dashing Montague were struck dumb, the graceful Horace showed himself more than equal to the emergency; he addressed Miss Smith in a tone of confidential and almost brotherly esteem, nicely pitched between gallantry and respect; mentioned the audacious-looking Montague as "his oldest friend, who had unexpectedly arrived the evening before, and who was anxious to be presented to one who had so often been mentioned between them, as a lady to whom he was under great obligations, for her wise and Christian counsels".

Montague felt himself blush, but Horace did nothing of the kind.

The conversation then turned upon parish business, religious intelligence, and clerical matters of all kinds; the lady showed a great deal more shrewdness and good sense than Montague expected, but he was wonder-struck at the information and interest his friend Horace contrived to display; the fact was, that Horace O'Brian never could help trying to please the company he was in, after their own tastes. The lady then inquired with marked curiosity about his Catholic friends at the Manor, and especially whether the young lady from the south were still there. To all this Horace gave the most unembarrassed replies.

"I have my doubts", said Miss Smith, "whether a Christian be justified in holding social intercourse with any who are partakers in the soul destroying doctrines of the Church of Rome. You know St Paul is very strong upon the duty of keeping ourselves separate from all who do not hold fast 'sound doctrine'; and are you not afraid, too, that some of our weaker brethren may be offended and stumble, by reason of your intimacy in that quarter? The only fault your friend has, Mr Montague, is that he is too zealous; where there is good to be done he throws himself headlong, without considering the consequences."

Horace tried to say something in favour of the excellence of the family at the Manor House, but Miss Smith listened with impatience, saying, when he had concluded, "Well, my conscience will not permit me to have any intercourse with idolaters; we are distinctly warned against it in Scripture, so my duty at least is plain; I will pray for them, and if they require any sort of assistance, I hope, as a Christian, I should give it; but we shall never prosper as a nation till Catholics and Catholicism are rooted out of it. Our rulers have much to answer for, in treating them with so much indulgence as they do; when the fires of Smithfield are again kindled, and judgment falls on this lukewarm nation, they will learn wisdom, but too late. If we examine the history of our country, we shall find that in exact proportion as Catholicism has been put down, the nation has prospered, and every concession on grounds of expediency - "

Here the door opened, and the demure servant-man announced luncheon.

In the hospitable cares of the table, Miss Smith's anti-Catholic enthusiasm calmed itself down. On rising from the table the gentlemen prepared to take their leave. Leading Horace O'Brian a few steps towards the window recess, the lady, premising that he must consider what she was about to say as perfectly confidential, told him that the very last letter she had received from her uncle, made mention of him, saying that he might confidentially look for preferment the very first opening that occurred; and that Mr O'Brian might depend on having his influence, as the Church required more servants of zeal and ability like his. "I do not wish to rouse false hopes in you, Mr O'Brian, but I know you are not influenced by worldly motives in desiring a more extended sphere of usefulness, so that whether preferment came or not you would be contented; but I think I may speak confidently, when I say, that the vacant deanery will be yours, and I wish to be the first to offer you my congratulations. It cannot fall to one more worthy of it in every way!"

Horace O'Brian looked as if he were dreaming, and did not speak.

"You will not mention this till the appointment is officially announced; but I could not resist being the first to tell you good news."

The Reverend Horace O'Brian did not say much, but the looks that came from his magnificent eyes were unutterable, and Miss Smith was as well satisfied as if he had replied in the most orthodox fashion.

"What was the old girl saying in that cold window-place so long?" asked Montague, when they had cleared the green gates, and were safe from the possibility of a listener.

"An official secret," said Horace, smiling with a radiant complacency he could not suppress.

"That you are to be the new dean?" said Montague. "Well, I thought as much."

"So, she said," replied Horace, "but God knows whether it is not all woman's talk."

"Oh! no fear of that - there was a sort of bridling satisfaction, a mysterious importance peeping out at every pore, all through our visit. I set it down at first, to your fascinations, but the riddle is read now, - it was this secret, and indeed it was one worth telling. Aren't you glad now that we went this morning?"

"Yes," said Horace; "but I am thinking how I am to let poor Clotilde down gently, and get out of the Manor House connexion; it is clear the fair lady will not brook it."

"'Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof', as she would tell you. Let us now think only of getting out of this cursed rain."

When they reached home they found a letter written by the bishop himself confirming all that Miss Smith had said, and concluding with many compliments on his zeal, talent, and disinterestedness in never putting forward any claims to preferment.

"Well," said Horace, "this time yesterday I never expected this! Believe it or not as you will, for the last month I have actually forgotten there was ever such things as bishops and Church patronage: I did not even know, or had forgotten that the old dean was ill."

"Well, my dear Horace, I heartily congratulate you, but don't let Miss Smith get scandalised at me when she is Mrs Horace O'Brian, or I shall wish that your predecessor had lived to the age of Methuselah; now let us have a bottle of your prime claret, and we will make an unclerical night of it."

"Well, my darlings, and how did you enjoy yourselves yesterday?" asked Horace the next morning, at breakfast.

"Oh poor Miss Gifford," said Susan, shaking her head, "she was so sorry about your not coming to fetch us."

"Why, what did she say?"

"Oh, she said nothing, but she went quite pale and grave, and did not laugh again the whole day; and once she looked as if she were crying, and she told us the story of the 'Babes in the Wood'. Will you come and see her to-day, papa, and make her laugh and dance with us as she used to do?"

"Yes, my darlings, we will go, and you shall go with us."

"Oh! that's right," said both little ones together, clapping their hands, "and now, Susan, let us show papa the last step Miss Gifford taught us."

"Upon my honour," said Horace, "I don't half like facing her."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow, these sort of things happen to all of us; put the little creature out of her misery at once; there can be no difficulty now you have made up your mind."

Clotilde was sitting alone, working, when they entered. She did not dare to look at Horace; but she could neither control nor conceal the deep joy that the sight of him caused her.

Marian was called, Montague was introduced, and the conversation turned on general matters. Contrary to his custom, Horace spoke a good deal to Clotilde, but in a cheerful, indifferent tone; the unexpressed tenderness of a lover, had given place to the polite, kindly good will of a mere acquaintance. Kindness pains more than cruelty when it is given us instead of love.

The heart of Clotilde seemed turned to stone, but she could not have explained the cause of her pain. She raised her eyes with a grieved questioning look to his; he quailed under her glance, and abruptly proposed a walk to show his friend the grounds. He went first with Marian, and Montague tried to engage Clotilde in conversation; his family lived near Gifford Castle, and Clotilde had often seen his father; at another time she would have been delighted to hear of home; now, she could neither speak nor listen, and to prevent her trouble becoming too apparent, she feigned to busy herself with the children. Montague, who suspected the reason, left her in peace, and joined Marian and Horace, who was more confidential than ever, and fuller of his expressions of regard; he was detailing the stroke of good fortune he had met with. "Though", said he, with his sweetest smile, "I feel almost tempted to regret it, as it will, of necessity, remove me from my latest found, but most dearly valued, friends. I shall not continue to reside in Sutton. I must look out for a curate to take my duty here; and, perhaps, you will show him a little attention for my sake, that I may not seem to be altogether separated from you. Montague, my dear fellow," said he, turning abruptly to him, "ask Miss Gifford to show you the cedar walk, it is worth seeing."

After Montague, in obedience to a sign from his friend, had withdrawn, Horace began (with a little real embarrassment, it is true, but still that looked all the more natural) to hint to Marian that his preferment, which had so unexpectedly fallen to him, would enable him to realise a secret desire he had entertained for years. "You," continued he, "with your fine sensibilities, will enter into my feelings; so long as there was a possibility of being suspected of a worldly motive, I did not breathe a word of my attachment to the lady, for she was rich, and her connexions gave her great influence, whilst I had only the income of my rectory. You are the first of whom I have made a confidante. I determined not to speak until I had obtained so much that I could not be suspected of wanting more; now all difficulties are removed, and will not you wish me success?" he added, in a gentle tone. But Marian was in no humour to do any such thing; she was disappointed and annoyed. Though she had never allowed to herself that she expected Mr O'Brian to propose for Clotilde, the idea of his thinking of any one else offended her extremely, and none the less because it was unreasonably. So she answered in a constrained tone, that Mr O'Brian was not one likely to meet with a refusal. Horace went on, "I am obliged to leave here to-morrow to wait upon the bishop. After that I shall have to go to London for a few days on business, so that this is the last walk we can have in this happy garden for some time," and the Reverend Horace O'Brian sighed.

He could never bear to see people suffer pain, and he was really uncomfortable lest Clotilde should take matters seriously. The visit to London, and the business with the bishop, were just improvised on the spur of the moment to get out of the way of being obliged to witness - his own work.

The remainder of the visit passed without any thing occurring worthy of note, except that as they were all standing in the dining-room, where Horace had risen to take leave, Marian alluded to his approaching absence, and Clotilde's lips turned pale with the agony she endured; - he hastily shook hands with her, and looked another way. Proper messages were left for Louis and Madame Burrows; the children were to remain till after lunch, and at last Horace and his friend were fairly gone.

He drew a deep breath as if he were relieved from a painful burden, but did not speak until they reached the spot where he had parted with Clotilde two days before, and then he exclaimed, "Would to God, Montague, all this had come a week ago; - it would have saved me from feeling like a great scoundrel!"

It is curious to see the practical value that is put upon love in this world; it may be a very precious thing; but it is no matter what wealth of love is lavished on a man - unless it can do somewhat towards realising whatever object it may be that he desires in life, it is worthless and importunate in his eyes. If he desires money - love is good for nothing to him. If he be ambitious - the most devoted love seems insipid folly. No - if a woman wants the love of any man, let her bribe him; if she cannot give him that which his soul desires, her love will be very ineffectual.

CHAPTER X

"I cannot believe that Mr O'Brian really cares for the lady he is going to marry," said Marian, that same evening as she sat at work. "From his manner ever since we knew him, I should never have suspected him to be an engaged man, should you, Clotilde?"

Clotilde was standing before the fire; she felt herself go dreadfully faint at Marian's speech, and raised her eyes instinctively to the mirror above the chimney-piece, to see if her countenance betrayed the shock she had just received; but it bore no trace of the suffering within. She gained the sofa as soon as possible, and sat down, but she had no power to reply to Marian's question, who, however, went on without waiting for an answer.

"I am quite put out of the way about the matter. I know it must be that Miss Smith of the Hollows, - people talked about her for him a long time ago, but I thought it had all gone off: our acquaintance, which has been so pleasant, will just die away, for I know Miss Smith would as soon go to the stake as set foot in a Catholic house, or allow any belonging to her to enter one either. Oh, Louis!" exclaimed she, as her husband entered the room, "Where have you been all day? There is such news for you! Mr O'Brian is made a dean, and is going to be married! He came here this morning to tell me all about it; he is going away to-morrow to see the bishop, so it will be ever so long before we see him again."

"Indeed!" said Louis, "you do surprise me! I am sure I congratulate him very heartily; but are you quite sure he is going to be married - who is it to?"

"Oh, I am sure I don't know," said Marian pettishly; "he did not mention her name, but I fancy it must be to that Miss Smith; he told me it was to a lady to whom he had long been attached, and who had great Church influence. To my mind, there is something quite shocking in the idea of a clergyman marrying, even though he be only a Protestant. Mr O'Brian has had one wife already - I have no patience with him, I declare. His manner is quite changed already - he is not half so interesting as he used to be; and to think of those poor little darlings having such a step-mother set over them - an evangelical old maid, like Miss Smith!"

"But, my dear," said Louis, gently, when she had run herself out of breath, "how do you know it is Miss Smith? I heard that she admired him, but I never knew that he admired her."

"Oh, I am quite sure of it," said Marian, "by the way of speaking; he preached all those no Popery sermons to get favour with her and her uncle the bishop; besides, the dear children said that their papa and his friend went all in the rain to see her yesterday - it is of no use to persuade me out of my senses."

Here her eloquence was cut short by the entrance of tea, and Clotilde, terrified lest Marian should suspect what was passing in her heart, exerted herself to talk with an energy that quite surprised her hearers. After tea she offered to read aloud; but the efforts she made were too great to allow of their continuance, and she seized the first moment in which she might retire to her own room. But even when alone, she did not dare to relieve her dismayed heart by tears; she felt that if she once gave way, she must break down altogether, and the idea of allowing any one to suspect her feelings seemed shameful to her dear little innocent soul. She was bowed down with a strange weight of humiliation and disgrace, but it was all crushed down into a hard, confused sense of wretchedness; she did not dare to look into her own heart, for it required all her strength to keep every thing below the surface.

It was no self-love, or wounded pride that made her fancy she could never look any one in the face again, but a true womanly instinct of delicacy and shame. With all this there was not a particle of bitterness against the man who had deceived her with a vain show of gallantry and sentiment; no, she laid the blame in perfect good faith upon her own ignorance of the world, and her own presumption in having thought it possible that such a man as Mr O'Brian could care about her. It is always much easier to think ourselves wrong than one we love. It would have been no comfort to Clotilde could she have known that Mr O'Brian was a graceful good-for-nothing, who did not deserve one thought from her pure and loving soul. She knelt down before the crucifix, but could not utter a single prayer: she knelt, mute and motionless - feeling as if she were turned to stone. When she lay down in bed, she fell into a stupor that continued until daylight; she was roused to consciousness by a paroxysm of dry hysterical gaspings, which were succeeded by a violent shivering which lasted for some minutes, and left a sense of tightness across the throat which almost prevented her breathing; but no tears followed.

She appeared at breakfast, looking much as she always did, except that her eyes seemed larger and more opened than usual. She was surprised to find how easily she mingled in conversation. Her usual timidity had quite abandoned her. The fact was, she was hardly conscious of any thing that was passing around her, and once or twice she wondered how it was she could laugh so much more than she used to do.

During the day a message came from the Rectory, to say that the children had gone with their papa, and none of them would return for some weeks at least.

"Well," said Marian, in a vexed tone, "our intimacy with Mr O'Brian grew up like the 'Bean-stalk' in the child's tale, and it seems it will die away as rapidly - all gone off in this way at a minute's notice! One would think a dean never died in the Church before! You seem to take it all very quietly, Clotilde; but I am not such a saint, or perhaps I am too sensitive; but I own I feel hurt - I wonder whether preferment always turns things topsy-turvy in this manner? but it is all to curry favour with Miss Smith. Now that he has hopes of rising in the world, he is afraid of hurting his chance by allowing the poor children to come here. I have no patience with double dealing and time-serving."

Marian's indignant conclusions were not exactly logical, and had Mr O'Brian overheard her, he might have proved beyond controversy, that she had no grounds for what she said, and that he was an exceedingly ill-used man; still there is an instinct in the heart of sincere people which seldom leads them wrong, and Marian had blundered on the truth, though she could not have explained how; but Mr O'Brian's own conscience would have borne her out could she have obtained speech with it.

Near three weeks passed over, and then Marian's attention was roused to another subject.

"I am sure there is something wrong with Clotilde," said Madame Burrows one day when she and Marian were alone, "I have been watching her, she eats nothing, and I don't like her liveliness, it is not natural, and I can't understand her going so often into her own room. You should pay a little attention to her, my dear."

"I think, ma'am, you are mistaken," replied Marian, "she seems to have a little cold, but she does not complain; she feels lost without the children, I dare say."

"Without the children's papa, I am afraid," said Madame Burrows. "I wish he had never come into this house."

No more was said just then; but the change in Clotilde was too marked to be much longer overlooked. Her hysterical attacks had become more frequent - she always went to her own room when she felt them coming on, and the very day after Madame Burrows had spoken, Marian, passing along the passage, heard a singular noise in the room: she hastily entered, and saw Clotilde kneeling at the foot of her bed, her head buried in the clothes and convulsed with a nervous spasm that seemed to tear her delicate frame to pieces. Terribly alarmed, she was on the point of speaking, when Clotilde's head fell back, and the blood streamed from her ears and mouth. Marian had just time to catch her in her arms before she fell upon the floor. Assistance was speedily summoned, - a medical man was almost immediately on the spot, who pronounced that Clotilde had burst a blood-vessel, and that her only chance of life was in being kept perfectly still. It is possible that the poor child owed the continuance of her reason to this sudden prostration of bodily energy. A letter was immediately despatched to Gifford Castle, with information of what had occurred, and entreating both Zoe and Gifford to come with all speed.

CHAPTER XI

At Gifford Castle, meanwhile, things had been going on in the usual course; Gifford improved his estate, and the college prospered under Everhard, who continued to come to the castle to profit by Zoe's conversation; and Zoe? she had begun more and more every day to feel, that for a woman there exists that which is far more precious than the admiration of the world. Her proud coquettish heart was touched at last, and she felt abashed before the pure womanly instincts that now, for the first time, gushed up in her heart. Nothing teaches humility like love. The more conscious she became of her influence over Everhard, the more earnest was the desire she felt to make herself worthy of him; her manners became soft and timid; an indescribable air of womanliness tinged every action, and made her attractions more irresistibly subduing than ever. Gifford could not account for the change, but he thought it very delightful; a true love for one, makes the person who feels it, loving towards all the world, and Gifford came in for his share.

"Ah!" exclaimed Zoe, one night when the post-bag was opened, "a letter from my uncle! I hope all is well. Has had a bad winter," said she, reading aloud - "wishes to see me and the children once more before he dies - hopes I will not delay long - in short, has set his heart on seeing us at Whitsuntide; that is a grand time at the Rectory, I know; Aunt Martha used to be in her glory then. Well, Mr Gifford, have you any objection? Poor old gentleman, I feel as if I had neglected him sadly."

"My dear Zoe, how can you say so; you write to him at least once a fortnight, and it is not a month since you sent your Aunt Martha that splendid shawl; you are always in extremes."

Zoe was only conscious that her thoughts had been occupied by neither her uncle's health nor Aunt Martha's shawl; and that, in fact, she had almost forgotten their existence; so her self-reproach was not so wonderful as Gifford seemed to think.

"Well," said Gifford again, after a pause, "Whitsuntide falls early this year, it will be the week after next; suppose we go next week, and stay a week there, Father Everhard will join us, and we will all go to Sutton, and bring back Clotilde; I am getting anxious about the child; she seldom writes, and never expresses the least wish to come home again, and for her that is not natural; I should like to know what she has been doing."

"Oh," said Zoe, "Marian is more of her own age than I am, it is no wonder she finds her a nice companion. I wonder how she is going on with her converts, she has not mentioned them lately."

"Well, I have felt strangely anxious about her lately," said Gifford.

Everhard had been long under a promise to go out to the castle and stay a few days; his arrival now put a stop to the conversation; Zoe forgot every thing else, and even Gifford's anxiety was suspended for a while.

"Why, Father Everhard, we expected you to dinner," cried Gifford, as Everhard entered the room. "How comes it that you are so late?"

Zoe said nothing, but looked exceedingly well content to see him at all. She knew very well that his college arrangements would not let him get off before: he had not told her so - but she had found it out by some means or another.

The scheme of their journey was talked over, and Everhard promised to join them.

As they were sitting at tea the next evening, Gifford received a letter that made him very silent for awhile.

"Any bad news?" asked Zoe.

"Exceedingly annoying," returned he; "I am summoned on a special jury case, and I fear I cannot get off, it will detain me a couple of days."

"What is it about?" asked Zoe.

"Oh, you won't understand it - it is a trial about some patent for a new plough, and I suppose they fancy I must know something of the subject because I once made an improvement. I little thought it would bring this plague on me. I am very sorry I have to leave you," he said, turning to Everhard, "I had quite looked forward to this visit; however, I will be back as soon as possible; you must promise to stay, and you must make up for what I lose of your company now, by giving us a few days more."

There was nothing for it but to submit; indeed, Everhard had no desire to refuse.

The next morning Gifford departed in great hopes that he would be able to return the day following.

Everhard and Zoe were left alone.

It was a mild, beautiful day in early spring; they were out the whole day rambling about the grounds, enjoying that delicious sense of strength and pleasure that the first days of spring bring back to every body, though they may have fancied themselves as dead to pleasurable emotions as the trees and fields in winter seem beyond the hope of fruit and blossoming. We once heard a lady say, "that in spring she always felt as if it were a sin to be without a lover!" which, however shocking to one's sense of decorum, was only a compendious way of expressing what every body has felt: the uselessness and waste there seems in that overflowing sense of animal life and happiness, when we have no object to whom to dedicate it.

Everhard and Zoe were excessively happy all that day; the boys had a whole holiday; even the tutor forgot his pedantry and dignity, and condescended to enjoy the sunshine with an awkward, grotesque sort of satisfaction.

After dinner they all rambled together in the woods till evening set in, and then, to crown the delights of the day, the boys remained up to have supper with their mamma and Father Everhard.

When the tutor and the children had retired, Everhard and Zoe left the somewhat chilly dining-room for her warm boudoir. There was no light except what came from the fire, and an antique bronze lamp at the far end of the room.

A sense of sadness fell upon Everhard, as if it were the rebound of all the delight he had known that day.

Zoe was in high spirits, talking even more brilliantly than usual, and this jarred upon his present mood; he sat with his elbows on a table at a little distance, watching her earnestly. It was very far from being the first time he had been alone with Zoe, and in that room too; but now he was conscious of a feeling he had never known in her presence before - strange fancies of what his life might have been had he never been a priest. The happiness of the day had left bitterness behind. He felt that he had been mocked with the appearance of intimacy, and of belonging to the being before him, whilst it was nothing more than an accident which must cease almost directly: he felt bitterly, that whilst to him she made up the sum of all worth calling life, he had no hold upon her; if he were to be separated from her on the morrow, she would not have a single day overclouded by his absence; he desired passionately to become something to her - to make a bond between them, that she could not deny, - which might endure for life; what was to be its nature, he did not contemplate. These, and a thousand other vague thoughts, made his answers to Zoe absent and abrupt; his evident preoccupation at last seemed to infect her, and her lively gaiety gave place to a conscious silence, during which, for want of something better to do, she moved from the sofa to a fauteuil, and placed her feet on a white footstool. The light from the lamp now fell exactly upon her face, and like all persons who do any thing in embarrassment, she felt directly how much better it would have been to sit still in her old place; but that passed away.

She sat with her eyes fixed on the fire, in a reverie; she was dreaming too; all her coquetry was subdued; the feeling and impulses which all her life had either been crushed down or unheeded, now made themselves intelligible. The memory of all her schemes for getting Everhard into her power, now seemed like sacrilege, and she despised herself; she fancied that he must see to the bottom of her vain, frivolous soul, and despise her too; she looked up for an instant as if to ask pardon. Their eyes met - and he saw those glorious eyes upon him, soft with tears, and the whole countenance full of timid love and gentleness. Joy, almost like fright, flashed across Everhard; he could not turn away, but remained gazing upon her; words were needless, and prudence was vain; the secret of their souls had transpired in that one look.

At this critical moment, both were startled back to reality by the clang of the castle clock.

"Dear, how late," stammered Zoe, hardly conscious of what she said. Everhard did not speak a word, but staggered to a side-table where the night-lamps were standing, took one, and with a husky "good night", left the room.

Zoe remained standing where she was, altogether stunned and bewildered; - she, too, had seen Everhard's look; but she was afraid to believe in its meaning; on the contrary, the abruptness with which he had quitted her made her fear she had displeased him. A sentiment of modesty, unknown till now, made her cheek burn with shame, at the consciousness that she must have betrayed herself to him. After a while she took her lamp and went to her own room where her maid was sitting half asleep over a novel, waiting to undress her. Zoe could not bear to see any one, so she pettishly told her to go to bed, since she could not keep her eyes open.

She did not expect to sleep, but emotion is of all things the most exhausting, and she had scarcely laid her head on the pillow before she fell into a deep heavy sleep.

Everhard, all this time, was sitting in his own room, bewildered, stupefied - suffocated by emotions which had broken their bounds in his soul for the first time.

That look, and the expression of Zoe's countenance, had torn the veil which had so long concealed from him the danger of his position. He could now deceive himself no longer, - he felt that she had penetrated his secret, - that they understood each other - and what was to be the end of it? There was but one course left for him to pursue, and no consideration was needed to discover it; - he must leave the castle, - leave the neighbourhood. He must see Zoe no more.

Many men in Everhard's position might have come to the conclusion of the necessity of this step, but there was this peculiarity in Everhard's case, that he was perfectly sincere in his determination to carry it out; for he was not one who ever trifled either with himself or others. But with all his determination to do right, he could not resist yielding himself for a while to the delicious consciousness that he loved and was beloved again; it was a feeling he could not just then even try to conquer.

It was two o'clock, and Everhard still sat in his arm-chair, looking into the dying embers of the fire, when he was startled from his meditation by cries of "Fire": the great bell of the castle was rung to summon the out-servants, and the noise and confusion reached even that distant part of the building.

Everhard started up: his first thought was of Zoe, but he recollected that the apartments of the boys and their tutor were above his room, and the whole was separated from the rest of the house by a long gallery, the door of which was locked. Zoe's apartments were on the other side of the castle; he knew she would not escape till the children were safe, - that her first thought would be for them. He rushed up-stairs, and found the boys, who had been awakened with the noise, crying bitterly. The tutor, who had lost with fright the little bit of sense he ever had, was helplessly trying to dress himself, without being able to put on a single article the right way.

Everhard dressed the children with his own hands, hurried them down the staircase, which was happily of stone, saw them out of the castle by a side door (which had been made for their convenience), and telling them to make the best of their way to the gardener's cottage, he returned to rescue Zoe. He went with all speed along the gallery, which was beginning to fill with smoke. A bright, flickering light, was visible under the door; he struggled for a few minutes without being able to open it; but the sound of a woman's voice screaming wildly for help, gave him renewed strength, and, throwing his whole weight against the door, it gave way, and Zoe, just woke out of her sleep, rushed into the gallery, and ran to where he stood. It was too dark for her to distinguish him, but she knew him by instinct.

"Oh, Everhard, the children?"

"They are safe - safe in the gardener's cottage."

"Thank God!" she gasped, and fell an insensible weight in his arms.

The surprise, the alarm, the possible danger, were forgotten, he only felt the warm, palpitating burden which lay upon his bosom; he was too much overpowered by his sensations to move - they stupefied him - the intense enjoyment amounted to pain. He, who in his whole life had never touched a woman, now had a whole life of passion melted into that moment.

He crushed her into his arms with ferocious love. He pressed burning kisses upon her face, her lips, and her bosom; but kisses were too weak to express the passion that was within him. It was madness like hatred, - beads of sweat stood thick on his forehead, and his breath came in gasps.

How long a time passed he knew not; but a thick volume of smoke, and the heat, which was becoming almost intolerable, recalled him to the danger that surrounded her. He hurried down the stone staircase, intending to get out by the same door through which the children had passed; but in the darkness he missed the turning, and went up and down different passages, not knowing whither he went. At length he reached a part of the building to which neither the smoke nor the alarm had spread: it was the chapel. A light burned before the altar, - he bore her to the steps, and sprinkled her face and hands with water from a vessel that stood near. Zoe opened her eyes, and saw Everhard bending over her. The colour rushed over her face and neck. Everhard made an effort to turn away, but, almost unconsciously, he fell on his knees beside her; and the next moment Zoe's burning arms were round his neck, and her long hair fell like a veil over him. Everhard's brain was in a whirl, and his veins ran fire, as he felt her warm breath upon him.

Zoe was the first to recover from the delirium of the moment; - she struggled to disengage herself from his arms, and seizing a large shawl which had fallen on the ground, attempted to cover herself with it, exclaiming,

"Oh, Everhard, what will you think of me? I have made you hate me - despise me. Forgive me for letting you betray yourself, it was the last thing you desired to do."

The sound of her voice in broken tones, recalled Everhard to his senses; the force of long years of the habit of self-control was not lost in this trying moment; with an effort almost superhuman he suffered Zoe to disengage herself, and retreated against a pillar at a little distance; he twisted his hands in each other, and stood crushing himself against the stone, whilst a spasm of sharp pain attested the energy of his efforts to master himself.

Zoe, meantime, lay crouched on the steps of the altar, she did not dare to raise her eyes towards Everhard. There was a long silence. At length Everhard said, in a hoarse, broken voice,

"Zoe, you know now the power you have over me. I love you as man never loved woman yet. It is you who have saved both of us this night; I must remain here no longer. God bless you."

"Oh, Everhard, before you go, tell me that you have not lost the esteem you had for me."

"Oh no, no," cried he, passionately, "you are more than mortal!" The sound of voices and the trampling of feet was now heard, and, for the first time since they entered the chapel, Zoe and Everhard recollected the danger from which they had fled.

A crowd of frightened maid-servants rushed into the chapel, and, with loud cries and great confusion precipitated themselves towards the altar to beseech all the saints in heaven to assist them. Everhard exerted himself to calm them, and committing Zoe to the charge of one who seemed the least distracted, he left the place to render assistance where it might be needed.

The fire had broken out in the room of Zoe's maid, who, as the reader will remember, had been dismissed to bed because she could not keep her eyes open; her candle had not been properly extinguished, and the bed-clothes had been set on fire in the course of an hour or two. She awoke frantic with terror, and rushed to her mistress's room, filling the place with her shrieks. Her room was opposite to the gallery door, and it was thence the flames and smoke were issuing that met Everhard when he burst upon the landing-place. Zoe, suddenly awakened out of her sleep, had only one idea - to save the children. She ran headlong through the thickest of the smoke to reach them by the nearest way, but must have been suffocated in a few moments had not Everhard so opportunely come to her aid.

When Everhard reached the scene of the conflagration, he found that the butler had taken the management of every thing, and shown great promptness and presence of mind. The fire-buckets belonging to the castle, and the stable buckets, had been obtained; the great cistern was luckily nearly full of water, and by passing supplies of water from hand to hand, the fire had at least been kept from spreading. Two rooms were completely destroyed; but, owing to the great thickness of the castle floors, the flames gradually died away, when there was nothing more in the rooms to feed them.

Everhard was very active in rendering assistance; the exertion required, and the danger, were at that moment congenial to his feelings. Soon after he arrived at the scene of action there was a cry that the flames from the window of one of the burning rooms had caught the window-frame of Zoe's dressing-room, which was on the opposite side of the court-yard.

"If that room catches, the missis's jewels and clothes and nicknacks must go, and what will she do then?" said the butler, in great dismay.

"And, if it once gets there, it will spread to the library and all the oak work, and then nothing can save the place, it will burn like a chip," cried another voice; "our buckets will be no better than thimbles."

On hearing this, hardly waiting to ascertain the nearest way to the dressing-room, Everhard rushed forwards; leaving the servants to their exclamations, he sprang on the burning window-frames, tore down the hangings, and prevented the flames spreading in the room.

Zoe's jewel-box lay on the toilet-table, and the ornaments she had worn that day were scattered about. Everhard collected them all together, and carried them to the boudoir, locked the door, and took away the key with him.

It may be noted here, that when Zoe had leisure and composure to look over her jewels, the only articles missing were a miniature of herself, set as a bracelet-clasp, and part of a small gold chain which she well remembered to have had round her neck on the evening she and Everhard were together. She recollected, too, that in her embarrassment she had snapped it in two. It was supposed that these articles had been lost in the confusion; but Zoe's heart told her where they were religiously treasured, and she placed the broken links that remained of her chain, in the most secret drawer of her cabinet; she prized them far beyond all her other possessions put together.

In due time some degree of order was restored. The maid-servants left the chapel, and hastened to see whether their "boxes" were safe, and whether they had lost any thing.

Zoe went straight to her bedroom, having been first assured by the gardener that the children and their tutor were safe in bed at his cottage, and that his dame had given the poor things something warm to drink, to keep them from taking cold. Set at ease on this point, she locked her door, and left all things in the castle to arrange themselves as they best could.

Everhard had burned himself seriously in his efforts to extinguish the flames in Zoe's dressing-room; but, regardless of every thing, he was indefatigable in endeavouring to restore some sort of order. He despatched a special message to Gifford with tidings of what had occurred, and made every possible arrangement for the comfort of Zoe and the household, in case Gifford should not be able to leave his special jury. At six o'clock in the morning he went to Zoe's maid (the girl whose carelessness had caused all the confusion) and gave her a sealed packet for her mistress, with strict injunctions to deliver it into her own hand.

It was late before Zoe's bell rang. She looked wildly round as she took the packet from the maid.

"Where is Father Everhard?" she asked, hastily.

"He left the castle, ma'am, hours ago. I saw him go down the way towards the wood directly after he had given me that parcel; he looked very pale and strange: no wonder, poor gentleman, after all he has gone through this blessed night."

"What did he say?" asked Zoe.

"Nothing at all, ma'am; only to be very particular you got the parcel as soon as you awoke."

"Very well; you may go. I shall not get up yet; I am tired." And Zoe locked her door against every one.

CHAPTER XII

When Everhard had done all that was possible towards restoring order in the castle, he found his way back to the silence of his own room; he sunk into the chair he had left, stunned and stupefied. He was in the state of one who has taken opium, not altogether unconscious, but with senses too dull to be impressed by what passes either within or without.

If for a moment a flash of recollection aroused him, it died away into a crowd of voluptuous sensations, that held him like a sleeper on enchanted ground.

The cold light of morning at length broke the spell - he started up in search of writing materials, and wrote a few lines to Zoe, but without feeling fully alive to what he was doing.

He made up the note, and the key he had taken from the door of her boudoir, into a packet, and gave it to Zoe's maid, with strict orders to put it into her mistress's own hands, when she rang her bell. This done, he left the castle.

The deed, which it had cost him a few hours before so much emotion to contemplate, was now accomplished. He had left Zoe, and he had no idea of ever beholding her again. Now that it had come to the act, he felt nothing - he could not realise that it was done.

Every thing within him was confused in passion. Thought, feeling, emotion, all molten together, were glowing and heaving heavily below the surface.

The sun had risen when he left the castle, the morning air struck refreshingly upon him; he walked on at a rapid pace, without well knowing whither he went; he was only sensible of the relief afforded by quick motion, to the hot unrest within. Rain in a little while began to descend, and he was soon wet to the skin; still he went on; the need of violent exertion seemed to increase upon him. He had wandered from the direct road, and got among the mountains, he did not know when or how; but walked at random for many miles, insensible of hunger or fatigue.

At length, when it grew dark, he found himself in a wood he knew, about four miles from the college. Wearied out in body and mind, his clothes soiled and torn, he reached the gate. He went straight to his own apartment. The inmates of the college were at supper, so he escaped without seeing any one.

It seemed as if a whole lifetime had passed since he left, instead of three days.

If it were not that night, with its quiet shadow into which sorrow and joy are equally absorbed, stood between men and the need of any long continued thought - they must go mad - but there it is, an unfailing refuge, marking the end of every day, however long or weary.

Everhard flung himself on his bed with an intense feeling of thankfulness, that some hours of oblivion would blot out the consciousness of life.

But the hour of awakening cannot be escaped, and Everhard opened his eyes to feel that life and its requirements pressed heavily upon him.

A quantity of business had accumulated, even during the short time of his absence, and which, for a while, was something to shield him from himself.

But that also came to an end, and he was alone to meditate on what it behoved him to do. He was alone with Conscience, which, dull in its perceptions, and uncertain in its counsels, whilst the act is still to be done, is bitter, wise, and distinct, when all is finished.

Everhard's passion for Zoe, that for so long had blinded his eyes, and blunted every other sentiment, was for the moment suspended, or rather for the moment it was satisfied; and, in that lull of passion, the last three years of his life rose clear and undistorted before him. In a few moments his conscience had scanned the work of years - it had gone back through the whole period of his life - and what was its record? - What did all the costly array of genius, learning, labour, and patience, which had been at work for seven and thirty years, bring forth?

He had learned his religion - to find that he could not believe its creed; he had acquired honours and dignity in the eyes of the world - by a profession he had ceased to esteem; he had cared so much for ease and indolence - that he had allowed himself to be prevailed on, by second motives, to continue in a post where he was obliged to shut his eyes on his own consciousness. At that very moment he was in the act of supporting his life, by teaching what he believed to be false; he had taken charge of young minds, depending entirely upon him, for their direction, and he had neither been honest in teaching them to believe, nor sincere in telling them to doubt: and all this for what? Because, in the first instance, he had shrunk from encountering some vague inconvenience, - because, not seeing clearly what good he would do elsewhere, he had listened willingly to the smooth temporising of those who had never, like himself, had the responsibility of sincere and upright instincts laid upon them; he had wilfully shut his eyes, and been guided by sophistry, which, at the very time, he knew to be sophistry; and now the plating and varnish of expediency had melted off, and the mocking, miserable, worthlessness of that which he had permitted to beguile him of his integrity, lay exposed. There he stood, in the prime and vigour of his life, having acquired, and done nothing with his acquirements - having obtained a clear insight, and applied it to no purpose - having trifled with himself till he had frittered away his integrity - having tampered with his sense of right and wrong, until now, when he was tossed with passion, and needed all his energies to bear him through a temptation that few have escaped unscathed - he found himself left alone, with an enervated will, and bitter self-contempt in his heart.

Even the thought of John Paul Gregory brought shame to him: for he, at least, had used his abilities to the purpose he conceived best, and he was a strong, unscrupulous, worldly man - something at least; whilst Everhard felt bitterly conscious that he was nothing.

The cloud which had shrouded him so long from himself, cleared away, and the meaning of the last few years revealed itself to him.

The days, which as they passed along, had seemed merely vehicles to contain the routine of things which are essential to work the machinery of the world - the common employments which life was given men to transact - days which, as they passed along, seemed so quiet and dreary, now assumed to his eyes the look of reproving angels, whom he had allowed to escape, without constraining a blessing from them. The little motives which had governed him - the little difficulties which had clogged and impeded him, inducing rather than compelling him to go on up to the present day - all stood in array before him. He was like one who, from an eminence, overlooking a tangled and intricate path through which he has been travelling, sees at once all he has done, and all he might have done. He felt as if he were deteriorated to his very core.

The strength and reality of his love for Zoe, made him thus acutely sensible of the falseness and worthlessness of all that had so long influenced him.

One thing, after a while, evolved itself from this chaos, and became clear and plain to him; and that was the necessity of having done with his present mode of life; with as little delay as possible, to emancipate himself at once and for ever from the thraldom in which he was dwelling.

At this juncture a person came to see him on some business relative to the college, and he was called back to the actual working of the things around him. He felt puzzled to know how to begin to disentangle himself; so altogether unconscious that it was any other than what it ought to be; the machinery all worked on without hitch or flaw; all was gentle and well-ordered, offering a practical epigram on the tumult, and uncertainty of his own mind. All things in daily life work thus to a smooth surface. Even the most calamitous and startling events do not fall on us and crush us suddenly, but drop by moment's fall; and each moment has a natural connexion with the one that went before; and each as it comes finds its place beside us and around us, taking its shape gradually; it is not till all is over that we see the event moulded to its full proportion, standing out from the web of the day or year, though at first it looked no different from the common stuff of time. And this is the grand difficulty of life; we know not what we do, whilst it is being done, and therefore it behoves us in this dimness of uncertainty, to be sure of ourselves at least: to live each moment sincerely - so that, whatever the result may be, we at least can be at one with ourselves.

Everhard was again roused from his meditations by the physician of the college, who came to tell him that a sudden and alarming change had shown itself in one of the students, who had been unwell for a few days, with what at first seemed nothing more than a slight cold; he had expressed an earnest wish to see Everhard; and the physician added his own opinion that the symptoms had become so severe, that he feared the poor youth could not last many days.

Everhard was dreadfully shocked, and lost not a moment in repairing to the bedside of the sufferer, who was the most promising youth in the college: full of talent, of a singularly amiable disposition, and remarkable for his scrupulous attention to his religious duties. Everhard had, however, remarked an eager unrest about him, as if he earnestly sought, rather than found comfort in them; he had seen that the youth was not at ease in his mind, but he had shrunk from any attempt to dispel his reserve, from the consciousness that he should not well know how to counsel him.

When Everhard entered the room of the patient, he saw him half raised in bed, with a look of intense anxiety and fear upon his features; the mouth was open, and the lips swollen and discoloured. As Everhard approached, a gleam of joy shone from his troubled eyes, but it faded almost instantly. Everhard spoke a few kind words, but the youth did not appear to listen to him, but seizing Everhard's hand, said in a sharp, fierce whisper,

"I sent for you, to tell me how I must die," and he fixed his eyes on Everhard with a look of despairing earnestness, beneath which he quailed. "How", continued the sufferer, "is a living man to face death? Give me some belief, some word of strength, where my soul may take refuge in this extremity. I heard the doctor say, though he was a great way off, but I saw his lips move, that I could not live many hours, I feel I cannot."

And the poor wretch absolutely swelled with terror at the thought, and shuddered till the bed trembled beneath him.

"Oh, Father Everhard," he continued, "I have dreaded death ever since I can remember. I was a very little child when I was first told what death meant; I did not think much about it at the moment, but the next day when at play, I suddenly recollected what I had been told - that I must die - that it might happen to-day! I threw down my toys, screaming with terror - I did not tell any one what was the matter, for they could not help me, and I did not like to speak of it.

"I grew very anxious to hear about God and religion, but somehow it never went to my heart, I never felt comfort in it, as I heard other people talk of having, and the thought of death was never out of my mind; often have I awoke in the middle of the night, with the horror of death upon me, and have leaped out of bed in a frenzy. All my life long I have lived in the shadow of death; I never was gay or happy for an hour, but the thought of death, at whose mercy I was darkly lying, has sprung up in my heart to torture me. I wonder that every one who knows he is to die, does not go mad."

"But", said Everhard, trying to soothe him, "did you find no comfort in your religion?"

The sufferer cast on him a look of impatience and despair, then, as if the words rent his heart, said in a hard, dry voice,

"No. I have tried to believe it, I suppose I do believe it; but death is a greater reality than religion, and swallows it up. I have prayed, I have tried to live up to its minutest requirements, but it has done me no good - tell me," he exclaimed, with convulsive energy, "what comes after death? and then, perhaps, I shall not fear it so much!"

A spasm in the throat came on that almost choked him; it was terrible to see him struggling and wrestling for breath; when it passed, he lay panting and exhausted, the sweat standing in beads on his forehead. Everhard wiped it away, and held a cordial to his lips. The dying youth went on:

"Father Everhard, is there no deliverance? why do all the doctrines I have been taught seem to have no meaning? say something that I can feel. Those words are ringing in my ears all day - 'After death, the judgment' - say something to drown their sound. Oh! you know not what it is to be writhing and struggling for every breath you draw, though you know your life is wasting away with each one. You once said a word in one of your sermons that has clung to me like pitch; you said, 'We know not where we shall be, nor what we shall be: Death is the last fact of which we <