Monsignor. A novel

Chapter I. Still

autumn day. The hush is mournful, it is so profound ; it seems to weigh upon your heart and envelop you in a vague melancholy. Though you listen, you can scarce catch a sound. No small, blithe stirrings creep into your ears as in springtime, when buds begin to shed their horny coats and all the coppice is alive with song. Death haunts this solitude, and Winter weaves her pall. Down a glade-like stretch of what must once have been thick forest, and that now, save where the woodman's axe has been at work, is still almost impenetrable underwood, oak and beech and fir, trends a wide, rugged road — a cart-track in fact, though seldom used, — bordered by green, swampy, mossy sward and russet-fern that, when the purple heather clad the hills and Summer spread her charms, branched green and strong, and as high as a man's arm — higher, perhaps; for the good bracken is a lusty growth, and here it thrives rarely, liking the strong, red soil in common with most ferns.

Where the wood thickens this track narrows, till it dwindles to a mere footpath — in winter, no better than a watercourse, — which, if you keep to it, will presently bring you to another open space, skirted by a fence that bounds the wood at this point where it tapers off. Beyond lie pleasant meadows, browsed over by the hardy, shaggy, short horned cattle peculiar to this part of England; and a calm, pastoral landscape, on which the seeing eye may dwell restfully enough, despite its sober duns and sallows, that chance to-day to be agreeably relieved by nothing more picturesque, it is true, than several large rubbish-heaps, industriously piled up and set alight by some men who are busy getting rid of autumn litter in a neighbouring field, but which being stirred shoot forth long tongues of tawny flame, that lend just that degree of warmth and movement the artistic mind desires.

Transferred to canvas by a clever brush, it would work up into a telling bit. An impressionist would be charmed by it. MONSIGNOR. Let its intrinsic merits be what they may, it seems to have struck the fancy of one person, namely, a man between forty and fifty, to hazard a rough guess, who, attired in a long black cloak and wearing a black wideawake of the sort commonly used by the clergy, stands, as he has stood for the last five minutes, an absorbed and, you would say, viewing him, a pleased spectator. Perhaps he has a taste for landscape ; perhaps that sad-hued scene chimes in with his mood. Be that as it may, certainly pleasure beams in those fine grey eyes that, emphasised by dark, slightly irregular brows and long black lashes, form not the least striking feature of a very striking face.

Not much above middle-height, but appearing taller by reason of a well knit, spare figure and an air of blended grace and stateliness — a native dignity that, were he destitute of all other personal graces, would go far to render him impressive, — it does not take long to become aware, regarding this solitary rambler, that while you are in his proximity you stand face to face with a very highly-finished, and even unique, specimen of the animal we call Man. Perhaps, when dispassionately considering that handsome face — with its eloquent Irish eyes; its broad, high brow, round which soft black hair, just faintly streaked with grey, still curls almost boyishly, creeping down in little rings past small, well formed ears to a strong, shapely throat ; its square chin ; clever, humorous mouth, and fine facial curve, — one is struck by the fact that, despite its undoubted charm, despite its apparent and alluring frankness, it is indicative of intense reserve.

At first sight, it strikes you as perhaps the pleasantest face you ever saw — vivacious, full of humour, good sense, feeling, and originality— the face of a wit, a scholar, a friend ; — but little by little, as you get to know it, to become better acquainted with its shades and flexures — which are, after all, the essence of portraiture, the marks and signs of the spirit that indwells, — the idea gradually dawns on you — how, it were difficult to say — that you are in a state of the densest ignorance ; that you know about as much of the meaning of the smiles that charm you, the sunny spell that haunts, as you might of the contents of some document written in a cypher whose key you did not possess. You are even tempted to fancy, perhaps petulantly, that two natures may dwell in one breast — not altogether inharmoniously, either : this known — that unknown, kept doggedly down, hidden away.

Now, however, nothing more suggestive than calm, critical satisfaction characterises those softly modelled and pre eminently gracious features, on which asceticism has never set MONSIGNOR. 3 its blighting stamp, — only the indelible touch of an inflexible yet elastic will that has shaped itself by experience, but that has rigorously exacted its due from every living soul — man, woman, and child — with which it has come in contact during its progress through society, through the world. There is a dash of stern ness in those eyes, for all their sparkle ; and that mouth and chin, faultless as they are — a prize for the sculptor's chisel, — do not belong, if physiognomy be not the hollowest mockery, to one who is easily swayed either by ascertained facts or those still more important data, his neighbour's convictions.

That is a man who would mould events to his liking; but he would make no noise about it, nor could noise check him. Resolute, steadfast, secret, he would keep to the path he had marked out as his. Yet a word might provoke a flare: for he is Irish, or face and race have parted company; and what Irishman yet was quite master of his temper ? There the danger lies. In the past it may have been considerable. Proud, strong spirits are not quickly tamed — though, once mastered, they prove the ablest servants. But Time, that has silvered that curling hair, has doubtless laid its touch upon the busy brain, the fervent heart. The impetuous, passionate young man has become the patient, calm reasoner. Which of the two weighs most as a factor in human affairs does not take a very profound amount of insight to decide.

Noise effects little, purpose more, knowledge most : combine these, and you have as powerful a lever as most men need. An observant person, in the habit of sorting facts, might, moreover, be struck by a certain discrepancy between this man and his apparel, despite his air of polished serenity and alert self-possession. His garb is unmistakably that of an ecclesi astic — whether Roman or Protestant is a matter of doubt, in these days of minor differences and delicately graduated shades of opinion ; but, putting this aside, that is a sailor's face — frank, fearless, jovial. It has come to be grave and self contained, owing to the steady force of circumstances: but I much doubt whether he has not mistaken his vocation ; whether, in fact, he has not got into the Church by mistake ; whether he would not have done far better by following his own natural bent, and baring that broad brow to the sea-breezes, instead of hiding it under the shovel-hat and the birretta.

That he has sufficient strength of will to adapt himself to his surroundings, and make himself felt both as a power and an instrument, there can be no doubt : he is clearly able to get on anywhere ; but, even assuming this, it is still an open question MONSIGNOR. whether he might not have succeeded better in his native element. Success, seen truly, is not so much a bulge as the slow and complete development of the entire man. It may pertain to the nature of an excrescence, and, simply because it is some thing out of the common, arrest attention: and the superficial may take it to be something fine ; but it is merely a kind of wen — a deformity rather than a gocd. An uncongenial pursuit will wear a rut in a man's nature, but it will not engross it ; it will not use it up, and cause it to bring forth an hundredfold.

Wide margins will exist, and the use that will be made ot them — the sort of growths they will nourish — must depend very largely both on accident and the nature of the man : anyhow it is a dangerous experiment. A strong will must, applied, produce results. A man of this type could not live and be a cypher. His face reveals great self-command — tardily won, no doubt, but won. Just as he would not easily accept defeat, so neither would he let self conquer. Having once put his hand to the plough, he would not turn back. He might not love ploughing, field labour might not be at all to his fancy; but having begun the job, he would not stop till it was finished — well or ill ; well, probably — as well as he could do it. That is his nature : never theless, I reiterate, the cassock was not his birthright, neither the echoing aisle, the cloister, his proper habitat.

He was made to be an active leader of men — a gallant officer — the trusted com mander of a picked ship's-crew. The camaraderie of the gay mess mate lurks in his blue eyes ; the spring of the quarter-deck lives in his elastic tread, — but dulled and tarnished, as are always our vital aspirations when repressed. Having gazed awhile, he turns away ; and taking, no doubt, the path by which he came, that which leads through the wood — pleasant to see even now, though a blustering October has done its best to strip the poor, tossed trees and forestall winter, — he walks on past the stout hollies and the yews, and here and there a glossy mass of flowering ivy ; past the quaint knots and troops of orange and purple and bright scarlet fungi, welcome flecks of colour in such dulled days, clustering round the firs, till he comes to something that brings him involuntarily to a halt, it is so weird, so startling.

Right overhead, spanning the path, a giant beech, whose girth alone attests its age, extends a gaunt white limb that must have been struck by lightning which glancing off, left the rest of the grand old tree unhurt' though for ever marred so long as it shall lift its crown of summer glory to the sky. It is a sad and curious sight. A fanciful person might be reminded by it of the finger of Fate, the sword MONSIGNOR. 5 suspended by a hair, and other kindred and hackneyed matters. The man who stands there takes a more practical view. "They should lop you off, my friend," says he. "You will come down some fine day, and perhaps kill someone : you 're dangerous. Dangerous things should be removed." Then he walks on towards the glade, now beautifully lit with a soft gleam of October sunshine that mellowly warms its duns and russets.

The day is sad-coloured, and the ashen clouds float slowly to the west. Keeping straight on and taking a still narrower path, almost hidden by the bushy ling that here grows thick, he soon comes to a stile of somewhat peculiar construction, consisting of six steps, three up and three down, by means of which you gain access to what appears to be a large park. Some deer — a stag and three does — lie couched among the long grass near the hedge. The stag, a kingly beast, antlered royally, springs to his slender legs. The does lie still; no doubt they feel quite safe, with such a champion. Smiling, the priest walks quickly on across the turf, already sicklied over with the nipping touch of early frosts. Towards the west the sinking sun sheds a ruddy tinge. The air blows chill : soon day will fade.

This park, that is clearly of vast extent, is hilly, like the country that surrounds it — a broken, much diversified country, possessing certain characteristics, such as reddish soil ; but not conspicuous for beauty, being poorly wooded and bleak. Down in a hollow, snugly sheltered by fine trees, you catch a glimpse of what looks like a house — the house, perhaps, of the fortunate owner of this goodly acreage ; for, as you get nearer, you perceive that it is a very grand and even splendid house, embattlemented and garnished with four towers, that seem to stand at the four corners, suggesting a quadrangle or interior court. That it is not a modern structure, but the work of some mediæval brain, its tint proclaims ; only age mellows stone to that. One portion looks newer than the rest — a long, low wing, that may be a chapel or a hall, lit by four large windows of the Early Decorated type.

The whole stands squarely north and south, on a level lawn — level and green as art and perfect turf can make it. Away to the east stretches an avenue, sadly marred by sundry ugly gaps where noble elms have met their deaths through the fury of the awful gales that rage here all the winter long. Beyond, still further to the east, rise picturesquely the volcanic peaks and ridges of a long line of hills called the Black Mountains. To day they amply justify their name. Hawthorns and crab-trees flourish on the slope; and when the may is out, its scent and the MONSIGNOR. flush of wild-apple bloom must charm both sight and sense. At the base of the hill softly gurgles between its banks the sleepy little river Luck ; while further on, nearer the house, a large round fishpond seems to point to the fact, or at least throws out a gentle hint, that at some time Mother Church may have had her say concerning matters temporal hereabouts.

Descending the hill at a right-angle to the road — cutting off a corner in short, like one who thoroughly knows his way, — the priest makes straight for what appears to be a shrubbery, a thick belt of trees and evergreens that at this point completely screens the house. An iron gate excludes intruders. It is locked, but he unlocks and re-locks it with a small key that he takes from his waistcoat pocket. Evidently he is at home. Just then a clock somewhere within earshot strikes four, and again he hurries on with even quickened speed, as if he were much pressed for time. Hastily traversing the well-gravelled path that, bordered with creeping plants — St. John's wort, periwinkle and glow worm-haunted stonecrop, with here and there a weather-worn statue or a stone vase for flowers, — leads first to a wide flight of steps, and then a terrace bisected by a transverse flight that conducts to a second terrace and a third, and ultimately to the great lawn that spreads all round the house, he, as he nears these steps, halts.

From this point a wide curve, that takes in a parapetted bridge and an artificial waterfall, whose trickling torrent finds its way into a marble basin or pond, fringed with osmunda and bulrushes and other aquatic plants, — in summer it is full of water-lilies ; no possible pains have been spared to create beauty where it did not exist, and make the most of natural advantages, — affords a full view of the portico, the colonnaded facade, and carriage-drive. Far too intent on what is taking place before him to have any thought of what may be happening elsewhere, he stands still to watch : yet really there is not much to see; merely a groom holding a horse, his own being in the charge of somebody else — some stable-helper, no doubt. Surely that is not an uncommon sight ; yet those grey eyes scan it shrewdly.

Just as they seem to have seen enough — as he is about to move on — a man attired in ordinary riding gear runs lightly down that broad flight of steps, and pausing a second, either to speak to or caress his horse, a superb black, who fidgets and paws at his approach, sets his foot in the stirrup and mounts, the high-spirited gambols of that mettlesome animal having no effect whatever on a seat as graceful as it is secure. His master in the saddle, the groom follows — a servile proceed ing hotly resented by the fiery chestnut he bestrides, who clearly MONSIGNOR. 7 intends to give him some trouble. But both master and man are thorough horsemen; and presently, the chestnut having thought better of it, they break into a brisk trot that quickly carries them down the avenue and out of sight. Nothing very wonderful in all this : just an everyday incident of country-house life.

Yet over that dark, clever face comes a look not easily fathomed — of chagrin, pain, perhaps — a strange, vague look. The clock that struck before strikes again — this time the half-hour — clear and slow. With a start, this oddly-conducted personage hurries on ; but not, as he imagines, unobserved. If he can watch, so can others. That is a game two can share very well. Sheltered from sight, yet able to play the spy through the interstices of the laurels and other shrubs that line the fence which separates this portion of the grounds from the park, stands a woman. She has stood there ever since he paused. She crept stealthily after him through the wood and over the stile and down the slope. When he reached the shrub bery-gate she hid behind one of those old thorns, as if she were afraid that he might look round and see her ; yet, what has she to fear ?

When he had locked it and gone on, she sped swiftly down the hill and again dogged him. The grass by the fence is long and wet. It rained heavily last night, and there has been little sun to-day. Unless she is stoutly shod, which seems scarcely likely, — she is very shabbily dressed in a threadbare old waterproof, that has shrunk from use, and a thin, frayed, black gown ; she has, too, a meagre, pinched look, like a person who has undergone considerable hardships, — she runs a very fair chance of catching a bad cold. Does she seek charity ? Perhaps she has not always been so poor, and she is ashamed to beg. Certainly, to no one could she more justly make her pitiful plight known than one whose garb plainly proclaims him the servant of the poor. Nevertheless, I do misdoubt me if this indeed be in her mind.

Something about a certain serene visage — a touch of hardness — makes me think that she is likelier to get a sharp rebuff, and be told to go about her business, than win either sympathy or succour. Nay, were she to wax importunate, a not too delicately conveyed hint as to the efficiency of the local police might reward her valour. Perhaps, however, I am mistaken, and her wants are rather spiritual than bodily. Perhaps, stung by remorse or melted by contrition, she having erred more or less grievously, desires to confess her mis doings and lave her guilty soul in the cleansing tide of absolution. Perhaps, having caught sight of the good father in the wood MONSIGNOR. yonder, as he stood contemplating that maimed tree, she was suddenly fired with a desire to gain speech of him, and so she has followed — followed — longing to attract his notice, yet afraid.

But if this be so, why does that savage joy gleam in her dark eyes ? That is not the look of a woman who repents ; it is rather that of a sinner who glories in her sin. It is not the look of a trembling suppliant, but that of an implacable and vengeful foe. Haggard and abject as she is, she is still young — five or six-and-twenty, perhaps. Some people would even call her handsome — people who admire brunettes. She has fine, velvety, dark eyes, and a wide, full-lipped mouth: the mouth of a singer — a sweet, glib-tongued speaker — one who could woo or rave, implore or threaten, with equal cogency. Her slight, nervous frame would thrill with feeling ; and that very excitability her manner indicates bespeaks a nature rich in artistic, if unsuspected, impulse. That she is a fool, no one could believe ; that she is dangerously near reason's verge, it does not take an expert to divine.

One characteristic she possesses in common with this man, in whose movements she appears to take so strange an interest — she is emphatic. Once seen, she does not readily elude your memory. Hers is a lace that, although it may not exactly haunt you with its thick black eyebrows, its curious flicker, yet can always be recalled, because it is individual, — such a face as may not greet your gaze twice in a lifetime. But, whereas his fascinates, hers simply startles, the surprise it excites having barely time to take hold before it changes to dislike. It would be impossible to love that face. Love, you may be very sure, even in her brightest days, has never blessed this woman's path. Yet she can love — yes, fiercely. There she stands, watching him through the leaves — her eager eyes glassily bright — her red lips drawn back over her white even teeth — her face so glad, so evilly glad.

What will she do ? Will she follow ? No, she does not stir ; she only clings with one thin hand tight to the ience, lest, trembling as she is in every limb, she should make a noise and attract his notice : once when, struck by the shrill pipe 01 a bird — a finch or thrush, perched on a lilac-bush — he turns his head, she pales with fear and holds her breath. But she may make herself quite easy; that man is far too much engrossed in his own affairs, his own vexed thoughts and speculations, to have any curiosity to spare. His face is grave, even stern ; he looks lull of thought. On over the toy-bridge, past the tame waterfall, along the wide carriage drive, up those broad steps, across the intervening space of white marble, — this is a house, as you see when you get close to MONSIGNOR. 9 it, that is not so much an example of any one style as a jumble of several, from the massive simplicity of mediæval and saintly builders to the spacious and ornate, if a trifle dull, magnificence of a much later period, — into the great hall, whose size dwarfs everything in it — statuary, trophies, all save the vast oaken staircase, elaborately garlanded with delicately and imperishably wrought fruit and flowers, that iaces the huge door, and the enormous pink gods and goddesses who wantonly lean and laugh from a billowy blue heaven overhead.

The stucco and gilt ornament of this muchvaunted ceiling is so profuse as narrowly to escape the charge of tawdriness ; yet it must be admitted that it har monises with the splendour of the whole, and even modifies that disagreeable sense of bareness, of want of colour, which would infallibly result from a severer method. Flowers abound. A pair of large Dresden jardinieres, full of bright blossoms, stand on either side of the wide entrance. The drooping fronds of elegant palms adorn the staircase ; baskets of ferns and orchids, hardy dendrobium and delicate pink disa, are cleverly hung here and there : wherever you look, you see something beautiful — a fine Oriental vase — a gorgeous blaze of Eastern tapestry — an exquisite glimpse of pure marble-life, something at once a joy and a lesson.

Surely Jeames and Polly cannot be quite dead to the softly refining influences always at work beneath such a roof — historic, cultured, splendid, tranquil; where a rough word is never heard, a coarse action is unknown ; where all is elegant, spiritual, sweet : or does manual toil so benumb a man that, just because he toils, for him a Titian drew, a Canova sculpt, a Chopin dreamed, in vain ? If it is so, it is sad. "Anyone been, Boddenham?" enquires the father as, un buttoning his long cloak, he relinquishes it to a young footman, clad in a yellow and grey livery, who, when he entered, was busy stoking the large stove that diffuses a pleasant warmth. The day is quite wintry enough for that. "His Royal Highness, Monsignor," replies Boddenham, struggling with the apparently refractory loops of that ample garment, that becomes its owner as his toga became a Roman.

" Prince Karageli ? " Monsignor's voice is rather high-pitched. I should imagine it would ring and grow metallic when raised. " Yes, Monsignor." " Ah ! I think I saw him." Monsignor pauses a moment or so to warm his small, well shaped right hand at the glowing stove. Then he crosses the hall. His figure is erect and well-balanced, precisely the sort of figure you would expect from his gait. He is well-dressed in the MONSIGNOR. superfine broadcloth of clerical well-to-doishness; without being in the least " finicking," he has the neat air of a man who likes finish, and is in the habit of taking pains with himself. At the foot of the stairs he halts. " Lady Josephine has not arrived, I suppose ?" he observes, looking round at Boddenham. " No, Monsignor," replies that cherry-cheeked functionary ; " I do not think she is expected until five."

" Ah ! Well, if I am wanted, you will find me in my room. I have letters to write." "Very well, Monsignor," is the respectful answer; and Mon signor slowly climbs the stairs, as if he felt tired — as if his long ramble had wearied him. Once he pauses, just to pass his hand over a frond of a graceful pteris argyrea that lives greenly in a red Linthorp jar, midway. The action is a caress. The spacious landing that overlooks the hall is furnished like a room, with couches and lounges, and a big round table covered with papers and magazines, and light literature of all sorts save the gutter variety. Here Monsignor halts again, and seems to look for something he cannot find- — perhaps, some review or journal ; then he walks on down a long corridor to the left, lit by a large oriel, delicately studded with small armorial quarries of old glass, till he comes to a door — one of several — which he opens, revealing a long, narrow rather than broad, apartment ; at the other end of which, near the wide window that opens length ways on a small balcony, a trim fire burns bright, shedding a pleasant glow on a large Davenport strewn with books and papers, a big comfortable-looking arm-chair, the antique brass clamps and handles of an oak cabinet, this and that, as is a fire's way.

It looks the perfection of studious comfort. Flowers thrive here too. A splendid old Chelsea dish, full of gorgeous chrysanthemums, decks a side-table; while the delicious scent of violets, that greets you as you enter, gives rise to a floating im pression that speedily solidifies to a delightful fact as Monsignor strikes a wax-match and lights one of the candles set in a pair of finely-chased silver candlesticks on the Davenport ; for, lo ! is there not at his elbow a prettily-arranged dish of the good wee flowers — Russian and Parmese and English? The sight of them seems to startle him a little, and a placid smile steals to his lips : perhaps they were not there when he went out perhaps the fairies have been busy ; anyhow, he seems to appre ciate the attention, for he smells them long and lovingly, and having left them to stir the fire, comes back and has another waft of that incomparable perfume, that is to all other sweetness MONSIGNOR. 11 as Mary among women.

A profusion of ecclesiastical bric-a brac does not spoil this charming room, whose spell gains on you. Indeed, but for a fine bronze raised crucifix that occupies an oak bracket over the door, between a beautiful engraving of Ary Scheffer's " Three Maries," and another, equally perfect, of Titian's "Magdalen," that oddly enough has a strong look of Monsignor, and a tall Prie-Dieu, upholstered in purple velvet, set in a recess, it would be difficult to assign any special reason why a stranger should take it to be the study of a priest. Certainly, an excellent library of theological works, varied by others of a lighter sort — lives of saints, histories, and even an odd volume of fiction or two — fills the shelves that reach from floor to ceiling on three sides ; but there is no trace of that severity, that harsh spirit of mortification, ostentatiously paraded in certain quarters.

Perhaps Monsignor is too much a man of the world to care greatly for externals ; perhaps he, bond sde, likes beauty, and regards comfort as conducive to Christian graces rather than the reverse. There have been wise and pious people who have taken this charitable view — saints, even. At all events, he cannot be said, so far as his personal surroundings are con cerned, to err in the opposite extreme. Good photographs of churches, English and Continental, hang over the fireplace, together with an excellent portrait of the Most Reverend Dr. Bates, late Bishop of Blackfriars, a prelate equally esteemed for his learning and gentle piety, and, presumably, well known to Monsignor, as this very life-like memento is inscribed, in a free, flowing hand, " Yours affectionately in Jesus Christ, Ignatius Bates."