Chapter IX: The Verdict (3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GRACE SEYMOUR'S MISSION.

CONCLUDED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And was it all over at once?"

"Before we could get him to the hospital."

"Was there a doctor?"

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

"Did he speak?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How, Grace?"

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

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

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

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

After a pause, Grace resumed:

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

And before Edmund could speak, she was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who are you?" said the woman vacantly.

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

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

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

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

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

She shook her head. Grace pointed to the cradle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woman paused and shuddered.