CHAPTER X.

SCENE IN THE CASTLE CHAPEL

So absorbed, indeed, did Eugene continue to be in these pursuits, that home influences and home affairs seemed to have passed from his mind altogether. The long vacation he spent at the lakes, studying works which certainly college authorities did not put into his hands, and which his father would scarcely have sanctioned. On his return to Cambridge he found M. Bertolot absent for a considerable time, so his studies continued unaided in the theological direction. This enabled him the better to elude the eyes of observation, and as his father's so was one of the least likely to be affected by "superstition" of any kind, his peculiar mode of passing his time passed unnoticed, only the surprise seemed to be that in the classes he did attend he took so very slight an interest; in fact, he passed for an indolent young man, while in fact reading hard and meditating deeply on themes forbidden by the University regulations. From these dreams of his own fashioning he was one day unpleasantly awakened to a sense of his connection with the outer world by a letter from Mr. Godfrey, detailing in a somewhat bitter {327} spirit, the transactions we have related in a previous chapter, and requesting him take an early opportunity of visiting Adelaide. Mr. Godfrey stated that himself, Mrs. Godfrey, Annie, and Hester were about to return home, but that Adelaide declined to return with them; she wished neither to be pitied nor wondered at, when the duke's absence should become publicly known. She felt equal to keeping up the state becoming her rank, and had invited her aunt and Euphrasie to domesticate themselves with her for some months to come, which arrangement her friends deemed a very suitable one.

Eugene was deeply moved, for family ties had ever been strongly felt by him and to the transient disgust excited by his sister s conduct in consenting to marry the duke, now succeeded warm sympathy for the annoyance and mortification she endured. Indignation against the cause of it was, however, useless. The duke was gone, and Eugene would have felt some difficulty in reconciling a "call of honor" under the form of a duel with the new philosophy upon which he was so intent: so it was well for him to be out of the way of temptation. His agitation did not, however, escape the observation of his friend, who being just returned from his trip, happened to call on him on the same morning on which he received Mr. Godfrey's letter. Briefly, and in strict confidence, Eugene explained the cause.

"Nay, take it quietly, my young friend," said M. Bertolot. "It is a grievous misfortune, I grant, but let us leave the result in God's hands; good may come of it yet."

"I think I ought to go and see Adelaide."

"Without doubt; and your aunt, too, will welcome you."

"And will you not accompany me also? Your presence would be most acceptable to Euphrasie and to her mother."

"Why--if I thought I should not be intruding--"

"I will ascertain that," said Eugene; and he wrote to his sister of his proposed visit, and of his desire to bring a friend with him.

The return of post brought a cordial invitation to both. Accordingly, they set out for the castle together, and received a most flattering welcome from the inmates. For many days all went happily--very happily. Eugene's natural disposition was gay and joyous, and this ever made him an agreeable companion. At all times every member of the family had been fond of this representative of a gentle house; but at this particular juncture his unaffected cheerfulness rendered him especially acceptable to the duchess.

Yet, when the first excitement was over, there were many things about him which puzzled, even while they interested her. She began to feel uncertain as to whether she understood him. That which seemed a joke, _en passant_, on reflection appeared to contain some hidden meaning. The castle itself was a continual theme with him. The number of its large, unoccupied chambers, which he bade her find inhabitants for among those whose dwellings were so scant of room that they could not even observe the decencies of life: the vast grounds, almost untrodden by human feet, among which he was always pretending to seek for concealed hermitages; then the retinue of gentlemen and ladies who were called servants, but whose principal occupation, Eugene insisted, was to make work for others;--these were a never-failing source of raillery. All these things, which flattered Adelaide's pride, seemed to him but subjects of mere banter, and certainly did not excite that reverence for the "state" in which she lived which she expected and desired. Then there was M. Bertolot, a poor French teacher, nowise elated by the condescension with which she, one of the greatest ladies in the land, entertained him. Calm, self-possessed, he received her attentions with as much {328} quiet dignity as if he were her equal. Certainly he did not pay her homage; and as homage was precisely that for which she had married, she could scarcely avoid feeling a little aggrieved on the subject, or feeling as if she had been defrauded of something that was her due; though her natural good sense forbade her from showing her sensitiveness to her guests.

The castle was very large--so large, in fact, that Adelaide had never entered all the chambers. More than half of it had been dismantled, and was generally kept locked. An old steward who kept the keys alone knew all the intricacies of that part of the house, which he asserted had, in ancient times, lodged a large body of retainers, and that it could now, in case of necessity, accommodate whole regiments of soldiers.

One day, in a merry mood, Eugene proposed to his sister to escort her through her own house on a tour of discovery. She assented. The house was in the form of a quadrangle, enclosing a flower garden of considerable size. In the midst was a reservoir, into which a water-god, exquisitely sculptured in marble, was pouring a continual jet of water. Marble pillars supported the upper story of the mansion, forming beneath an arched and cloistered walk round three sides of the garden. Already had Eugene spent hours here in meditation, for it was ever cool, shady, and sequestered; and it being understood that here the family alone were admitted, the servants consequently kept aloof.

"Beautiful cloisters those would make," said Eugene. "When you exchange your ducal coronet for a nun's veil, Adelaide, and your jewelled chain for a rosary, you can come here and tell your beads. Your convent is provided already."

"What an absurd idea!" said the duchess.

"Nay," said Eugene, "such things have been, and may be again."

"Nonsense! this age is too wise for that"

They passed on. Even Eugene was surprised at the extent of accommodation in the furnished and inhabited part of the building. The old duke had so divided the place that he and his duchess had had their separate establishments under one roof, without being cognizant even of each other's proceedings. For the last years of their lives they had met only on state days and on state occasions.

Adelaide now inhabited suite of rooms occupied by the former duchess. Until to-day she had never entered those set apart for the duke.

A shudder ran through her veins as as she traversed them, for something seemed to whisper her, that here, to another duke would die like the former--married, yet wifeless--and that the entailed dwelling, with its vast grounds and cherished heirlooms, would pass away from her altogether.

Eugene saw his sister turned pale, and guessing something of what was passing in her thoughts, led her hastily down a narrow staircase, on the opposite side to which he had entered. He opened another door, which brought them into a secluded shrubbery, which he had never before observed. They walked a few yards, and then came to a low, vaulted archway. They entered, for the key was in the lock; and though the door turned somewhat heavily on its rusty hinges, they easily pushed it open. Another door presented itself, and that, too, was unlocked. Wondering, they entered. Stealthily, yet scarcely knowing why they were so hushed, they moved forward, and found themselves in a small, deserted chapel Stained glass was in the windows; the stone altar yet remained; fluted pillars marked the aisles; a large cross was wrought in one of the walls, in stone work; but the seats and ornaments were gone. A damp, earthy smell pervaded the place. Adelaide was chilled and drew back.

"Nay, stay one moment," pleaded Eugene. "I will open the window. Let us see what this place is."

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They approached, but suddenly they perceived Euphrasie on her knees, in a niche formed in the wall, while M. Bertolot, seated on a step beside her, seemed in the very act of raising his and over her in benediction.

Adelaide started as if an adder had stung her. She suppressed a shriek and hastily turned away. Eugene followed and reverently closed the door.

The duchess was too much annoyed to speak. She was moody for the rest of the day, but made no remark on the subject which occupied her thoughts. The day after, Eugene was reading near her, while Euphrasie was seated by the window, employed in working embroidery, when the duchess began, in a somewhat bitter tone:

"Well, Eugene, in one thing you have disappointed me. You used to the so fond of art; and your visits to the Pantheon have have been so very few, and so very short, that I wonder what is the matter with you. What objection can you have to what all the world terms master-pieces?"

"None at all--indeed none, my dear sister. Your statuary is magnificent, unrivaled." This was said in a deprecating tone, for Eugene earnestly wished to avoid discussion. "There can be no fault to find with the Pantheon. It is I who am to blame. I am out of taste just now. Jupiter and Mars have ceased to interest me. My taste for paganism has had its day, I presume. We cannot always be wrapt up in the same things."

But the duchess was not satisfied with this answer. It rather increased her annoyance, and she replied in the same bitter tone:

"I marvel to hear you and Euphrasie condemn idolatry, while she is on her knees before an image for hours together, and you see no idolatry in that."

"Mademoiselle de Meglior does not worship images that I am aware of," said Eugene, somewhat startled at this burst, "though to keep her mind concentrated on one idea, she may possibly make use of them."

"And what is that but idolatry?" said his sister; "how many of the pagans, think you, would mistake a statue of Minerva for Minerva herself? Their statues were but types to recall ideas."

"Yes, but the ideas themselves were false; Paganism was the worship of physical power, the deification of materialism. True religion is the direct converse of this. It is the elevation of the soul to spirituality, the recognition of a spiritual God, who created man for his own glory, endowed him with spiritual life, for the express purpose of keeping him strictly united to himself. The centre of the one system is self or concupiscence. The worship rendered is the worship of fear, or for the promotion of self-gratification. The centre of the other system is God, by whom all things are made, in whom they still exist, and for whom they should exist in will, as well as in act. One is paganism, the other is Christianity."

"And what may you mean by concupiscence, most learned Theban?" asked the duchess.

"Concupiscence is such a love of self as prevents us from making God the first object of our love," responded Eugene.

"And you, in sober earnest, profess to think it possible to love God more than yourself?"

"I think men have done so," said Eugene, "though they have been but few, when compared to the world's masses."

"Men have loved their whims and fancies to an astonishing degree, I know," said the duchess; "fanaticism has abounded on the earth, but fanaticism is, after all, only a species of madness; I know not whether it be curable or not."

"Do you, then, think it a sort of madness to endeavor to find the true and living God, and having found, to worship him? That, surely, is not your grace's meaning?" There was a slight contempt in Eugene's tone as he said this; his sister was nettled and answered coldly:

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"Man's spirit is naturally superstitious, I think: that is the secret of all this nonsense about worship. He is ignorant, and fears and trembles. Enlighten him, and he will walk upright and rely on himself alone."

"And what is man, that he should rely on himself alone?" responded Eugene; "a being weaker than the lower animals, needing even more protection than they do to defend him from the inclemency of the weather, and obliged to labor to provide food sufficient for himself, while the food of calves and goats grows beneath their feet. When young, man is powerless; when sick, powerless; when old, powerless; nay, without aid he is usually powerless."

"But man generic," said the duchess, "can aid this greatly. Combinations might be formed which would remedy this individual powerlessness. Such, they tell me, are in contemplation; and when formed, superstition will be crushed under the chariot-wheels of improvement in man's physical condition."

"It might," said Eugene, "if any degree of mere animal enjoyment could content man, but it cannot. Let man surround himself with luxury to the highest possible degree, there will still be the feeling that a higher life exists for him. Man's soul, the divine spark inbreathed by God, can rest only in God. Glimpses of high destinies still float around us, and in our unsatisfied longings--unsatisfied when most provided for--we find the pledge that we were made for higher things."

"Mere Platonic crudities these, my dear brother," said the duchess, with a smile. "Beware! you are on a dangerous path; themes like these have misled many a noble mind. And look! Euphrasie is smiling an assent to your mysticisms; she thinks you are already half-way on the road to Catholicity."

"No matter by what road we are led, provided we arrive at truth," responded Eugene. "But you are mistaken in your conjecture; I have not been studying Platonism but Christianity."

"It may be Christianity is but a form of Platonism," said the duchess: "at least many learned men have so asserted. What Christianity was intended to be by its founder I can hardly make out; but it seems to have borrowed largely from the mystics as it travelled through philosophy."

"Nay," said Eugene, "to me that appears a gratuitous assumption. That to a superficial observer there may be some grounds of resemblance between the ideas of spirituality, abstractly considered, entertained by the mystics and by the Christians. I grant--as also that, to a certain extent, man may be capable of deducing these abstract ideas from observation of nature's workings. Nature is a manifestation of the spirit of God, consequently there always must exist a certain correlative teaching in nature corresponding to a higher spiritual teaching, though man's blindness will not always perceive it; but this is only an exterior relationship. The spirit of Christianity enfolds a principle which natural philosophy does not touch."

"A principle which is the mere creature of human imagination." said the duchess; "nay, I might say it is the offspring of discontent. Man is dissatisfied with his lot, and frames a heaven for the future. He were more wisely employed in remedying the present evil."

"If it were possible, you should say, sister. How many evils can man avert? Do we not suffer, from natural predisposition, diseases of various kinds? Do we not suffer in our affections from the misconduct of others? And do not the majority suffer an enforced toil, which absorbs their time, and leaves them neither energy nor leisure for speculative thoughts? They must work or die. Now, philosophy would but render a man discontented with this state of things--a state which leaves the toil to one, and the enjoyment, supposititious perhaps, but still {331} apparent enjoyment to another. Force can compel it--the force of unsatisfied nature; but Christianity hallows it--sanctifies it--by teaching how all apparent hardships may nourish virtue and unite the soul to God."

"Nay, I do not dispute that religion is necessary for the vulgar," said Adelaide.

"And are the vulgar to have the highest portion? Christianity is the exaltation of the soul--paganism, the worship of the body. In that case, I would rather cast in my lot with the vulgar."

"If it were but true," said Adelaide.

"Become poor, lofty lady, and you will feel its truth. Perchance luxury is a kind of anodyne to a human being, so that he does not feel his soul when under its influence. Become poor; toil, day after day, for a scanty pittance, and you will find yourself asking if man is only a laboring animal. Become poor, and the soul will speak to you of power and aspiration, and ask why is this sense of loftiness unused. It will ask you why every faculty has its legitimate sphere in which to act, and the soul alone remain without a sphere. Perhaps we need something of this experience before we can feel the stirrings of the divinity within us--before we are prepared to comprehend the truths of religion. Certain it is that the gospel was sent peculiarly to the poor, and that the refined trifles which occupy the minds of the rich, prevent their attending to the inward voice of the spirit."

"Why, Eugene! you are qualified be a Methodist preacher. This is mere rant and cant. Religion takes no such exalted standing in the minds of the vulgar. The Methodist has some pet theory to save his soul, without troubling himself about good works at all; and the Catholic tells his beads and sets up his images in the very style of paganism. They say that at Rome the adoration of the Virgin Mary has taken the place of the worship of the goddess Venus--where is the gain there?"

"The patroness of purity in exchange for the goddess of lasciviousness! Nay, surely, sister, that exchange must be a blessed one. What I have been trying to express all along is, that all that makes us do homage to the animal nature--all that worships the merely physical--is paganism; while all that represses carnality, promotes purity, and leads us out of ourselves to unite us to God, is Christ's. The union of the saints in Christ is not idolatry; it is but an additional means of glorifying God by showing forth, in united prayer, the triumph of Christianity over death itself."

"Do hold your tongue, Eugene. Let us have no more of this. Sometimes you are a Catholic, sometimes a Methodist; but in either character you will be disowned as my father's son. The idea of your disgracing a line of philosophers by such stale trumpery!"

Eugene laughed; and as he saw no other way of closing the debate he quitted the room, which Madame de Meglior was just then entering. But the duchess, seriously annoyed, turned sharply round upon Euphrasie.

"I suppose," said she, "you have been putting these foolish notions into the boy's head. Beware, if you make a Catholic of him you will destroy the peace of a whole family; but that, I suppose, is a secondary consideration to making a convert."

"Indeed, your grace--" replied Euphrasie.

"Nay, do not deny it, whether by words or looks or acts, 'tis all the same; there was no Catholicity in the family until you came into it, and now I clearly see some means must be used to prevent its spreading."

"But," said Madame de Meglior, "in this instance you have forgotten that Eugene is almost always at Cambridge; how does my daughter's religion influence him there?"

"I do not know, but you see it has; the boy was well brought up, was rational and intelligent; and now to adopt these follies! He, the representative of my father's house, too!"

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Madame de Meglior was now vexed, but she ventured no reply; it was impolitic to offend the duchess. She liked Durimond Castle better than Estcourt Hall; secretly she hoped that Euphrasie had made an impression on Eugene's heart. She would like to have seen them married, and she well knew that Euphrasie would not marry one out of the pale of the church. Religion was, to madame herself, nothing. She was a no-thinker, not an unbeliever: she had lived nearly all her life in France, among people who sometimes went to mass for form's sake, and who called themselves Catholics, and she could not comprehend the bitter feeling with which her countrymen regarded the Catholic Church. She thought children should be taught religion; it made them dutiful, and for her part she did not see that her husband's daughter was inferior to her nieces. She, however, smothered her vexation, as she said:

"You think too much of these vagaries, my dear niece. This is the age of tolerance; we must be lenient to youthful folly."

"This is a serious folly, aunt," replied the duchess. "It would make a commotion throughout the kingdom, were my father's heir to turn Catholic."

"Yet the wars of the Pretender are long since at an end. Europe scarcely knows whether a representative of the Stuart line is living. It is time these feuds should cease. I thought 'freedom of thought' was the watchword of the Godfrey family."

"What freedom of thought is there in Catholicity?" asked the duchess.

"Nay, that I know not; but I think freedom of thought means that each one may be of the religion he thinks best."

"He must not be a Catholic," said the duchess; "at least, not outwardly. He may think as he likes, of course; no one can hinder that."

"Is that the toleration of England, may it please your grace?" said Madame de Meglior, banteringly.

"It is. Why should he be allowed to destroy the political influence of the family, to mar the marriage of my sister, to bring a slur on a respectable name?"

"I had not thought of that," answered madame; and for the first time she pondered whether it was really an evil that Euphrasie should be a Catholic.

After this conversation, slight as it was, Euphrasie became more and more resolved; till then, though scarcely to be called intimate, she had been at least friendly with Eugene Godfrey. Now she avoided him when she could do so without positive rudeness. The Countess de Meglior, who began to watch her closely, could only perceive that her passion for solitude was ever on the increase, but her obedience to herself never faltered. Madame de Meglior, though but little given to reflection, now discovered that this was a very convenient disposition for her step-daughter to cherish; for, had she wished to be brought forward in the great world of fashion, like other girls of her age, madame's pride would have been wounded at not being able to do this in the proper form for her, as the daughter of a French nobleman. She felt glad, then, that, considering how matters stood, the girl had not forgotten her convent education, and resolved for the present to let her pray and meditate unmolested, feeling sure that, when their estates were restored to them, Euphrasie would become like the rest of the world among whom they moved. As for Eugene, she had penetration enough to discover that Euphrasie's bashfulness rather tended to fan his flame than to extinguish it.

M. Bertolot, who was also watching the young people with much interest, did his best, on the contrary, to induce Euphrasie to open her mind to Eugene; but in this he experienced so much difficulty at first, that he began to think he must abandon the design, when accident came most unexpectedly to his aid.

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The period drew near when their visit was to conclude, and on the day previous to the one fixed for their departure, the duchess, who had recovered her good humor, proposed a pleasant party to a ruined monastery some few miles distant. There were many Young people of the party, and they dispersed themselves in groups about the grounds. M. Bertolot gave his arm to Euphrasie, and began to explore the ruins after a methodical fashion. The walls were of great extends, many of the rooms remained entire, and much of the plan could be trace; they made out the site of the community room, the chapel, refectory, bakehouse and so forth, and were descanting on the probable locality of other apartments when Eugene joined them. "This must have been a magnificent place," said he.

"History says it was large and well endowed," said his friend. "What say you Euphrasie," he continued, "shall we rebuild it for your friends?"

"It is too large," said Euphrasie.

"Nay, we will suppose an indefinite number of nuns, and the enclosure wall shall be placed wherever you direct."

"Even then it would be too grand, too magnificent for the votaries of St. Clare."

"You will not accept it, then?"

"No; unless I might build on another scale. Our holy foundress loved to seem poor as well as to be poor."

"And yet," said Eugene, "there are some magnificent convents in the world."

"Yes", said Euphrasie; "some orders have them exteriorly grand, but St. Clare loved everything to be plain and poor, even the church."

"And why?" asked Eugene, "surely a magnificent church is a great adjunct to religion. St. Peter's at Rome is the glory of the world."

Euphrasie looked as if about to reply, but she checked herself.

M. Bertolot, however, observed the movement, and said, "Nay, tell as your thoughts, Euphrasie."

"I am not sure they are correct," she replied.

"Leave us to judge of that. Speak them as they are."

"If I should scandalize you," said Euphrasie.

"Scandalize? Nonsense! Tell us your idea."

"Well, then," said the young lady, "although splendid edifices have often been erected by the piety of the faithful, and though in all ages it has been accounted a good work to adorn the House of God, I believe that our holy foundress, who was ever watchful over the interior spirit, thought there might be danger of exciting vanity even in that respect, and on that account desired poverty for her daughters in every arrangement. Our own dear reverend mother often inculcated upon us the remembrance of the words of God, 'I will not give my glory to another,' and it seems as if there were a special temptation to man to indulge vain-glory when undertaking any vast exterior work for religion. The most splendid temple that the world ever saw, that of Solomon, lasted barely four hundred years; its founder fell into idolatry, and the worshippers were carried into captivity in punishment for their sins. The second temple had been built scarcely six hundred years when the frequenters of that temple, urged on by the priests, crucified the Lord of Life. It seems dangerous for man, in this his fallen state, to deal personally with magnificence of his own creation; he is too easily puffed up to render it safe for his soul. Therefore is the first beatitude for the poor in spirit, who desire no grandeur."

"Thus thinking, you disapprove of St. Peter's at Rome!" add M. Bertolot.

"Disapprove! nay, reverend father, you well know I should not dare to disapprove of aught that the church has sanctioned. The church has every kind of disposition to deal with, and {334} in her wisdom follows St. Paul's advice, in becoming innocently all things to all men, that she may gain some to Christ. I was merely referring to our own dear community, who strive after the spirit of our great foundress. Among these, I have seen some weep when the desecrations have been described to them of heretics taking luncheon baskets within the very walls of St. Peter's, and using the place as a lounging apartment or gossiping room. Again, I have seen others to whom that magnificent church of Rome would bring most saddening thoughts, to whom it appeared as a monument of the great schism which rent the seamless garb of Christ into nameless divisions; where not only the shade of Luther haunts the fancy, but that of the monk Tetzel also, who paltered with the doctrine he was sent to preach."

M. Bertolot shook his head. "You view these matters too strictly," he said; "all men are not like the good nuns, accustomed to practise interior recollection so perfectly they can dispense in a measure with exterior aids; to most souls, exterior appliances are useful and necessary accessories to devotion. The mass of mankind must not be judged of by likening them to the inmates of a convent; there is a wider gulf between than you have any idea of."

"Nay, I remember my father's death," said Euphrasie, mournfully; "but, reverend father, was it not you who told me that, in those terrible disturbances, the _riches_ of the church attracted the wolves to the sheepfold, and that the _treasures_ of the religious houses occasioned the thieves to enter and take possession?"

"True! Too true! my child; yet will the piety of the worshipper ever seek to adorn the house of God, and the richness of the shrine be an indication of the fervor of that piety. It is alike the pleasure and the duty of the votary thus to enrich the house of God."

"But," interrupted Eugene; "Mademoiselle Euphrasie speaks of herself as if belonging in a convent already. If not indiscrete, may I be allowed to say that I presume we are not to take that supposition '_au pied de la lettre?_'"

Euphrasie blushed and looked at M. Bertolot, as if asking him to speak for her; but he only said, in and kind of half-whisper:

"Speak for yourself, my child; it is necessary to be explicit."

"Then," said Euphrasie, "I believe you may receive the in fact literally. I was brought up with the dear nuns, and have always believed myself called to be one of them. I still cling to the hope of seeing them again."

"But in this country," said Eugene, "how can you be a nun?"

"I do not know; but when it was certain our convent was to the broken up, the superioress said to us: 'As the habit does not make the none, so dear children, neither does the abode. For his own wise purposes Divine Providence now separates us; but the spirit of prayer, the spirit of recollection, of obedience, of meekness, of chastity and poverty, you all can sedulously cherish still; and if it seems to you that the circumstances are unfavorable, remember that God seeth not as man seeth, and he knows best what will most contribute to his glory and our sanctification. Remember, too, that, to a soul living in God, exterior circumstances are has nothing; so, still, wherever you are, be faithful to God and to St. Clare.'"

"But you surely are not a vowed nun, mademoiselle?"

"No, but my resolution is taken, and I feel that it will never change."

Eugene's brow clouded, and he felt a heaviness at the heart which oppressed him greatly. Moodily he walked by their side until they joined the rest of the party, but for the rest of the day he was as silent as Euphrasie herself was wont to be.

The duchess wondered what had come over him, but no remark was made on the subject. The next day he and M. Bertolot returned to Cambridge.

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