Read Ebook: The Catholic World Vol. 04 October 1866 to March 1867 by Various

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 979 lines and 541040 words, and 20 pages

atisfied. The father's scientific friend was necessarily a fitting husband for the daughter. And so the preparations went forward. The house was filled for a time with dress-makers and bandboxes, and when these were dismissed, there came guests to witness the bridal. Among these was the Comte de Villeneuve, whom we have already introduced to our readers; a friend of both families was the comte, and had been a friend too of the late Comte de Meglior. This made him welcome also to Madame de Meglior and Euphrasie; indeed he treated the latter with distinguished attention, and she seemed more at her ease with him than with any person at the Hall. M. de Villeneuve was thirty-five years of age, but good-looking and animated, and Madame de Meglior was in some slight degree uneasy at first at the evident friendship he evinced for Euphrasie, for she did not approve of disproportionate marriages, and she thought Adelaide's example a bad one. Gradually, however, she became so absorbed in the duties imposed upon her by Mrs. Godfrey of directing the embellishments, that she forgot to look after the object of her solicitude in the subject which suited her better. Living as she had been wont to do in the gay circles of Parisian exclusives, she was regarded as a very oracle of fashion and elegance, and consequently she willingly took the lead in planning the arrangements for the bridal day.

The young people were in a puzzle, Annie especially. It was the first act of unblushing worldliness she had ever witnessed. She felt as if she did not know the world she lived in. She looked at her mother; there was no joy on her face; she looked at Adelaide; already the young girl had assumed her rank; the calm hauteur, the majestic politeness, with which she received her guests, astonished every one. Adelaide was born to command, every one felt it; none more so than Annie, who had been so fondly attached to that sister from whom she felt already severed.

"O Euphrasie!" she said to her cousin, as they were walking together in the grounds that surrounded the house, "you must be my sister when Adelaide is gone; it will be so dreary to have no one of my own age to love and talk to; will you not try to love me?"

"I love you already, dear; you must not talk in that way--how can I do other than love you?"

"I was afraid you thought me a reprobate whom it was a sin to love." This was said half playfully, but the tears started to Euphrasie's eyes.

"You a reprobate! a sin to love you who have been so kind to the poor orphan girl! O Annie! have I really been so ungrateful as to give you this idea?"

"No, dear, no! not so; but I seriously thought you deemed all human nature utterly depraved, and did not wish to form strong attachments with those not of your creed."

"If human nature were utterly depraved, how could it hear the voice of God in the soul? and if you here were utterly depraved, would you have opened your house and your heart to the wandering outcast?"

"Then you do not think religion essential to goodness? How is that, then?"

"Man was made in the image of God, my dear Annie, and even his natural qualities bear witness to this, unless, indeed, he become utterly depraved."

"You do not, then, exclude us from your heaven," said Annie, embracing her. "I am so glad; you will be my friend and sister, Euphrasie."

Euphrasie warmly returned the embrace, and said: "I have no heaven to exclude you from, dear Annie, but if you wish for eternal bliss, you must offer your natural qualities to him who alone can stamp eternity upon them."

"And how shall I do that, dear?"

"Pray to God, and he will teach you."

"I would rather have your teaching just now; tell me, if you believe human nature to be good, what is meant by 'original sin,' as it affects us. I know the story of Adam and Eve, but not what it means."

"Adam was created with certain natural qualities, even as the inferior animals were, adapted to the part he was to perform as lord of earth; these qualities were good, nay, in Adam perfect. They are transmitted to us, shorn of their brightness by the fall, but still they are good, though imperfect now. Natures differ in individuals, but some have very high qualities, very lofty aspirations. Have you not noticed this?"

"Well, I used to think so, but--"

"But what?"

"No matter what; tell me, what are we to do with our high qualities more than cultivate them, and act upon them?"

"Bring them under supernatural action, that they may be purified, refined, and stamped with the seal of immortal truth."

"Is this your religion?"

"I know no other."

The approach of M. de Villeneuve, who was gathering flowers for Hester to make into bouquets, prevented further conversation. The merry girl was making garlands, and flung them round Euphrasie and Annie as they approached. "Now sit down here," she said, "and I will crown you both as victims to the sacrifice. M. de Villeneuve shall be the priest. What deity will you offer these victims to, monsieur? They are ready bound."

"That is a serious question; we must take time to consider, and luckily here comes Eugene to solve the question for us. What divinity rules here, young man? your sister wants to offer up these two victims to the genius of the place."

"Indeed, it were difficult to say; ours is a pantheistic worship just now, and we will defer the rite until we know what star is in the ascendant. What beautiful ceremonies those old worshippers used to have! We might raise an altar to Flora, I think, just to use to advantage Hester's flowers."

"Mademoiselle Euphrasie would find a use for your flowers, without going to a heathen goddess," said M. de Villeneuve. "All beauty symbolizes good with her, and all nature reveals some truth."

"What a splendid idea, monsieur!" said Annie. "How did you know that it was Euphrasie's? did she tell you so?"

"Not in words, but I know her of old; to her there was a spirit in every flower, a mystic word in every form. Matter was the expression of mind, its language in a certain sense; and she was ever inquiring its meaning."

"You are laughing at me, monsieur," said Euphrasie; "but those were pleasant days at the old chateau, when you used to scold me because I would not reason, but only enjoy."

"Nay," said Annie, "by monsieur's account you did reason, and very beautifully too. Some people want hard words and long-drawn deductions for apprehension of what to others is inspiration. I like the inspiration best."

"It is the easiest, at any rate," said Eugene.

"To those to whom it comes," said the Frenchman; "the materialism of our day stifles inspiration; men see only in rocks and stones a moneyed value. Niagara is valued less than a mill-turning stream. Inspiration is no longer believed in."

. . . . . .

The wedding-day approached, and all were busy trying to make a show of gladness, which, however, they but imperfectly succeeded in effecting; but what was wanting in hilarity was more than compensated for in dignity and magnificence. M. de Villeneuve acted as groomsman, Annie and Hester as bridesmaids, Euphrasie excused herself on account of her mourning habit, which she declined to remove; she was not visible during the whole day and one or two subsequent ones. And now the hour was come which was to place a coronet on that fair brow; but could the courtly bridegroom have seen how little he entered into the thoughts of his young bride, perchance he had been but half pleased, even though she was as stately and as fair as his great pride demanded. But love, esteem, or mutual respect entered into the thoughts of neither during the time that the Bishop of Chichester was marrying them by special license, in the drawing-room at Estcourt Hall.

This same arrangement was a great disappointment to the townspeople. They had been desirous of witnessing the ceremony, and were not well-pleased that the duke had not honored the church with his presence. The duke, however, liked not to be gazed at, and the sight-seers had no opportunity of gratifying their curiosity till the bridal party left the house.

The public entrance was besieged by expectant congratulators, who waited to shower bouquets over the blooming bride. But here again they were doomed to disappointment; for, to avoid this publicity, which was distasteful to them, the bridal party walked through that portion of the splendid grounds which had been specially decorated for the occasion, and entered their carriages at the opposite side of the park. They were, however, obliged to pass through part of the town, and shouts of "they come--they come!" resounded as the carriages made their appearance. The road lay down a deep hollow, on the turn leading to which stood a small inn. The road was so steep that the drivers necessarily checked the horses, in order to pass safely down the declivity. At the cry raised of "they come --they come!" a woman elegantly dressed ran out of the inn, and gazed wildly at the carriages. At that moment the duke put his head out of the window to see what occasioned the delay, caught the eye of the woman, turned pale, and hastily bade the coachman drive on.

The woman shrieked, rather than said, "Tis he! O my God!" and fell to the ground in a fainting fit.

The bystanders raised her--the carriage passed; but the spirit of the crowd seemed changed, they scarcely knew why; they crowded round the woman; they questioned her; and each seemed eager to afford her help. But, as soon as her strength permitted, she withdrew without gratifying their evident curiosity, merely apologizing for her passing weakness, and deliberately saying she would recover best when alone. The style, the manner, the elegance of the stranger interested them all, and with difficulty did they persuade themselves to abandon their inquiries. The groups which had collected to congratulate the bride were now occupied in discussing the appearance of the stranger, and many surmises were hazarded as to her connection with the newly wedded pair.

Meantime that lady ordered a post-chaise to be got ready, and, ere half recovered, entered it, to the great discomfiture of the gaping crowd, whom she thus left to their conjectures.

The landlord was now besieged with questions, but he could tell nothing of importance. The lady came the previous evening; gave her name as Mrs. Ellwood; made many inquiries concerning the family at Estcourt Hall, and had the duke's person described to her; seemed restless, agitated; went out, and hovered round Mr. Godfrey's residence till nightfall; then returned and locked herself immediately in her bed-chamber. In the morning she rose late, ate little or nothing, but sat watching and listening intently, till she issued forth to enact the scene described. The townspeople shook their heads, and wished Miss Godfrey, now the Duchess of Durimond, might not be the worse for it. Adelaide had been very popular among them, and the public festivities on the occasion of her wedding were not so mirthful as, but for this incident, they would you have been.

The inmates of the hall, however, were as yet in happy ignorance of the ominous conjectures raised respecting the fate of the fairest and cleverest daughter of their house. The incident we have related came to their knowledge as an accidental circumstance, altogether unconnected with the wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey were well pleased at their daughter's accession to rank and power, and the merry Hester laughed delightedly at the anticipation of shortly visiting the ancient castle of which her sister was now mistress, promising herself much interest and delight in rambling amid the ancient chambers, which had been the scene of famed historic deeds. Annie was pondering whether her sister's rank could consist with the newfangled ideas of liberty and equality that the times were teaching. She was wondering whether high rank were a fetter or a privilege--a relic of man's ignorance or a help to man's advancement, Eugene hoped that the "old man" would use his sister well. He had not been pleased with his new brother-in-law; he was too courtly, too stately for friendliness, and altogether the whole affair had looked too much like bartering youth, beauty, and intelligence for rank and wealth. He had entertained high ideas of woman's purity, of woman's devotedness, of woman's disinterestedness, and what was he to think? His beautiful, his gifted, his cultivated sister had sold herself for a ducal coronet! Was it true, then, as Shelley sings, "that all things are venal, and that even a woman's heart may be put up in an auction mart?"

Soon after the wedding, the young man sought but did not obtain permission to go abroad. In default of this he went to Cambridge, and said to himself he intended to find out TRUTH.

The society of an English University is very various. Almost any disposition may suit itself there. The boisterous, the idle, the reckless, the gay, the meditative, and the sober, with the refined and the sentimental, alike are there, and it is of no small importance to a young man to be well introduced on the outset. Mr. Godfrey, himself a Cambridge man, could not fail to procure every advantage for his son, and that son felt himself entitled to stand proudly on his father's position, not only as a country gentleman, but as a scientific man, for, as we have already hinted, the Honorable Mr. Godfrey was an exception to the ordinary stamp of the English country gentlemen of that day. He cared more for his library than he did for his hounds and horses, and though he himself was far from being a profound searcher into nature's secrets, he was a great patron of science and of scientific men. Eugene had then little to fear from friendlessness; he was well cared for, and his friends were sober, well-conducted men.

But accompanying him to college was one whose society he would not willingly have sought.

Frederic Morley, son of the lawyer at Estcourt, had early given evidence of a studious disposition, and his father wished to bring him up to the church, as, by means of Mr. Godfrey's patronage, he hoped to push him into some church preferment. The young man, however, was in fact a sentimentalist, a transcendentalist, too refined, too sensitive, for this world of stern reality. Petted at home as a poet, he held himself superior to common influences, prided himself on having a fine mind, on possessing elegant and cultivated tastes, and affected disgust at the coarse, homespun ideas of ordinary people. He wrote pathetic tales of unrealities; touching verses of despairing affection, with which it was his delight to draw forth tears of sympathy from young lady audiences.

A more uninteresting companion Eugene Godfrey could scarcely have met; yet as his disposition was naturally kind and urbane, and as Morley was without friends or acquaintances in the university, he continued his friendship to him, and endeavored to direct his attention to earnest themes and loftier subjects. This, however, was unwelcome to so clever a person as Morley believed himself to be. He wanted no direction even from the cleverest. All he sought for was appreciation, sympathy. He could think for himself, and guide himself. The study of Aristotle's Ethics was in his case soon supplanted by Paine's Age of Reason and Volney's Ruins of Empires. The coarseness of the former author he termed "wit" and the sophistry of the latter passed with him for "wisdom." Eugene felt sorry for these freaks, for in indulging them Frederic Morley was throwing away his livelihood; he endeavored to reason with him, and then he became vexed that he had so few efficient arguments to bring forward, and none but interested motives to present. Was he to tell Frederic to be a hypocrite, and to study theology for a "living?" He felt rather than knew the foolish boy was pursuing a phantom, and was urged forward by very selfish motives, yet he could not explain his own ideas, vague, mysterious, and undefined as they were.

"There is a fire And motion in the soul, which will not dwell In its own narrow being; but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire, And but once kindled, quenchless evermore."

This Eugene felt, but why he felt it, or how to satisfy it, he knew not. The words of Euphrasie, "that perhaps there is a science of mind, more worth than all the science of matter," recurred continually, for in that science must lie the solution of every difficulty that beset him. How could he learn this science? how investigate this truth, if truth it were? And he wandered hour after hour on the banks of the Cam, in profound meditation burying himself in the thickets near to avoid observation.

"O truth!" exclaimed he aloud one day, in the intense excitement of his feelings--"O truth! if ever thou deignest to visit mortals, reveal thyself to me; teach me the way, and by all that is holy or dear to me, I swear to follow thee!"

He was leaning against a tree; the drops stood on his forehead, caused by the depth of his emotion, and suddenly the answer came: "PRAY, child of aspirations, bow in prayer."

Eugene started; looked around; no form was visible, but again the words were repeated: "Pray, seeker for truth, pray! it will come to thee."

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet