Hubert's Wife / A Story for You

"I declare this is the last time I shall go out to church while this hot weather continues," exclaimed Juliet, throwing herself upon the parlor lounge, not having sufficient strength to mount the stairs. "I was a dunce for going to-day," she continued, having panted awhile for breath, and fanning herself with a feather fan; "there were but few out; almost none at all of the fashionables. Let me see: there was Dr. Elfelt's pew vacant, the Shreves' vacant, the Dunns', and the Quackenboss'; not one of the Herricks, Messengers, nor Livingstons there; you'll not catch me there again with only such a common crowd; it is high time Dr. Browne shut up for the summer, though somebody said he wasn't going to shut up this summer, there has been such a hue and cry in the papers about this shutting up of churches; but he might as well, I can warn him, or he will preach to empty pews; it beats all, and to-day was communion day, too; I should have thought more would have turned out; but, I declare, I thought I should smother when I went up to the rails; and, to cap all, that old Mrs. Godfrey, who weighs at least three hundred, came and knelt close by me, and just completely crushed all one side of my flounces; I was provoked and indignant; this, added to the intense heat, was almost insupportable; but here I am again, thank God. O, Althea, you look so cool and comfortable; won't you come, please, and fan me a minute—untie my hat, and take away my gloves and scarf, they are like so many fire-coals. It is too bad to make a servant of you, dear, but that is just the way, the girls stay so long at their Mass, as they call it; I wouldn't have Catholic girls just for this very reason, that they insist always upon going to Mass, only that I really can trust a good Catholic girl better than anyone else. If a girl calls herself Catholic, but is not particular about her religious duties, I am on the watch for her; but a girl that insists upon going through thick and thin, heat and cold, such a girl I trust in spite of me. Now, Johnny, bring me a glass of ice-water, dear. And daughter, if you will just step up to my room and bring my salts, you will be a darling. Dear me! shall I ever get cool again? If you will just bring me that sofa pillow, but no, it will be too hot. I wish I had a nice pillow from my own bed, the linen slips would be so refreshing."

Althea started to go for one, when her aunt pleased again to change her mind.

"On the whole, I think now I will be able to go up stairs, and you can unlace my tight boots, they are just killing my poor feet, and I can get into my wrapper; yes, that will be nice."

And Juliet started briskly for her chamber. She met her daughter at the foot of the stairs with the tiny cut-glass bottle.

"You can bring it back; I have concluded to go up myself; and, Johnny, that is right, my son, bring the waiter up stairs, where, if I am not completely exhausted first, I will try to get comfortable."

The stream of Juliet's talk ceased not to flow, while her niece, son, and daughter flew hither and thither, as was dictated by her caprice.

At length, in her snowy wrapper, she half reclined gracefully upon an equally snowy lounge, which she had ordered drawn to the darkest corner of the room.

"Now, Johnny and Flora dear, you can go anywhere you please, until the girls come and lunch is served. Althea will stay and fan me, and perhaps I can sleep," said this selfish woman, languidly closing her eyes.

She had done talking enough for any one member of a sociable; and Althea, commendably preserving her patience, devoutly hoped the poppy-god, of which she had lately been reading in her Virgil, would shower well the eyelids of her Aunt. Vain hope! The uneasy tongue again commenced:

"I wonder how your uncle endures it! Every week-day at his counting house—every Sunday twice at Mass, and then again at Vespers. It is all of six months now since this very pious fit came over him. And strange to say, I believe I brought it about myself. I never had given up the notion of his coming around to be with me a High Churchman. He always was the most honest soul—the offer of thrones and kingdoms could never induce him to tell a lie—but as to what he called his religious duties, he had become very careless; I could easily coax him to stay from Mass when I did not feel like dressing for St. Mark's, but about six months ago, I think it was, I undertook to convert him to my way of thinking, and to make him see how vain and wicked these Romish practices were, when he astonished me by his earnest defence of them, and ever since he is a perfect enthusiast; wouldn't stay from Mass if the house was on fire, and if you would believe it, is actually insisting that the children shall go with him whenever they don't go with me; next thing will be to take them with him anyhow, and the idea of having Johnny and Flora brought up to believe that it is a mortal sin to be absent from Mass, even when the day is scalding hot, or piping cold! That is downright tyranny. I would never endure it! It is well I was never brought up a Catholic; they'd find a rebel in me, sure. All the priests, and Bishops, and the Pope, and a hundred like him, couldn't oblige me to go to church, if I was not a mind. And Althea, only think of it, your uncle, good as he is, every month now goes on his knees to Father Duffy and confesses his sins! That is too much. Your uncle, Althea, if I do say it, who am his wife, is the best man in the world—the very best, and the idea! Why, I believe it is the other way, and this priest, Mr. Duffy, had better go on his knees to my husband—he would have more to say, I'll wager. John Temple is sensible upon everything else, but upon the matter of his religion he has become childish and absurd. I believe he would give me up and the children too, dearly as he loves them, rather than his religion. There he is at last," she exclaimed eagerly, as the hall door opened below, and a man's foot was heard ascending the stairs.

"O John! I am so glad you have come. You have almost been the death of me though, you naughty man."

"How so, Juliet?"

"Why, did you not tell me when I objected to going to St. Mark's that if I did not go and take the children you should take them with you?"

"I did."

"Well, of course, rather than to have them go to that Irish Church, I made a martyr of myself and went with them to St. Mark's, but it is for the last time this summer, I can promise you. Why, I have almost died with the heat."

"It is a very warm day, unusually warm for the season," was the only response.

"And is that all, John, that you have to say? You are not going to take the children hereafter to church with you, when it is impossible for me to go with them to St. Mark's?"

"That is what I told you, Juliet. I have thoroughly made up my mind, and—"

"O, don't tell me you have made up your mind," cried the lady hysterically, who knew from a twelve years' experience that John Temple's made-up mind was like an adamantine wall to all her feeble missiles.

"Juliet," he replied firmly, "I will no longer see our children growing up without religious training. And this very day I have formed a new resolution. Johnny and Flora are to go with me every morning to early Mass. This is a subject which must be no longer neglected;" and here Mr. Temple, having loosened his necktie, and donned dressing-gown and slippers, took up the fan that Althea had dropped upon his entrance, and seated himself by his wife.

Juliet, as usual, betook herself to tears. But tears did not always drown her tongue; certainly not upon this occasion.

"I don't see how it is possible for a man, generally so kind and good, to make himself so obstinate and disagreeable. You don't find me so obstinate; do I not often yield to you, John Temple, I would like to know?"

"You look upon but one side, Juliet; we are man and wife; our religions are different. I speak not of yours, I know only my own, and this, my own religion, binds me to bring up my children in the fear and love of God. You may, for some reasons, be attached to your religious service, but the rules of your Church have no binding force upon you. For you it is no sin to allow your children to attend Mass. Your Church claims to be a branch of ours, admits ours to be the true Church of Christ, from which it sprang. In attending Mass with me, your children are still within the fold of the Church. With me it is different. I believe in but one Church. All others so-called, however well-intentioned, have not the banner of Christ, not unto them were given the promises of our Divine Lord. For me it is a mortal sin to allow my children any longer to remain in their present state. Johnny should have been already well instructed, and ready for First Communion and Confirmation."

"O, John! when you know I am so dreadfully opposed to it, how can you insist upon having the dear children brought up in such a way. It will ruin their prospects for life. Likely as not Johnny would become a cruel priest, and our sweet little Flora would be dragged into a convent."

"Don't be a fool, Juliet," said Mr. Temple, losing his patience, "who talks about dragging people into convents? Not Catholics. Have you not confidence in me, and will you not believe when I assure you I could not ask a higher, nobler place for our children than that you so deprecate? Thus far have I yielded to you in this matter. But, Juliet, who has made me father and master in this house? Unto God shall I have to render my account; and though I would spare your feelings, I must still be true to my conscience."

"As far as the religion itself goes, I don't care so much," responded Juliet, attempting to dry her eyes with her handkerchief, already saturated, "but what grieves me to the heart, what I cannot bear nor tolerate is this association with the low and vulgar," the one idea still uppermost in the weak woman's mind.

"Juliet, are you never to have thoughts higher than those that pertain to society and fashion? Do you never think the time is surely coming when you must give up all these things to which you are attached, when death must come to you, and a new life, and have you no care as to what that life shall be?"

The lady shivered and covered up her eyes.

"Why do you talk thus to me? Do you not know that I have a perfect horror of such things? O, John, the very thought of dying almost distracts me. Must we all die? How I wish we could live forever, and never grow old! When we get very old, John, then, if I should be taken sick, I want you to hold me strong by the hand that death may not take me."

"But, Juliet, if you should be taken sick before you are old?"

"I have no fear, John, while you are with me, even though I be sick. Do you not know, have you not learned, that I fear nothing when with you, and have a good hold of your hand? In a thunder-shower I am so timid without you, I think every bolt is to strike me; if you are near, but you must be close, I have no fear. It seems nothing can harm me if you are by. So, John, while I have you, I have no fear of death."

Mr. Temple had dropped the fan, and Juliet's two little hands were nestled in his strong, broad palms. He looked with tenderness into the face upturned so trustfully to his.

"But if I should die, Juliet, and you should not have me?"

Juliet gave a piercing scream and threw herself into her husband's arms. Was it for the first time such a thought had ever been presented to her mind? Life without her husband! She could not conceive of it. It seemed as if he had always been with her; as though he had become so much a part of herself that she could not live without him. For, though she wearied and annoyed him, teased, opposed, and vexed him, she loved him beyond all things, even her children. Beneath all her vanity, folly, and thoughtlessness throbbed one passion deepest of all, love for her husband.

"My poor little wife," said John Temple, when he could again speak, "I am frail and human, but there is One mighty and eternal. I am weak and erring, but there is One strong and infallible. Put your trust in One worthier than I; lay your hand in His who shall lead you by the still waters of peace; in His which shall never fail you, neither in life, death, nor eternity."

John Temple was true to his word. For several mornings his children were kneeling by his side at Mass, ere their mother had awakened from her slumbers. He himself heard their daily lessons in Catechism.

When Saturday came around Juliet began to think about the children going to St. Patrick's next day. She was so surprised at herself for having acquiesced so readily. True, she knew it was no use to combat her husband upon the point, but she might not have appeared to him to yield so easily. Instead, however, of any disposition to disapprove, she began to think how it would be were she to go herself. Pshaw! Where was all her pride, that she should begin to think of going to church with her Jim, Bridget, and Ann? But somehow, for the first time, she did not like to think of her husband going without her. He had spoken so solemnly of the possibility of his some time leaving her! Hereafter she should feel as if he must not go out of her sight. She put away her embroidery for her crochet. In turn, her crochet was tedious, and dropping it, she took up a book which her husband had been reading at leisure moments the last day or two.

The book she had never before observed. It was "The Following of Christ." She opened where was his mark; and this mark was, for this time, a tiny rose she had handed him that very morning. She pressed to her lips the rose, which was yet fragrant, though faded. She commenced to sing carelessly:

when the heading of the Chapter, which the rose had marked, caught her eye, "Of the thoughts of death."

"A very little while and all will be over with thee here. See to it, how it stands with thee in the next life. Man to-day is, and to-morrow he is seen no more. If thou art not prepared to-day, how wilt thou be to-morrow?

"To-morrow is an uncertain day, and how knowest thou if thou shalt have to-morrow?"

"No wonder his mind is sober and solemn, with such reading as this," mused Juliet, but she continued.

Fire bells commenced to ring. Was this so uncommon an occurrence as to cause Juliet to drop her book and press her hand to her heart?

"What does it mean? I am so fearfully nervous. It is not our house that is on fire."

She walked to a window; ah, the fire was near, but a few squares distant; the slight wind, however, would bear it in an opposite direction. There was no occasion for fear. Juliet took up her book again, and read a few pages. She was reading these passages a second time, and with something like a thrill of awe, for they seemed to be spoken to herself:

"Be therefore always in readiness, and so live that death may never find thee unprepared.

"Many die suddenly and unprovidedly; for the Son of Man will come at the hour when He is not looked for.

"When that last hour shall have come, then thou wilt begin to think far otherwise of all thy past life; and great will be thy grief that thou hast been so neglectful and remiss."

The door-bell rang violently. Juliet made an effort to rise from her chair, but sank back weak as an infant. Her face turned deadly pale, and she clenched the closed book in her pallid hands.

There was a confused sound in the room below; the tread of men and subdued voices. Suddenly, above these, she caught a groan. This broke the spell; she flew rather than walked to the small parlor so strangely occupied.

A knot of men separated slightly as she drew near. O God of Heaven, was that her husband? John Temple, who went out a few hours ago brave and strong, in the full vigor of beautiful manhood, blighted, disfigured, burned in the fiery furnace?

"My child, my child," had a frantic woman screamed as she was borne down a ladder in the powerful arms of a fireman.

"My child," she still cried from the ground, her eyes upraised to the window of flame, her hands clasped in pleading agony. Eager eyes looked upward, but even brave hearts hesitated to rush into the sea of flame.

It was madness, but John Temple ventured. They would have held him back, but in that supreme moment of supernatural exaltation of courage he was strong as well as bold. As he would others should do for him so would he do for them. It was the thought of his wife and children that nerved him to such heroic, desperate effort, and alas, so unavailing!

Streams of water had darkened the fiery mass, and hope began to whisper to the eager crowd.

Yes, John Temple stepped out upon the slippery, blackened ladder, grasping the inanimate form of a little child. Loud cheers rent the air. But they pierced the hearts of those who bent over the senseless forms of the deliverer and the child. Most of their clothing, their hair, and eyebrows were burned, they were fearfully scarred, and worse than all they had breathed the flames! Physicians were on the ground, prompt assistance was rendered, and John Temple again drew breath. With the child there was a moan, a gasp, and all was over.

This was the result of a kerosene explosion. So instant had been the ignition of everything combustible that nearly the whole interior was in flames before assistance could arrive. Stout engines played but upon useless debris, and saved only unsightly walls.

Some friend of John Temple had run for the priest, and by the time he was laid in his own house Father Duffy too had arrived. The sufferer had become sensible, but could not speak. He was evidently in fearful agony.

Three physicians looked at each other and shook their heads. They had the wife to care for now, who, with piercing shrieks, fell insensible at their feet.

"Will you leave me alone with him a moment," said the priest, and the others withdrew, bearing away the stricken woman.

It was but for a few moments indeed. The dying man could only make signals in answer to questions, and received the Viaticum with eyes raised in thankfulness. The physicians had not been able to get him to swallow, but this blessed bread of life, this comforter by the way, this solace and support through the dark valley, nature nor suffering did refuse. It was pitiful to see him attempt to fold in reverence his inflamed and swollen hands, and to make, as his last expiring effort, the beloved sign of our holy religion.

To John Temple death had come suddenly indeed, but not unprovidedly. He had been moved, no doubt by heavenly inspiration, to make a general confession only the Sunday previously. And Father Duffy had reason to believe it had been made with that care, diligence, and fullness as if he had known it to have been his last. We have seen what an impression had been made upon his mind in his interview with his wife.

Upon recovering consciousness, Juliet demanded to be admitted to her husband. Disguises and delays she would not brook, and they led her back. Her children were now there, and Althea, and further back the servants. These latter were upon their knees, with the priest, saying prayers for the dead.

Let us here draw a veil. We have been disgusted with Juliet, out of all patience with her levity and unwomanliness, but we sympathize in her unutterable grief. Hard must be the heart unmoved by those wildest moans, those saddest plaints.

"Do not weep," said Dr. Browne to her after the funeral, "it is vain, worse than vain."

"Only tears are left me," she half-uttered.

"Your children!"

"They only speak to me of him."

"But yourself; for your own sake do not thus yield to immoderate grief."

"I tell you, Dr. Browne, my heart shall dash itself against this sorrow till it break—break!" she exclaimed wildly.

"But this is not Christian submission."

"I am not a Christian, Dr. Browne; you cannot expect from me submission. Do you expect grapes from thorns?"

"Not a Christian, Mrs. Temple?"

"You know I am not a Christian, Dr. Browne! I have never known but one Christian in my life, and that was John Temple."

Dr. Browne felt somewhat scandalized. A member of his church to say boldly she had never known but one Christian, and that Christian a Roman Catholic; was it not incomprehensible? But then Mrs. Temple was not now in her usual mind. Due allowance must be made, and he would seek a more favorable opportunity for renewing the subject. He arose to leave.

"What shall I do, Dr. Browne? I cannot bear day nor night; life is a torture; I cannot bear life, nor can I endure to think of death. O, help me, Dr. Browne."

"Only God can help you, Mrs. Temple, and I pray that His grace may be sufficient for you."

"But you forget that I have no God."

"Mrs. Temple, you are beside yourself. No God?"

"No! He is afar off, or I am shut out from Him. I have never known Him. I cannot pray to Him."

"When you shall be more collected I will call again. Meantime, you will find much comfort in our Book of Common Prayer. Have recourse to it and to the throne of grace."

Juliet abandoned herself as much to remorse as to grief.

She had had the best of husbands; she had been to him the worst of wives. As in a mirror, she saw all her past life. She remembered how fretful and fault-finding she had been; how difficult to please, how unlovely she had made herself. If John could come back, only just long enough for her to tell him how very, very sorry she was, how much she loved and respected him, how he had always done everything right, and she had been ever in the wrong; but he could not come even for that. She collected around her the various articles he had used; among others, his rosary, crucifix and prayer-book. How careful he had been to keep them hidden away, where they might not offend her eye, or provoke her ridicule and sneer. She read every day, in the "Following of Christ," the chapter John had last read, which the faded rose still marked.

In this was a kind of comfort, but there was peace nor rest in aught else. She walked the floor distractedly, and wrung her hands and tore her garments. She shut herself up in the darkness, and stretched forth her hands and prayed the spirit of John to come back to her in pity. She would not admit her sisters; her children she allowed to grieve alone.

Suddenly, came back to her the memory of a look of pity and compassion, which she had forgotten. When she had returned, on that memorable day, to her husband, who had just breathed his last, as she raised her eyes, scarcely daring to let them fall upon the dear face, she encountered the gaze of Father Duffy. He had, unconsciously, looked upon this bereaved woman, whom he knew to be without the fold, therefore, without suitable consolation for this trying moment, as our dear Lord may be supposed to have looked upon Mary and Martha, when they informed Him that Lazarus, their brother, was dead.

The remembrance of this compassionate look softened Juliet's heart toward the priest. For the first time in her life, she began to think he might be something beside an impersonation of evil. To John he had been a father and a friend; might not she have confidence in one he had so loved and trusted?

She began to wish he would call. She wondered he did not, if but to see after the children. He must be aware of John's recent action in regard to them, perhaps may have counselled the same. The more she thought of this, the stronger, by degrees, became her desire to see and consult him.

Juliet was what might be termed a "person of one idea." Not that her ideas never changed—she was very versatile; but she was animated wholly by one idea at a time, to the exclusion of all others. Two weeks ago, the Catholic Irish priest was the last person she would have thought of with desire to see. Now, of all people in the world, it was from Father Duffy she would seek counsel.

She rang her bell, and when Ann appeared, thus addressed her:

"You may do my hair, Ann; I have changed my mind; I thought I would never have it touched again by comb or brush, but I will. You need not be particular; only get the tangles out and let it hang; you can find a black ribbon somewhere. I don't care any more how I look, besides, I am only going to see your priest, Mr. Duffy. He must be used to seeing people in all sorts of rigs. It would be different if I were to meet Dr. Browne. I would dress for him as for a king, once; but not now! I never shall care again how I look; poor John cannot see me."

Sobs and tears choked further utterance. Ann gave a quick start, when her mistress mentioned the priest's name. She could hardly believe she had heard aright. She was used to almost every caprice from Mrs. Temple, but this last transcended every other. What did it portend?

Mrs. Lang, who was about the size and height of Mrs. Temple, had kindly taken upon herself the care of procuring her sister's mourning. Having submitted to all the troubles and inconveniences, she had, but the day before, sent home several dresses. She would herself have accompanied them, had she not repeatedly been refused admittance to her sister. Juliet's hair being finished, she ordered Ann to undo the small mountain of mourning goods, and select the plainest garment. And, after all, it was with much hesitation, and continued wringing of hands, and moans and lamentations, that she allowed herself to be arrayed in these insignias of her widowhood. She more than once gave up her purpose, only as often to resume it.

By precept, and still more by example, he taught his people to bear their burdens heroically, their prosperity with humility, their adversity with pious resignation. He had little patience with indecision, still less with querulousness and complaints. With those of his class, he believed that one's "first fruits" should be given unto God. One's best emotions, fullest love, highest loyalty, precious treasure. He had no faith in the piety of him, who, living in a costly dwelling, proposed to worship God in a habitation mean and contemptible; nor in that of her, who, clad in a thousand-dollar shawl, would drop a five-cent upon the plate of charity.

He was as quick to perceive, as was his will to act, or his hand to do. He saw at once through all sham and artifice. He could be almost said to perceive what was passing through one's mind, so quick was his discernment, so penetrating his thought. He might have been a Jesuit, nor fallen a whit behind the most polished and profound of that marvellous society of men.

Poor Juliet! To have sent for such a man, whose one glance could dissect her thoroughly! But, let us wait; maybe we shall have no occasion to repeat the epithet just applied to her name.

Juliet little understood, indeed, was incapable of comprehending the nature of the man whom she had invoked into her presence. Otherwise, she would never have sent for him. She had bestowed no particular thought upon him, anyhow; but he shared involuntarily in that measure of contempt, which she ever had cherished for Roman Catholics in general. She was not one bit in awe of him, nor felt less hesitation in addressing him, than she would have done in speaking to a merchant's clerk.

"I wish to see you, Mr. Duffy," she said, upon entering the little parlor, where she had met him the one time previously. The memory of that day, scarcely ten ago, came over her with such sudden distinctness, that she sank to the floor, beside the sofa upon which she had been about to seat herself, and groaned aloud.

"I fear you yield too immoderately to grief," said the priest.

"I can never mourn enough for John Temple," said the widow, disconsolately.

"Mr. Temple was a worthy man. We have all lost in his death; but we must not forget that he has gained."

"I forget everything but that I am wretched—the most wretched creature in existence. I hate equally the light of day and the darkness of night. I would take my own life, only that I have such a horror of death."

If the priest felt horror at her expressions, he did not evince it; but he said firmly:

"It is very wrong for you, Mrs. Temple, to speak thus. God does not afflict His children willingly, nor—"

"I am no child of God," broke in the unhappy woman, hiding her face in the crimson velvet of the lounge, against which she leaned, for she still retained her position upon the floor, in utter disregard of conventionalities.

"Though you may not acknowledge God, He is none the less your Lord and Master. Your will opposed to His is as smoking flax. He has seen fit sorely to afflict you, and you are utterly powerless. But, God does everything in wisdom. He has chastened you for your good, if you will but make a wise improvement of this dispensation."

"You talk as if you think I am a Christian. But, I tell you I am not, and never was. I know nothing about God. I have never cared anything about Him. I have lived without Him, and as though He did not exist. But, I am left alone now. I have nobody in Heaven or on earth. I am afraid—as if I were on water, and about to sink, or, as if the heavens were to fall and crush me."

"Yet God is near you. You have but to stretch forth your hand, and He will support you. Give Him your heart, and He will be a present help in time of trouble."

"But, I cannot find Him! And see, you do not tell me truly; for I put forth my hand, and it falls back wearily. I know—I do not expect to see God as I see a person; but they tell about Faith that is as good as sight; if I could only have that!"

"Are you willing to make sacrifices for that faith—what would you do, what give?" willing to test her sincerity.

"Do! give! I would sit in sackcloth and ashes! Behold me upon the floor: I would even sink beneath it, I would walk upon coals of fire, tread upon thorns, seek rest upon a rack of torture! And give? O, have I not been robbed of my all? I have nothing left to give!" and Juliet's voice died out in a mournful wail.

"But all this would not bring you to God, unless you yield to Him your heart."

"I have no heart; it is in the grave with my husband."

"Mrs. Temple, you will never find God while you cherish this spirit of selfish grief. Submission to His will is your first duty. Were you a Catholic, I could instruct you. I know not how to conduct a Protestant to God, unless I lead her in Catholic ways. Are you prepared to be so led? Or, madam, why did you send for me?"

Juliet hesitated.

"I hardly know," at length, "I wished for somebody who had been dear to John. He loved you more than all the world beside, except us, of course. He was so satisfied with his religion; his faith was so clear and full; he lived such a good life; and he used to say he owed so much to you. I thought if you could teach me as you had done him, if I could become good as he was, that I would learn of you, if you would take the trouble, even though you were a Catholic priest."

"You do not wish then to become a Catholic, really?"

"No; I do not. I wish to find God; or, to have such faith in Him, that I may believe as if I saw Him. Can you help me to that?"

"I can," replied the priest. "God has appointed me to bring souls to Him. He has appointed the way also, and I cannot go out of that way. I warn you, therefore, in the beginning, that while conducting you to the Heavenly City, I am not seeking to make of you simply a Catholic, but the convictions of your mind and the fervor of your heart will be of the very spirit of Catholicity. Are you still willing to persevere?"

"I am. I have no fears of becoming a Catholic. I can judge for myself. I can never believe in the divinity of Mary; nor in the worship of the saints and the adoration of their relics; nor in transubstantiation and miracles, and all those things; but you know what I want—and will you help me for John's sake?"

"And for your own. But you must have confidence in me. And first, you must cease to believe that Catholics regard Mary, the Blessed Mother, as a divine person; second, that they worship saints or their relics, and many another fallacy under which you labor. You must be willing to read and study, withdrawing your mind as much as possible from your bereavement, and giving certain time to the care of your children. In these matters you must be obedient, or I can promise no good result. Are you still resolved?"

"It is my last hope," thought Juliet, disheartened for a moment, and she bowed her head.

"You are sure you can help me," said Juliet, imploringly, as would say one sick to the physician, in whom were placed all her hopes of life.

"And behold I am with you even to the consummation of the world" passed through the priest's mind, and he answered, confidently: "Very sure, Mrs. Temple."

The friends of Juliet marvelled greatly, when it became known to them that she had sent for the Catholic priest, and was actually seeking to learn the religion of her late husband. For they looked at the matter in its true light, and smiled at her simplicity, in believing she could be instructed in Protestantism by any "Romish priest," how good so ever he might chance to be. Against her own inclination, but from the advice of her new friend, she occasionally received her sisters and a few former acquaintances. They went away commiserating her condition, as being semi-imbecile, semi-lunatic.

"She will get over this, go in society, and marry again," they prophesied. They were not the first false prophets who have arisen.

A year later, when Juliet Temple was baptized into the Catholic Church, these same people said:

"They will get her into a convent, next, where she will awaken to a sense of her folly." Another false prophecy, for Juliet did not enter a convent, though she had serious thoughts of doing so. Though she became not a Sister of Charity, in fact, she did in deed, and atoned in after years for the frivolousness of her early life, by patient self-denials and well-directed benevolence.

In the matter of Juliet's conversion, Father Duffy, as in every thing else, had done his work well. The widow of John Temple was no half-way Christian. She had put forth her hand in the way directed, and God had lifted her into the light. With her feet upon the rock of ages, she no more trembled under the impression of sinking beneath slippery waters.

She was not ashamed to be seen by her former fashionable friends wending her way to St. Patrick's. When she knelt at the altar to receive the bread of life, she became not "indignant" that any humble Bridget knelt by her side; for, dearer to her the most lowly person who now had received the waters of Baptism than any lady who rode in her carriage. Through the priest, it was God's work and marvellous unto all eyes.

Startled and bewildered, Philip St. Leger wrote at once for his daughter's removal from the house of Juliet. During the few months remaining of her school-life, she should divide her time at the houses of her elder aunts. After that, she should take up her abode with her uncle, Duncan Lisle, at Kennons. This latter arrangement, which had been always understood, seemed now to all parties doubly desirable. She would be removed even from the city where Juliet Temple lived. For, of course, Juliet, like all converts, would not rest until she had made proselytes of all who should come within her influence. She had been much attached to her niece, and that niece was known to have had great affection and respect for her late uncle, who had been to her a father. Truly, great danger was to be avoided, and soon as possible. Althea was removed to her Aunt Leonora's, and forbidden to enter Juliet's house without permission, and accompanied.

Althea was now nearly sixteen; she had emerged from the somewhat unpromising age, and had developed into remarkable beauty. Distinguished as were all the St. Legers for fine personal appearance, none had ever equalled this child of Della, given to God with that mother's expiring breath.

With the beauty of her father, she possessed the winning gracefulness of her mother, with the best mental and moral qualities of both. As a scholar, she excelled in all her classes; she had a real genius for music, poetry, and painting. With trifling effort she could execute most difficult pieces upon piano and harp.

"You have the hand of a master," spake Signor Lanza proudly, to this his favorite pupil.

"Il improvisatrice," was she styled by her admiring associates, whom she amused by the hour with her extemporary effusions of rhyme.

From all, you would have taken her to be from that land

A Madame de Stael would have immortalized her as another Corrinne.

Heu, me miserum! Where shall we find goose-quill cruel and grey enough to write her down wife of Jude Thornton Rush?

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

Have you forgotten, dear reader, that September night after Ellice's funeral? How Duncan Lisle sat alone with Hubert, his child, before the bright fire, while the rain pattered against the pane, and the memory of the widowed man broke up into such a shower of reminiscences as almost, for the moment, to drown the fire of his grief? Do you remember that Philip St. Leger, returned from the East, came abruptly upon the scene, telling of Della's death, and the little child left at the North? Well, was it not natural for us to think that Hubert and Althea, children of Della and Ellice, the "Pythias and Damon" friends, should grow up and love each other, and marry at last, as they do in novels?

Yes, that was our pet scheme, indulged in to the last. But we are compelled to admit with the poet, that "best laid plans go oft astray." We are also compelled to think half wickedly with Amy—what pity it was Jude Rush fell down a precipice breaking his neck, thus giving his wife liberty to capture her own good master—and what pity it was too that Jude Thornton Rush did not fall down some precipice and did not break his neck before, spider-like, he had woven his fine web, and said softly to Della's daughter:

"Will you walk into my parlor?"

For, something like a spider was Thornton Rush. He was quite tall and too slender. His body was out of proportion to his long limbs, and his hands and feet had the remarkable faculty of protruding too far from every garment, even those the tailor declared should be long enough this time. The "ninth part of a man" would seize the sleeve at the wrist with both hands, give a good jerk and an emphatic there! But when Thornton Rush was ordered to lift his arm naturally, the wrist protruded like a turtle's neck.

"He must be made of gutta percha," soliloquized the discomfited tailor, giving him up as an incorrigible non-fit.

The rather stooping shoulders and long neck supported a splendid head for Thornton Rush. This was indeed his crowning attraction. Short silken curls of raven black clustered around it, shading a wide white forehead and delicately fashioned ear. He had a beautifully arched brow, heavily pencilled, within which a glittering black eye, too deep set, gleamed forth with unaccountable attraction. His nose was straight, small, but full of nerve. You would never guess from that handsome, firm-set mouth of his, where decision and resolution played about the cherry lips and dimpled chin, that he would have proved the coward and run from duty and from danger. No; but then Thornton Rush was made up of contradictions.

His mental and moral, like his physical organization, was full of angularities, discrepancies, and unharmonious combinations.

He could be gentle as the dove, but fierce as the tiger; kind and confiding as any child, but cruel and deceitful as Lucifer transformed.

So opposite qualities are seldom found combined.

The most brave men are often the most gentle; the most trustful are frank and open-hearted. To parody Byron's eulogy on "The wondrous three,"

What do you say? Althea and Thornton married and not one word about the courtship, that most interesting of all portions of a love-history!

It was the tragedy of "the spider and the fly" enacted over again. We would but shudder to watch that wicked, sly, patient tarantula, coaxing, flattering, urging the poor little fly, whose bright wings are singed with his hot breath, and whose wonderful eyes are held fast by the fascination of his scintillant, unrelenting gaze.

It is to be hoped, dear reader, that you are not of that kind who love to gloat over horrors. If you are, you must turn to some modern journal of civilization which is able to satisfy you completely. But Althea and Thornton are not married yet, they are only going to be.

After the lapse of a quarter of a century Duncan Lisle, for the second time, attended commencement exercises at Troy Female Seminary. Twenty-five years is but a dot upon Time's voluminous scroll, yet in that brief space has been crowded infinite change. Madame X—— having retired from the school of education and from the stage of life, has been succeeded first by Madame Y——, and again by Mademoiselle de V——. More than half the young ladies who had graduated with Della and Ellice, who had looked like angels in simple white and blue, had lain down the burthens of life, and were sleeping peacefully here and there.

Duncan Lisle had not, for four years, seen his niece, and was not prepared for such startling developments of mind and person. He was proud to behold her queen of the school; queen, both in beauty and mental accomplishments. He too might be forgiven for one daring thought that soared down to matchmaking. It was not very strange that, remembering his earliest wife and only sister, and thinking of his one beloved child, the thought should cross him of the beauty and fitness of a union between Hubert and Althea. "I will send Althea's picture across the ocean to Hubert; I will write him to return home immediately," was the conclusion of this good father. All parents have such pet schemes, to greater or less extent.

The health of the master of Kennons had been for some time delicate. His journey North, undertaken partially for his own benefit as well as to accompany his niece to his home, proved rather injurious than otherwise. The excessively hot weather prevailing rendered the trip anything but agreeable, and he returned to Kennons much exhausted and debilitated.

He lost no time in carrying out his resolution with regard to his son. He wrote him a letter full of the praises of Althea, assuring him that the picture enclosed failed in justice to the original. He also spoke of his own failing health and his great and increasing desire to behold him again. Hubert Lisle never received this letter; it never left the office at Flat Rock; indeed it was destroyed at Kennons.

Thornton Rush had returned from Europe at the close of the war. Instead, however, of returning to Virginia, he had put up his shingle as a lawyer in one of the new States of the growing West. He had not forgiven his mother that she had allowed his several letters to go unanswered.

Two years had he now been at Windsor, among the wilds and roughnesses of a new country; still had his mother for him no word of congratulation, encouragement, or even recognition.

When Rusha Lisle read her husband's intercepted letter, thereby discovering his designs as to the hand of Althea, a new thought struck her.

It will be remembered that she took special delight in rendering others uncomfortable, and in setting up an opposition to everybody's plans. Against Hubert she had entertained a perpetual ill-feeling. Was he not the child of her rival? Should he win for bride this sweet child of sixteen, whose transcendent loveliness made an impression even upon her own unsusceptible heart?

Had she not surreptitiously gained access to her husband's last will and testament, wherein he had made his sister's child co-heiress with Hubert to all his estate?

What could be expected of Rusha Lisle but instant action to the following effect: First, to break her long silence to her son by enclosing him the picture designed for Hubert, and cordially inviting him to make her a visit at Kennons, where he would find the beautiful original.

Mrs. Lisle kept her own counsel, never intimating a wish or expectation of her son's return. Her surprise upon his arrival was well counterfeited; nor was it ever known beyond mother and son that the latter had not been first to make the overture. But this son, in some respects so like his mother, might have evinced less disposition to do at once her bidding had not the inducements held forth been all-sufficient.

Thornton Rush was not a lady's man. Byron was made miserable on account of the deformity of his foot. So our less distinguished but equally sensitive hero had always the impression that his long wrists and ankles were subjects of ridicule. He believed the ladies did not fancy him; he therefore made no efforts to propitiate their favor. If they happened to laugh in his presence—and the foolish things are always happening to laugh—he made sure it was at himself; and he shot at them most vengeful flashes from his cavernous orbs, which annihilated them not at all, but rendered them more risible.

"But there is a tide in the affairs of men."

"There is a hand that shapes our ends, rough-hew them as we will."

The inanimate picture at which Thornton Rush gazed did not laugh at him. On the contrary, it looked up to him with such a sweet confiding trust—O, there was something in that face he had seen in none other. It wonderfully attracted him. Even had it not, he would have made every effort to win Althea's heart just the same; and for the very reasons that had instigated his mother. He hated Hubert Lisle. To thwart him he would have circumvented heaven and earth. With Thornton Rush this consideration weighed even more than Althea's promised dowry.

Spite, revenge, avarice, every worst passion should be gratified in the accomplishment of a union with Althea.

Unfortunately, the situation of things at Kennons favored this wretched wooing. Duncan Lisle was failing rapidly, and had become confined to his room. Above all others, he loved Althea to be with him; but he knew, and upon this his wife enlarged, that she should be allowed considerable recreation.

When, therefore, Rusha Lisle came in to take the niece's place, insisting upon the latter taking a ride or drive, her uncle would join in the request, and Althea was compelled to go. Nor was it such a hardship. Thornton was ever ready to accompany her. And now, in presence of this guileless girl, he did, indeed, seem transformed. He was attentive, kind and gentle, he hastened to comply with her every wish, to anticipate all.

For the first time in his life, he put a curb upon his violent temper. He became kind, even to his horse and his dog—when in her presence. Discovering her taste for poetry, he sat up nights to commit to memory whole pages of her favorite Scott and Moore, Bryant and Longfellow, which he would repeat to her with exceeding force and appropriateness.

Thornton's voice was as contradictory as the rest. It could be soft or harsh, musical or discordant. To Althea it was only pleasant and gentle; and, by degrees, came to possess for her a wonderful charm.

Mrs. Lisle, so disagreeable to all others, had practiced remarkable effort and self-control in making herself agreeable to this young girl, whom she would fain help to draw within her son's meshes.

Mr. Lisle's first letter to his son, to which we have referred, was not his last. But every missive, more earnest than the former, met with the fate of the first. Every day he waited anxiously for the coming of the mail. It seemed all that interested him. It was pitiful to see his daily disappointments, the dying out of every renewed hope.

This constant alternation of hope and despair, with constant suspense, shortened his days.

He died suddenly at the last, his expiring gaze upon the portrait of Ellice that, as of old, still hung over the mantle.

Did Mrs. Lisle, in presence of death itself, experience no scruple in having kept the son from his dying father? Would she ever feel remorse of conscience in this world, or in the next? At all events, she expedited in every possible manner the wooing and winning of Althea. Was there in Heaven no guardian angel for this motherless child? Was not her very name suggestive of protection from above? Had Della's last prayer on earth failed to reach the throne of Grace and Mercy?

No obstacle appeared in the way, after the only one was removed by death. Thornton began to talk about a return to his northwestern home. His business would still further suffer by a more protracted stay. Already he had been informed of the debut of a rival, one Capt. Sharp, upon his own field of law and politics. A Captain for four years in the Union army—what a claim irresistible would that be upon the good will and votes of the people! What a tempting bait for the Republican leaders to throw out to the multitude of small fish!

But how could he go back alone, after having lived two months in the light of Althea's presence? So he pleaded his suit to the gentle girl, veiling still more his fierce claws with the velvet glove, realizing Shakspeare's

Thornton Rush won his bride, and carried back to his northern home the young girl whose grace and beauty dazzled every eye.