Chapter XXVIII: Prologue (4)

Living socialism—that is, socialism personified in its real representatives—no longer makes any mystery as to this, and cannot pretend to feel itself injured or calumniated if we reproduce and lay bare its own formulas. It is its own voice that cries aloud over the world: “Society as it is must perish, and from its ruins a new social system shall and must spring forth.” The first prophets and teachers of the socialist idea had hoped that the idea in itself, and for its own sake, would be accepted at once, and that humanity would spontaneously open its heart to it, as it does its eyes to the rays of the sun. The disciples have far outrun the programme of their masters; they no longer mention the ideal revolution, and if the ideal alone, preached by word of mouth, should not be strong enough to fulfil the programme at any given time, they mean to back it with the strong hand, and force it by violence to become a fact and hasten towards its definitive triumph. Social destruction is at present the latest phase of the socialist idea, which boldly comes forward, programme in hand, and bids us accept it and help to build up its rule as an inevitable necessity. It summons living society publicly and contemptuously to its bar, and bids it be ready to be demolished and afterwards re-established according to the fancy of this evil spirit, powerful indeed to destroy, but helpless to create.

Thus it is that this doctrine—if it can be called a doctrine—so philanthropic at the outset, so peaceful, so brotherly; this doctrine, which announced itself as a new gospel of peace, freedom, and brotherhood, has come to speak sternly of war, of massacre, of destruction; has sworn that no matter what opposition it raises and what blood it costs, the socialist idea _shall_ triumph, and has decided that if it be necessary to reach the throne at which it aims over ruins and over corpses, it will stride over ruins and over corpses! Let the human sacrifices seal, if need be, the bloody covenant of the new social order.

It will scarcely be believed that this work of social destruction has been compared to the work of Christ, the reformer and transformer of society. It is so, however; and this new era which is before us has actually been likened to the social transformation, or rather restoration, achieved by Christianity—as if anything could be more flagrantly antagonistic to the great transformation worked by the Christian idea than this pretended transformation dreamed of and sung by the prophets of the socialist idea; as if a revolution brought about by force and violence could ever be compared to a restoration accomplished through love and self-sacrifice!

You reformers and innovators, do you forget that Jesus Christ attacked nothing by force and destroyed nothing by violence; that in his divine wisdom he was content to sow truth in men’s souls and love in their hearts as the husbandman casts seed into the furrow; and that truth and love have done their work among humankind as germs in the earth, as the blood in our veins, as electricity throughout nature—that is, in mysterious silence, with a strength full of gentleness and patience, yet with unerring certainty? You forget that if Christ cursed the unjust rich man—that is, wealth abusing its privileges, wealth without love, compassion, or sympathy for others—yet he never dreamt of leading the poor against the rich, but simply placed between the two the powerful but sweet link of charity. You forget that if he delivered captives from their bonds and slaves from their chains, he never incited master or slave to wage fratricidal war on each other, and that it was only as his teaching sank into the heart of the master that the fetters of the slave set free through love dropped of themselves, as ripe fruit drops from the tree in its good time and season. You forget that if the divine Reformer came to found a new society, it was by a new creation, and not through destruction; that he came to rehabilitate even bodily society while he created the true kingdom of souls; and that, far from breathing into it the spirit of social hatred and jealousy, he came to restore, or rather found within it, the rule of love and social self-denial. The very goal which the socialist idea has reached by identifying itself with the idea of social destruction is itself the best proof of the irreconcilable antagonism between socialism and Christianity.

I do not say that each individual in the ranks of contemporary socialism defines and adopts this programme of destruction so clearly and so resolutely as I have stated. Under all standards there are many men who neither see nor understand where the chiefs whose orders they obey are leading them—honest, upright men, duped by villains; passionate lovers of good, while strayed and lost in the great army of evil. I fully admit these exceptions, possible, nay, probable, everywhere; and, indeed, why deny their existence? Nevertheless, the mainspring of socialist action in our day lies in the idea of destruction, and the problem which contemporary socialism no longer seeks to veil is simply this: “_What are the speediest means for completely demolishing the old structure of society, which is already bursting asunder in all its parts; and when down, what is to be done to rebuild from its ruins the edifice of the new social order?_” Yes, such is the problem whose solution socialism boasts of finding, even though it be through rivers of blood and mountains of corpses; and yet this social body, rotten as it is said to be, still rests on strong foundations as old as humanity itself.

Property is its material foundation, the family its human foundation, and religion its divine foundation; and therefore the logical march of the socialist idea drives it, like fate, to clamor not only for the reform and transformation but for the ruin and destruction of these three things on which rests the whole of society, religion, family, and property. I do not hesitate to declare it, in spite of the vehement denials of men still unaccountably blinded to facts: the real scope of the socialist idea when pursued to its logical conclusion is the radical transformation or the utter uprooting of these stable and ancient institutions, as old as human society itself—_property_, _family_, and _religion_—and thereby the fall of our whole social system, as of a building on its shattered foundations and its broken supports. There are many theoretical socialists who do not dare to exhibit their theory in terms whose brutality seems to exceed even the grotesqueness of the idea they embody, and many who still cling to a few illusions and have a regard for decency. Such as these protest against what they call our calumnies and exaggerations. Destroy? they exclaim; we do not wish to destroy, we only long to transform. There was a time when, with mistaken faith in the honesty of purpose I loved to find or imagine everywhere, I, and you perchance, were deceived by this specious excuse, these alluring formulas; but to-day it is impossible to mistake the sense of this former mystery; it has too disastrously been revealed to us.

The socialist idea directly attacks the principle of _property_—that is, individual possession of one’s fields, house, capital, or patrimony, so happily called the _domain_; property—that is, in the common order of things, the fruit of individual labor or of the labor and self-denial of one’s forefathers; property—that is, the pledge of man’s independence, and the sign of his kingship in his own home, small as it may be; property, which in all nations and ages has been sheltered under the triple shield of nature, justice, and religion; property, the material basis of society—indeed, its necessary condition and the link by which the family is bound to its native soil as the tree by its roots; property, always and everywhere looked upon as sacred and inviolable among nations who have claimed the honors of civilization; property, which all societies have acknowledged even while appearing to deny its rights, violating them by force; property, in a word, which is a thing so familiar to us that the least infraction of its laws would cause us a remorse only to be allayed by reparation. Such is the nature of property; and shall we believe the teaching of this new jurisprudence, the propagators of these new laws, who maintain that there is no question of destroying but only of reforming, or at most transforming, the nature of property?

In what does this miraculous, proposed transformation consist? The expedient is very simple—namely, to strip the mass of owners in order to constitute one sole and supreme owner; for it is obvious, after all, that some one must still possess the earth. This legal spoliation, no doubt, will be a work of time, but it will be sure. And who is the new owner to be, in whom the right of universal property shall be vested, and on whose shoulders will be flung the burden of universal wealth? The state, forsooth; the god-state, the “state” which may be an honest man to-day, but to-morrow may be a rogue; the god-state, whom infatuated philosophers are constantly working to aggrandize, to make all-powerful, and for which they strive night and day to win more worshippers. This is to be the one owner and possessor of all; the state shall have all, organize and work all, distribute and apportion all, be the centre, the fountain head, and the goal of all; while in this universal domain where the state controls all, this huge arsenal where the state produces, executes, or orders all, society shall become a human hive, vast as the earth itself, but in which every individual shall be reduced, as a terse writer has put it, to the size and functions of a bee. This is the masterpiece elaborated by the socialist idea—the dream of universal property, which is likewise a dream of universal levelling, universal stuntedness. Individual responsibility or initiative is swept away; human kingship and free-will disappear; domestic society is left without a material basis, and even public society without a foundation; the right of all is practically the right of none, and the result is universal slavery to universal despotism. Such is the miracle of this transformation of property, so glibly promised by the socialist theory to future generations; and though all who fight under the banner of legal spoliation do not carry thus far their social ideal, and do not look forward to such absolute communism, all are on the road to it by the very fact of vesting in their god-state the right of increasing and decreasing, making or unmaking, individual property under the name of taxes on the rich and rates for the poor. What astonishes me above all in this respect is to see in certain men, the most interested personally in the upholding of the conservative principle of property, a certain pandering to, or half-support of, this eminently anti-social idea.

The same socialism which attacks the immemorial constitution of property attacks likewise the immemorial constitution of the family. The socialist idea attacks specially in the family, together with the principle of property, the three things which are its pride, its strength, and its stability—namely, _unity_, _indissolubility_, and _inheritance_, which, it is needless to say, uphold its permanence and perpetuity. First of all, it attacks unity, and unity in trinity: one man, one woman, and one whole family springing from both; one life produced by two sources fused into one—a unity which, in the family as everywhere else, is the essential condition of harmony, order, beauty, and happiness. This unity does not please the socialist. An advocate of free morals and free love, he prefers polygamy, as allowed by the Koran and practised by Moslems, to the conjugal unity enjoined by the Gospel and sanctioned by the teaching and practice of Christendom. Socialism attacks the indissolubility—that is, the permanence—of the marriage tie. Such an indissolubility before God and before the state is in its eyes only the civil and religious endorsement of slavery, the legal and theological confiscation of liberty. The apostles of free love are unable to understand the principle which binds two human beings to each other for ever and under no matter what circumstances. What revolution allows to society socialism would fain make accessible to the family—that is, perpetual change and unlimited option concerning divorce and separation. Socialism claims unblushingly, in the name of nature and progress, the revolutionary right of a husband to send away his wife, and a wife to leave her husband, as easily as a nation disposes of its sovereigns and its governments—a right equivalent to a permanent revolution in the family and the state, and bearing as its fruit the abolition of inheritance. Inheritance means the tradition of a _patrimony_; it is the pledge of the stability and perpetuity of domestic or home society; bereft of it, the family, without moorings in the past or hopes in the future, becomes, like the individual, an ephemeral phenomenon, gone in a breath and holding to nothing but the present hour. This right of inheritance has its place in God’s plan and man’s laws; it represents to coming generations the labors, the benefits, the sacrifices of their forefathers; it extends the influence of the latter over their descendants. But socialism does not shrink from questioning it in theory and attacking it in practice. How, it asks, should the will of a dying man be able to transmit beyond his grave a domain to his posterity? Down with a privilege which gives man, when he is a corpse, a posthumous omnipotence in contradiction with the very condition of the dead, and injurious to the freedom of action of the living! Socialism thus saps every conservative family principle, and the spirit it instils into the human mind is destructive to the foundations of home society, in order that it may prepare a clearer path to the eventual destruction of public society.

It is scarcely necessary to follow the socialist idea throughout its destructive march in order to realize the havoc it makes of domestic society; a glance at its practice is enough. Look at the homes and hearths where this idea has seated itself and taken practical possession. What homes, great God! and what morals; they might astonish even a heathen. The acknowledged reign of license and disorder, sanctioned by a so-called doctrine, and careless of any outward badge of respectability, whether civil or religious; a boasting display of a foulness for which the very faculty of blushing is lost, for the socialist idea, breathing its poison over these hearths, has extinguished the lamp of domestic virtue, and tossed into the mire not only the ideal of Christian perfection but that of moral blamelessness. No wonder that men preaching such doctrine and practising such morals should be eager to transform the family; they do it, indeed, in a strange and appalling manner by turning the sanctuary of honor and virtue into a sink of corruption and vice.

Furthermore, I maintain that they would turn the home, the school of faith and religion, into a school of unbelief and impiety; for socialism, which detests the family and property, hates religion still worse, because it is the chief bulwark of property and the family. It hates religion as such—not only this or that religion, but the very principle of communication between God and man, and the main object of the socialist idea is to transform—that is, _destroy_—this element in mankind. The _fiat_ has gone forth, the watchword is given, “No more religion in humanity”; and the ideal of progress, as pointed out to the world by the socialist, is simply the suppression of all religion, which he dubs with the unpopular names of fanaticism, superstition, clericalism. The cry is not only no more property, no more family, no more homestead, no more hearth; but the frantic cry takes up other matters and echoes to the ends of the world a more sweeping denunciation: No more religion, no more altars, no more priests, no more churches, no more ritual, no more oblation, no more ceremonies, no more religious festivals. The like has never before been seen in history; it could not have been even conceived. This public attempt to drive out all religion from humanity in the name of progress is an absolutely unparalleled phenomenon, not only within but beyond Christianity. It is a monster in human history, the deformity of the nineteenth century. Our age will appear before history with this shameful inscription on its forehead, which will sufficiently brand it in the opinion of after ages: “I, the nineteenth century, have proclaimed by the voice of a million of atheists, as the law and condition of all progress, the abolition of all religion.”

And yet you will find religion attending the birth of every new society; you will meet it at the source of every growing society, and will perceive it shining and triumphing when that society has reached its utmost greatness and perfection, for a great heathen writer has truly called it the motive force of all things: _Omnia religione moventur_. Religion is to the world of men what sap is to the plant, blood to the animal, electricity to the system of nature—an indispensable condition of life, of motion, of fruitfulness. Who would dare undertake to drive from the earth and uproot from the soul of man this divine link between God and human nature, this boundary of human life, this vivifying force which permeates all, fertilizes all, directs and controls all?

Why, I ask these frantic demolishers, why not pluck electricity from nature, sap from the plant, and blood from our veins? For it is true that it were easier for the tree to live without sap, the plant without root, the body without blood, than it is for the human soul to exist without religion—religion, that need of something divine, that longing after something durable, that step towards the infinite; religion, that natural breath of the soul, as the air is of the body, that attraction heavenwards which corresponds to the physical attraction earthwards of our body! A mysterious but very sensible force draws us towards our physical centre of gravity, but a force still more mysterious, more sensible, and, above all, more powerful draws us towards our heavenly, our spiritual centre; and while we are physically bound by a chain as strong as life to the stage of our earthly existence, yet spiritually we soar by as irresistible an impulse towards the place of spirits, the eternal and the infinite.

The flagrant antagonism between the socialist idea and the religious idea is easily explained. Socialism knows by instinct that in religion, and especially in Christianity, _the_ religion above all others, exists the divine foundation of the world; that as long as this foundation is not shaken the social polity can never be thoroughly destroyed; that religion, even stripped of direct and, as it were, official influence in the political and social order, is still the last bulwark that interposes between socialism and its avowed object; in a word, that _there_ rests the supreme force, the insurmountable obstacle to the new ideas, there the truth that repudiates the new errors, there the holiness that repudiates the new corruption, there the authority that repudiates the new anarchy, there the divine Might which says to the idea of devastation what God the Creator says to the ocean: “So far shalt thou go, and no further”—“_huc usque venies_.”

To sum up, there is a disastrous idea prowling through the modern world—the _socialist idea_. This idea, which at first was only that of social _reform_, and later became that of social _transformation_, has developed at present into that of social destruction.

And whereas every social structure rests on three foundations, property, the family, and religion, so the socialist idea more or less directly attacks these three foundations. The socialist idea, or socialism looked upon as a theory, pushes its anti-social aggression up to this climax; it stands there in radical and fearful opposition, threatening all that is most vital and most fundamental in society.

Therefore we are bound to resist it face to face, everywhere and always, and do battle against the socialist idea—that is, the idea of destruction, disaster, and ruin. I impress upon you the necessity of, and claim your help in, a doctrinal resistance to this idea, a defence of all it attacks, an assertion of all it denies; a sturdy repetition of the _credo_ of universal affirmation, and not only a repetition, but a publication, a triumphant challenge, to the socialist idea which embodies in itself a universal negation.

Footnote 89:

From the French of Père Félix, published as an article in the _Revue
Catholique des Institutions et du Droit_ (April number, 1878). The
article is a reproduction of one lecture out of a series, on the
subject of socialism, given at Grenoble, and shortly to be published
entire by Jouby-Roger, Rue des Grands Augustins, Paris.

A ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE.

A fairer light than ever since has shone
Fell on that garden where Queen Eve’s sweet bower
Was hid in roses and the jasmine flower,
Curtained with eglantine, and overrun
With morning-glories glowing in the sun
Late into noon, unheeding of the hour
When now they close: these were our mother’s dower;
She lived and loved amid all flowers, save one.
There was no red rose in the garden wide
Of all her world, until its mistress went
From out its gates with roses in her hand,
Spoil of past joys; then, like a new-made bride,
She blushed in shame, and that first blush has lent
The rose its color over all our land.

HELEN LEE.
A ROMANCE OF OLD MARYLAND.

“I maintain it is a glory for the Catholics of Maryland that, in this age of religious strife, our colony has been made a home for the persecuted, and that we are the first to proclaim the equal rights of all who profess to be Christians.”

These words were spoken by a young man named William Berkeley, who formed one of a group of five persons seated under the shade of an oak-tree one summer afternoon in the year 1636. His companions were Sir Charles Evelyn, who was of about his own age; an old gentleman, Sir Henry Lee; his daughter, a maiden of three-and-twenty; and, lastly, a way-worn traveller, whose sad, wan face and unkempt locks told that he had suffered much and been long in reaching a place of safety and repose.

“Yea, Mr. Berkeley, this colony hath set a glorious example,” answered the last-mentioned individual. “And I wish my worthy friend Roger Williams had accompanied me hither, instead of halting where he did on Narraganset Bay; for he hath a rigorous climate to contend with. Oh! how cold it was last winter, how bitter cold, as we journeyed through the wilderness. And, moreover, the Puritans of Massachusetts, not content with having exiled him once for his religious opinions, may claim jurisdiction over the haven where he is now resting, and drive him still further away.”

“Well, ours is indeed a charming country,” spoke Helen Lee. “It is now two years since we landed from the _Ark_ and the _Dove_, and we have all enjoyed uninterrupted good health, while our numbers, which at first were only two hundred, are now much increased. Oh! St. Mary’s is a blessed spot.”

“And we shall very soon have our church finished,” observed the young baronet, who sat between Helen and her father. “The big wigwam which the Indians kindly gave us wherein to celebrate holy Mass is become a great deal too small and many are obliged to kneel outside.”

After a little further conversation, and after again praising the climate and people of Maryland, Roger Williams’ friend arose; then, having thanked Sir Henry for his hospitality—the latter had entertained him at dinner—he silently waved his hand to the others and bent his steps towards the town.

“I am glad that stranger has found his way here,” said Berkeley almost as soon as his back was turned; “and to-morrow I will try to get him employment.”

“I entertained the fellow at my table; I could not have done less,” growled Sir Henry, knitting his brow. “But I hope I have seen the last of him.”

At this remark Helen turned towards Berkeley, making him a sign with her finger, which unfortunately he did not perceive. She knew her parent’s hasty temper, his bitter feelings against Dissenters, and feared lest they might engage in a dispute over the question of religious toleration.

“The true glory of our charter,” went on Berkeley, “consists in—”

“’Tis precisely its weak point,” interrupted Sir Henry, who knew well what he was about to say. “Ay, this religious freedom which you so much admire will one day prove our ruin. Only let enough Puritans and fellows like him who has just quitted us settle here, and then you and I and Lord Baltimore, in fact every Catholic and Anglican, will be hurried out of the colony.”

“I do not believe it,” said Berkeley.

“But I do; and it shows what little sense you have,” continued Sir Henry, now quite red in the face.

We need not give the rest of the discussion between them, which waxed louder and hotter, until finally, at something the old gentleman said, Berkeley got up, made a silent bow to Helen, and walked away. In a moment Evelyn followed him.

“What! go back and make peace with Sir Henry?” exclaimed Berkeley, as the other took his arm—“after calling me low-born, and saying that was the reason I sympathized with common folk and Puritans? No, no, I cannot.”

To any one of a less generous nature than Evelyn this might have been a welcome announcement, for both he and Berkeley were suitors for Helen’s hand. But Evelyn did not let this fact for a moment lessen his desire to restore harmony between his rival and Helen’s father. “Look,” he said, “how pained his daughter is! She is weeping. Do return and be friends for her sake.”

“You are a noble fellow to speak thus,” answered Berkeley. “But I cannot; for, besides calling me what he did, he bade me henceforth hold aloof from him, and I will obey. As for Helen, she is too good, too meek, too patient; she is a martyr.”

After they had walked together a short distance, Evelyn, finding that his efforts to persuade Berkeley to retrace his steps were vain, let him go his way, and during the rest of the afternoon he had Helen all to himself.

These two had been friends from childhood, and their natures were much alike. Both were dreamers. Well-nigh as far back as their memories went they had built castles in the air; and after they had been strolling hand-in-hand, as they oftentimes used to do, amid the pleasant groves of Evelinton Park, Yorkshire, the boy would always bid his gentle comrade good-by with a kiss; then little Helen would betake herself to her father’s mansion, which was next to that of Sir Charles Evelyn’s, and pass the time until she was put to bed thinking about the pretty boy, who had made so many vows to be with her all through her life; and she closed her eyes with his words ringing in her ears: “If a giant comes to attack you, Helen, or a dragon, I will defend you; I will kill the horrid beast or wicked man.” And often in sleep she witnessed a desperate fight, wherein her knight, after many wounds received in her defence, always came off victorious.

Happy indeed were those days of childhood. And when in the course of time Helen grew to be a woman and Charles a man, it was wonderful how little they had changed, how like children still they were. Indeed, the only new thing which Helen observed in him was that he did not kiss her any more as he used; while the youth occasionally saw a flush steal over her cheek as she listened to some innocent speech of his—innocent yet full of rapture—wherein he said there might be maidens in heaven who were like herself, but only in heaven. And so they continued to be much in each other’s company; and when at length Helen’s father fell into debt—for old blood is spendthrift blood—and determined to cross the sea with the hope of retrieving his credit and decayed fortune in the New World, Evelyn would not stay behind.

Sir Henry Lee, let us here remark, was a cavalier of the truest stamp; chivalrous, devoted heart and soul to his king, utterly careless of money. “And never was there a queen like Queen Henrietta Maria,”[90] he would say. Her being a Catholic mattered not a jot; for, although he himself belonged to the Church of England, he had married a Catholic wife and allowed his daughter to be brought up a Catholic. The only people he hated were Presbyterians, and his beau ideal of the devil was John Knox.

As soon as Sir Henry had resolved to join the company of Lord Baltimore he sent for a surveyor to make a map of his encumbered estate, which he could no longer afford to hold; and the surveyor’s name was William Berkeley. While the latter was engaged on this work Lady Lee would often go and talk with him; and among the last words which this excellent woman spoke to her daughter before she died were these: “Helen, you are now of an age to marry. Yonder is a man who would be of great help in mending our shattered fortune. William Berkeley is a Catholic, and he tells me that he too intends to go with Lord Baltimore. As for his having no title, think none the less of him for that; he hath a pedigree—’tis even said he comes down from Robin Hood. Child, you might do worse than wed that honest, able yeoman.” And the girl treasured up these words; and now this summer evening, while Evelyn is alone with her in Sir Henry Lee’s new home in Maryland, trying to console her for the harsh language which the old gentleman had used towards Berkeley, her mother’s advice came back upon Helen’s memory with very great force, and she asked herself: “What should we do if Mr. Berkeley were henceforth to hold aloof from us?” For he was a worker, not a dreamer. He gave Sir Henry good counsel which might in time be listened to; and if a day of urgent need ever came, he would be a useful friend. Whereas since they had been at St. Mary’s what had the gentle Evelyn done to better his condition? And his father, like her own, was overwhelmed with debt: old blood is spendthrift blood. True, his morals were correct; he was the very soul of honor, well educated, and of distinguished mien and manners. But as time wore on Helen felt more and more convinced that there was something wanting in Evelyn’s character, and, were she to give him her hand, was it not only too probable that they would grow poorer and poorer? “For, alas!” she would sigh, “I am too much of a dreamer myself, and we cannot live on dreams.”

Moreover, Helen believed that Evelyn’s love for her partook too much of a religious devotion; what he had told her years before he kept telling her still—she was his angel; and Helen shrank from taking a step which might undeceive him: “For I fear if I became his wife I should cease to be his angel.”

The room, where they now sat conversing together was the one known as the queen’s room; for, besides the portraits of the family, it contained a picture of Queen Henrietta Maria by Van Dyck. Nothing in the world did Sir Henry treasure more than this work of art by the great master, unless, perhaps, his own daughter. Yet even this priceless gem he might ere long be obliged to part with, as he had already parted with his old wine, in order to pay off fresh debts.

“In a day or two,” spoke Evelyn, “I will make another effort to reconcile your father to Berkeley. I do hope I shall succeed.”

“I pray that you may,” answered Helen.

Then, as he toyed with one of her rich chestnut curls, “Helen,” he added, “I am going to paint a grand picture—St. George delivering St. Margaret from the Dragon—and I want you to sit for my model of St. Margaret. Will you?”

“I fear I am not worthy of such an honor,” replied Helen. “Poor me! What am I?”

“You are the inspiration of my life,” pursued Evelyn. “Yes, the little I have accomplished is all owing to you. But for you I should never have touched a brush.”

“Well, well, I’ll be St. Margaret; but who is to be St. George?”

“Myself. And now, when may I begin?”

“To-morrow, if you like.”

“To-morrow? Good!”

With this Evelyn withdrew, leaving Helen meditating on his words: “You are the inspiration of my life”; and she said to herself: “Alas! would that I had known how to inspire you better, good, kind Evelyn, my earliest friend. But all I have taught you to do is to play artist; and you would starve on the proceeds of your brush.”

Then presently her thoughts turned to her other lover, the strong, active, practical Berkeley, who never fell into rhapsodies over her eyes—her eyes, deep as the sea, blue as the sky, bright as the stars—as Evelyn did, nor said that his prayers were little worth unless she were kneeling near him.

Berkeley showed his feelings in a plain, healthy way by a hearty squeeze of the hand, and by now and again begging her to mend his buckskin gloves. “Because no girl in St. Mary’s can sew like you, Helen.” And, as might be expected, the young surveyor was bettering his condition every year, and had always something to give away to those who were not so well off as himself. Helen knew, too, how he had bestirred himself to find a purchaser for her father’s wine, and it was through him she had disposed of several jewels—precious heirlooms from her mother. In fact, Berkeley seemed able to do everything; and few people in St. Mary’s began anything important without first consulting him. Then Helen recalled one of the old fairy tales which Evelyn had told her when they were children, and wished that she were a fairy. “For then,” she said, “I would quickly wave my magic wand over Evelyn’s head and change him into Berkeley, and so make everything smooth, and my poor heart would be at peace.”

She was beginning, moreover, to agree with Berkeley that it was not wise to undertake to build a castle; a simple log-house would be much better. Already her father was involved in fresh trouble on account of this folly. Yet, even after selling his wine, and she her jewels, there was still money owing; and only one tower was finished.

Evelyn, on the contrary, had praised the undertaking, and told Sir Henry that as soon as the edifice was completed he would make a fine painting of it. Thus from musing over days gone by—the happy days in England, when her dear, prudent mother was living, who always had urged economy—and the sad present, tears came to Helen’s eyes, while the chamber grew darker and darker, until she could no longer distinguish Queen Henrietta Maria’s face looking down upon her from the wall. By and by she groped her way to her harpsichord, and began to play a mournful tune which was in harmony with the shadows and her own thoughts.

“Well, really, child!” exclaimed Sir Henry, entering presently with a light, “as if this abode were not cheerless enough with only you and me to inhabit it, you must needs give me melancholy music.”

Quick Helen changed the air and struck up something full of life and gladness, “A Carol to the Sun” ’twas called; and when he asked where she had got this delightful music—for it was new to him—and she answered, “From Evelyn,” her father seemed much pleased. “But, child,” he said, “why do you hesitate so long about accepting Sir Charles? Is it because Berkeley is courting you too? Why, one has a title and is of gentle blood; the other is a plebeian, and I hope will make his visits less frequent in future. I spoke sharply to Berkeley to-day—did I not?—and if he comes again I’ll speak more sharply still.”

Seeing that Helen made no response, Sir Henry continued: “Why, the fellow actually had the impudence to advise me not to go on with this castle, which I intend to make the finest structure in the colony. But Evelyn has better taste; blood tells in everything, and he agrees with me that Lord Baltimore will be highly gratified when it is finished, and will write to the king about it.”

“Well, there is indeed a magnificent view from the top of the tower,” observed Helen timidly. Then, plucking up a little courage, “But, father,” she added, “think of the money it will cost; think of the future.”

“A view! A magnificent view!” cried Sir Henry. “God-a-Mercy! is that all you have to say in praise of this tower? A magnificent view! Would you have the portrait of our gracious queen hanging in a log-cabin? And that suit of armor which your ancestor wore at Agincourt, which bears upon it the dents of a battle-axe—would you wish to see it in a log-cabin? Child, you are not worthy of your name.” Then, after a pause, during which he strode excitedly back and forth, Sir Henry continued: “As for money, I never trouble my head about money. But when you bid me think of the future—well, I have indeed bitter thoughts when I allow my mind to dwell on the future.”

This was true enough. Helen’s father was no longer young. Helen had not yet chosen a husband; would he live to see a male descendant of his house? “Oh! it wrings my heart,” he murmured half aloud—and his daughter heard the lament—“it wrings my heart to think of the old stock dying out.” After giving vent to his sorrow even by tears, the old gentleman bade Helen commence the usual evening reading. And let us here observe that the only book he cared for was _Don Quixote_, which Helen read to him in the original; for he had been in Spain and had taught her Spanish. Accordingly, she opened the volume—’twas the third time she had gone through it—and began to read in a loud, clear voice, while Sir Henry sat with his back towards her and his eyes resting on the ancient suit of armor, whence they never strayed, except for a moment to glance at the portrait of the queen.

Helen had found _Don Quixote_ quite entertaining the first time she had perused it; but now the interest was all gone, and only the dread of offending her father kept her from often pausing and nodding her head. But this she durst not do; and so on and on she read through five chapters, without so much as lifting her eyes off the page, after which Sir Henry told her to put the volume aside, then withdrew in what for him was a very genial humor.

The night which closed this summer day was a restless one for Helen Lee. She lay awake several hours listening to a whip-poor-will perched on a tree by her window. She got thinking about her father, whom, despite his acerbity of temper, she dearly loved; she thought of the rash way he was squandering his means, and said to herself: “Dear mother was right: in order to save ourselves from utter ruin we should live as economically as possible. But, alas! he will not do it, and we may be forced ere long to sell our new home here, as we did our old home in England.” And when at length she fell asleep, these mournful thoughts followed her in a dream.

The next morning Helen repaired to Evelyn’s abode, which stood on the outskirts of the town, and found him all ready to begin the painting of which he had spoken the day before.

“You look a little pale, Helen,” he said as she entered his studio. “You are always as blooming as a rose. Are you not well?”

The girl did not answer, and presently her countenance brightened, for by nature she was of a cheery disposition, ever hoping for the best, even when the sky looked darkest; and, besides, it was never difficult for the companion of her earliest years to interest her.

“Look,” continued Evelyn, “look at that oriole singing on the elm-tree yonder; his mate is hidden in the deep pear-shaped nest, with a tiny door on the side, which you see dangling from the end of the limb. Well, I have given that beautiful bird a new name; I have christened it the Baltimore bird, because we find in its golden plumage, mixed with deep black, the colors of Lord Baltimore’s arms. And his lordship was highly pleased yesterday when he heard the new name.”

“What a fanciful boy you are!” answered Helen, smiling.

“And, Helen,” he went on, “I am composing a new song for your harpsichord. You see you have inspired me to become a poet as well as an artist.”

“I sometimes fear that I have caused you to dwell too much in Cloud-land,” said Helen. Then, a little abruptly, “Evelyn,” she added, “did you ever cut down a tree?”

Ere the young baronet could make reply Berkeley, with an axe strapped across his shoulders, galloped up to the open window of the studio.

“Good morning! good-morning!” cried the surveyor. “Why, Helen, I am lucky to catch you here; I was going as nigh the tower as I durst venture, in order to bid you good-by.”

“Good-by! What mean you?” exclaimed Helen, betraying in her voice and looks the anxiety she felt.

“I am going forty miles up the Potomac, in order to lay out a new settlement,” answered Berkeley; “for our colony is growing, you know, and I am kept pretty busy.” Then, bending down from the saddle and taking her hand, “Helen,” he added, “please tell Sir Henry how sorry I am that I showed so much temper yesterday. I ought to have held my tongue, or not spoken out so openly, for I might have known that we should not agree. Tell him I ask his pardon.”

Helen gazed up in Berkeley’s face a moment, then her eyes dropped and she murmured: “Yes, I will tell him.”

“But of course,” pursued her lover, “I do not change my opinion. I still firmly believe that the example of religious toleration which Maryland has set will in time be followed by the other colonies; and who knows what a century may bring forth? Why, I believe the day is coming when all North America will be occupied by English-speaking commonwealths, where there will be no religious wars as in Europe; Catholics and Protestants will dwell in harmony together, and then it will be said: ‘Maryland began it. God bless Maryland!’”

“You have quite won me over to your way of thinking,” interposed Evelyn. “A man may be tolerant of the views of others without being himself indifferent.”

“Why, Roger Williams’ friend, whom we saw yesterday,” spoke Helen, “was drawn hither by our very toleration. Yes, we have outstripped the Puritans in common sense, and who knows but this poor exile may end by embracing the true faith?”

“But now, to change the subject,” went on Berkeley, who saw a fresh canvas spread out and a crayon in his friendly rival’s hand, “are you about to begin a new picture?”

“Yes,” said Evelyn; “a picture of St. George rescuing St. Margaret from the Dragon, and Helen is to sit for St. Margaret.”

“Indeed!” Here Berkeley meditated a moment in silence. The fact is, he feared lest he might be absent from St. Mary’s three or four months—perhaps longer: would it not, therefore, be wise, if he wished to secure Helen for his bride, to ask her forthwith to plight him her troth? Had he not already deferred it long enough? He could now afford to marry; and if he still put off the weighty question, might not Evelyn during his absence become the chosen one? “Why wait,” he asked himself, “until I have made friends with Sir Henry? He never would look with a favoring eye on our union, for I have no title; I am plain William Berkeley. Yet Helen is of age, she is not a slave, I love her dearly; and if she loves me enough to accept me, why, in God’s name, let us be married.”

Then aloud he said: “Evelyn, before I go I must pass a few minutes in your studio, just to see you commence the picture.”

“Yes, do; and let me call a servant to take your horse to the stable,” said Evelyn.

“Thanks. I’ll take him there myself,” answered Berkeley, who was now determined not to set out for the wilderness without knowing his fate.

“How well he rides!” observed the artist. “What a soldierly bearing he has!”

Then, gazing earnestly in Helen’s face, he added:

“Berkeley would make a capital St. George. Would he not? Shall I put him in the painting instead of myself?”

At this question Helen’s cheek crimsoned, and without making any response she awaited Berkeley’s return; while Evelyn murmured to himself: “Alas! alas! I see I should do well enough for a picture; but he would be her real St. George.”

In a few minutes Berkeley reappeared, and as he entered the room he seemed to read Helen’s thoughts at a glance; for the first words he uttered were:

“Evelyn, may I enquire who is to sit for St. George?”

Here Evelyn turned to Helen, upon whom Berkeley’s eyes were fastened, saying: “Dear Helen, please answer for me.”

This was a cruel moment for the girl—most cruel! What a throng of memories rushed upon her!—memories of far-off, sunny days, when she and the pretty boy used to saunter and dream hand-in-hand together along the shady paths that lay between her native home and his. And now all these memories became so many voices pleading powerfully in Evelyn’s behalf; he had loved her from the beginning, and she had only met Berkeley when she was grown up to womanhood.

But when she thought of the latter, she remembered her dead mother and what she had said of him—of his inner worth, his talents, his energy. Then, too, since Helen had been in Maryland, Berkeley had shown in many ways that he was attached to her; and, moreover, he was a man in the truest sense of the word—a man on whom she and her heedless father might lean and find support. His every waking hour was devoted to some useful employment. Far and wide he was known as an able, active, daring man; and at this very moment he stood before her all equipped to plunge into the trackless forest to pioneer the way for another settlement. His views, too, of the future had won Helen’s heart; she believed, as he did, that in America the church was destined to spread and to glean a more golden harvest than in old, worn-out Europe. And so, after a painful inward struggle, which revealed itself not faintly in her countenance, Helen’s response came, and, turning with tearful eyes to Berkeley, she said:

“William, do you be my St. George.”

“For life, Helen?”

“Yes, for life.”

At these words of doom poor Evelyn, who had felt what was coming, averted his face and stared on the vacant wall. Then, presently, bidding them remain a short while in his studio, that he would not be gone long, the heart-broken man hurriedly quitted the house.

The church whither he went was close by; and there at the foot of the altar he flung himself, bowed down his head, and tried hard to breathe a prayer. But he had never suffered before as he was suffering now, and it was not easy for him to be resigned, to have a Christian spirit, to say, “God’s will be done.” For a moment even a rebellious, devil-sent word quivered on his lips; and thus did he kneel dumbstricken before the altar, until by and by—brought to him, perhaps, by his guardian angel—came a sweet, holy calm; the storm passed away, and, spreading forth his arms, he gazed upon the ever-burning lamp which told of the Blessed Presence of his Saviour truly near him. And as he gazed upon it Evelyn took a high resolve; the words of the Psalmist came to him: “When my heart was in anguish, thou hast exalted me on a rock. Thou hast conducted me; for thou hast been my hope.... In thy tabernacle I shall dwell for ever.”[91]

Then straightway followed a flood of joy; like a bright, sunshiny wave it flowed over his soul. In his rapture he sang aloud the _Gloria_, the _Magnificat_, the _Te Deum Laudamus_. After which, rising up off his knees, he went back to his friends, who were wonder-stricken at the change that had come over him in the brief space since he had left them. Evelyn’s whole countenance beamed with a fire that was in striking contrast with his former listless self; and in a voice wherein was no tone of sadness he addressed Berkeley, saying: “Now to work! Let me quick begin St. George; I will draw rapidly, and in a couple of hours you shall be free to depart.”

Accordingly the picture was commenced, nor had the artist’s crayon ever touched the canvas so deftly before; indeed, so swiftly did he work that by the time the Angelus bell told them it was noon the rough sketch was finished.

Nor did the parting betwixt Berkeley and Evelyn bear the least trace of coldness; they seemed like two brothers, and Helen like an affectionate sister between them.

“And now,” spoke Evelyn, when the other was gone, and as he and Helen turned towards the tower—“now I’ll go see your father, and try my best to appease his anger against your betrothed.”

“Oh! how kind, how good you are,” answered Helen, who would fain have said more; but how could she? What language could express her gratitude to Evelyn for being so forgiving? And she inwardly owned that, whatever his weak points were, he was a rare, high-minded man—a man the like of whom this world had few indeed.

“Sister,” pursued Evelyn, in the tender accents she knew so well, “I am only too happy to serve you; and you know it is now more important than ever to soften Sir Henry’s heart towards Berkeley.”

“Yes,” said Helen, “otherwise I foresee great trouble in store for me.”

“But if I do not succeed, why, then you must speak to him yourself,” added Evelyn.

A half-hour later the young baronet and Helen’s father were closeted in the queen’s room, engaged in earnest talk.

“Well, I have known many good Papists in the course of my life,” spoke the old gentleman, “but upon my word you are the best one of all. Why, you ought rather to rejoice to have Berkeley hold aloof; yet here you are pleading his cause.”

“Berkeley is a most honorable, excellent fellow,” rejoined Evelyn, “and—”

“Oh! there you go again,” interrupted Sir Henry. “Your charity gets the better of your common sense. Why, what is he if you strip him of all disguises—what is he but the son of a forester, who, having turned surveyor, is no doubt earning money? But does that make him a gentleman—a fit one to be your rival for my daughter’s hand?” Then, after pausing and wiping his brow, Helen’s father continued: “No, indeed! And I would be really thankful, Sir Charles, if you would prevent him from ever coming again within a mile of my castle.”

“How might I accomplish that?” inquired Evelyn, inwardly smiling.

“How? Why, by asking Helen’s hand. From her cradle she has known you, and you her; she cannot help but love you if she has any heart at all—and she has a heart; oh! yes, a warm, loving heart.”

“Sir Henry,” replied Evelyn, with a faint tremor in his voice, “Helen can never be more than a dear friend, a sister, to me; I intend to become a priest.”

“What! a priest?” cried Sir Henry, utterly amazed. “A priest! O Evelyn! Evelyn!” Then, dropping his forehead in his hands, he began to sigh and wail. “I counted upon you,” he said in accents of unfeigned grief. “I counted upon you. But now, alas! all my bright hopes are vanished—all! all!” Then presently, clenching the hilt of his rapier—the old cavalier always carried a rapier—“But Berkeley shall not have her,” he thundered, working himself up to a violent passion. “No! by heaven, he sha’n’t! Never! never! I swear by—”