Charlcote Grange: a tale

Chapter I

' ' The world ! The sunny world ! Ah ! bright and beautiful, indeed, thou art ! The brilliant day, the dark blue night, Bring joy, but not to every heart. No ! till like flowers those hearts can fling Grief's drops from off their folded leaves, 'Twill only smile in hope's bright spring, And darken when the spirit grieves. " — Mrs. Norton. " Helen, Helen, I want you ; do come out, and put away those tiresome books ;" and so saying, the speaker, a slight, fair girl, apparently about seventeen, laid violent hands on the pile of books with which her sister had surrounded herself, and laid them all on the nearest shelf. " Oh, Tiny, how unkind ! I wanted to finish that one volume to-day." " But you cannot, indeed. Mama is gone out with B Lady Verschoyle in the carriage, and she has left Flo rence here, and we are to walk home with her, so you must come."

" Very well ; but it is too hot to walk." "Never mind, only come away from that horrible German ; it's cool under the walnut tree ; I left Flo rence there.'' Helen looked sadly at her young sister, and sighed — " I wish the Verschoyles had remained abroad, Tiny ; you never can be quiet one day now." Christine escaped through the open window ; she did not wish to hear any comments on herself, and Helen slowly followed her. The two girls were very unlike, both in appearance and character. Helen was more than three years older than her sister; her clear intellect, generous nature, and strong will, had always guided Christine, who was far more timid and sensitive ; but now there was something she could not influence in her — something beyond her reach. Helen was considered very handsome ; she did not possess her sister's brilliant complexion ; but her large hazel eyes, and broad, open forehead, told of energy and decision of character; and though sometimes her countenance wore an expression of pride, which prejudiced strangers against her, it was usually calm and unruffled.

Christine's beauty was more child-like ; large blue eyes, with a profusion of soft brown hair ; but of late Christine's blue eyes had lost their sunshine, and Helen was right when she told her that the Verschoyles had made her unrestful. The two girls had been brought up by their mother, who had been many years a widow. Colonel Somers had died suddenly in India ; his children scarcely remem bered him ; his only son, Gerald Somers, was at Oxford ; and though Mrs. Somers was fond of all her children, Gerald was the object of her exclusive idolatry. Sir William and Lady Verschoyle were their nearest neighbours. Edgley Park was not more than a mile from the Priory, and the two families lived in unbroken intimacy till Lady Verschoyle's continued ill health sent them broad. Since then many changes had taken place, and they who parted gay and careless children, met ao-ain when the realities of life were dawning; on them with all its mingled feelings of hope and fear.

Florence Verschoyle was older than Helen, and had no preten sions to beauty, but there was a great charm in her manner and voice ; the word " loveable " was especially applicable to her. There was a repose about her that was refreshing, and Helen and Christine had always loved her as a sister ; but since her return to England, Florence saw that she had lost the love of many, even of those from whom she claimed it as a right. Helen's manner was capricious, and at times reserved. Florence felt these changes keenly; but now her face lighted up with pleasure as Helen came and sat down by her side. " Oh ! I am so glad you can come. Mama will drive home with Mr. Somers, and I must go back early. I was afraid you would think it too hot to walk ; but we can go through the wood, and have shade all the way.

You don't dislike walking, dear Helen?" " It would be cooler later, Florence ; why not wait here till the evening?" Florence shook her head. " I must go ; but I need not drag you through the heat ; and is it not a beautiful day ?" It was, as Florence said, a beautiful day, a perfect English day, which is unequalled in any climate ; the sky one deep unclouded blue, and every sight and sound telling of summer. The three girls walked on silently; and as they turned into the deep shadow of the woods, and saw the lake glistening in silver light through the stems of the trees, they involuntarily stood still : the only sound, the rustling of the leaves as they were stirred by the soft summer air, or occasionally a distant sheep-bell. No one spoke ; it seemed as if their voices would jar upon the stillness and beauty that lay around them.

After a long pause, Christine suddenly asked — " Why did you say that you were obliged to go to your chapel this evening, Florence? It's not Sunday." " No ; but it's Saturday, dear. I'm going to con fession." Helen looked up — a quick contemptuous glance, but said nothing. "To confession," said Christine musingly; "how strange that must be. I wonder if I should like it?" " There is no reason that you should think about it at all, Tiny," Helen said quickly. " Thank Heaven we are in no such bondage." " Are you sure, Helen," asked Florence. " Gerald told me confession was becoming quite a fashion with one set of people at Oxford?" " Yes, perhaps with some foolish, fanciful people ; but then it is not compulsory. Conceive the annoyance of being obliged to confess all that one said or even thought !

One should be afraid of ever speaking !" " At all events you allow that it is useful — any check is useful ; but of course you cannot view it as I do." " And never could ; the very idea makes me feel rebellious." Florence smiled. " I can believe that. I wish you would talk sometimes to Mr. Armstrong.'' " The priest that is living with you at Edgely?" exclaimed Christine. " Mama would never allow it." Helen was silent, but still looked annoyed. Florence was afraid of injuring her cause by weak or inconclu sive arguments. At last she said gently — " Is it not some sort of pride, dear Helen, that makes confession so repugnant to you ?" " Perhaps it is pride, or shyness," said Helen frankly. Florence did not answer ; she could not say all that was in her mind, but she felt strongly that, whether it were pride or shyness that fostered the spirit of rebellion in Helen, she had never properly realized the nature of sin, had never contemplated its fearful power to tarnish every action, to blight and poison life, otherwise she would have spoken very differently.

Helen looked at Florence intently ; she did not understand her silence, and could not read her thoughts ; she did not possess the key to them ; and, turning to Christine, inquired if it were not too hot for her to walk further ? Christine declared she was not tired ; but Helen felt uncomfortable, and wished to prevent any further con versation. " We must come again, Florence," Helen said; " and then you can show Tiny the school and chapel as you promised." " To-morrow is a busy day with you. Will you come on Monday, and then I will show you everything? Do come early." Helen promised, and they parted.

Chapter II

' ' Complain not that the way is long ; what road is weary that leads there ? But let the angel take thy hand, and lead thee up the misty stair, And then with beating heart await the opening of the golden gate. " — Adelaide Procter. Florence Verschoyle was the eldest of a large family, and much trial and anxiety had been compressed into the last few years of her life. Soon after their arrival in Rome she became convinced that it was her duty to submit to the teaching of the Catholic church; she never shrunk from a known duty, but the struggle of mind and heart which she endured during the process of her conversion, entirely subdued her naturally cheerful nature. She bore up bravely and patiently through the hardest trial of all, wounding those most fondly attached to her. But after many weary months her isolation ceased ; she was able to combat many of her father's prejudices ; she knew that if she could once persuade him to inquire, her work was done, and before their return to England all the family were received into the church.

In that moment of thankfulness she felt as if her mission were accomplished, and that she might now speak of the wish that lay in the depths of her heart, to consecrate her life to Almighty God, who had so mercifully called her to know the truth. But she shrank from inflicting a new sorrow on her mother, and resolved to wait, trusting that in time the way would be made easier for her, and in the mean while she devoted her life to working among the poor, and establishing a school under the direction of the priest who had accompanied Sir William from Italy. The small mission at Edgely prospered beyond their hopes ; many sent their children to the new school, and wistful, curious glances were cast upon Mr. Armstrong in his daily walk through the village. The novelty of an evening service attracted several to the chapel ; then the desire to understand and " know more" sprang up in many hearts.

Father Francis had been giving a course of lectures to the school children before the evening benediction, and his earnest words made a deep impression on some who had " sat under" Mr. Hunter, the clergyman at Charlcote, for years, with a half con scious feeling of how little their spiritual wants were met, a feeling always put away as if it were a sin, be lieving that there could be no certain truth on this side the grave. A bright ray of light sprang up in some weary hearts while listening to Father Francis' clear and simple instructions ; the small congregation increased steadily, and the new mission was looked upon with fear, as well as contempt, by the surrounding Protestant clergy. Mr. Armstrong, or Father Francis, as he was usually called by the Verschoyles, had been a school-boy friend of Gerald Somers, but it was now long since they had met, or indeed had any intercourse, for Gerald had not been at Charlcote since Mr. Armstrong's return to England.

He had inquired about Gerald from Helen, but her answers were unsatisfactory ; indeed her feelings about Gerald were generally anxious — she felt glad that he was away, and afraid to analyse her own fears. She thought him moody, and often heard comments which annoyed her upon his delicate health ; no one had any right to discuss Gerald but herself; any remarks upon him she considered as simple impertinence. But this had not the effect of putting an end to them, and people shook their heads and wondered at the look of gloom in his large, earnest eyes, and prophesied that " he was not long for this world," and said " that there had always been consumption among the Somers," and many other cheerful anticipations. As usual there was partial truth in what they said ; he did look ill and languid, had sleepless nights, and symptoms that made his mother anxious, but there were causes for this never dreamt of by the gossipping friends that took such an interest in his welfare.

Helen was thinking of Gerald, and almost dreading his return, when Christine suddenly asked her " if she thought Florence much altered?" "Not as much as I expected ; she was always grave." " But I mean she is less grave, at least so much more satisfied." " She must be glad to come back to Edgely after being: so lone abroad." " I don't think that follows. The more people are abroad, the more they grumble at English society and English climate. Lady Verschoyle is always talking of her Italian villa, as if she could never like anything as well." " Poor Lady Verschoyle, that is only from her bad health ; she is too good to be dissatisfied with her home. Oh ! Helen ; look at Charlcote now, can anything be more beautiful?" exclaimed Christine, as she seated herself on the trunk of an old tree. Christine was right in her warm admiration of the scene around her ; she had chosen a lovely spot to look from, as the evening light fell upon the old grey gables of the Priory, nestled among ancient oaks and elms, grand old trees that had outlived the rise and fall of many generations.

The soft green turf, and gay flower garden that surrounded the house, took off anything that might be sombre in its quaint old-fashionedness. There was but little ground around the house, for the road divided it on one side from Edgely Park, a large and magnificent domain, which comprised every variety of scenery. Woods that stretched far away into the blue distance, wild, heathy ground covered with gorse and fern, while from the garden in front of the house, the turf sloped down to the lake, which now glistened in the sunshine a sheet of molten silver. The deer herded together under the trees, while at the water's edge stood the sleepy-looking cattle, as idle and listless as if they belonged to more southern climes. It was one of those beautiful English scenes, never seen beyond her shores, and which often, in far distant lands, dwell among the brightest and happiest memories of her children.

Well accustomed as Helen was to the scene around her, it struck her now with a new sense of beauty, as she replied — " I cannot believe any scenery can be lovelier; but then we are no judges, never having had any opportunity of seeing other countries. I suppose it is laziness ; but I care so little about it." " Except Rome, Helen ; you would like to see Rome." " I don't believe I should care about it, Tiny. I have not caught the Verschoyle's enthusiasm for all that sort of thing." While her sister was pondering on the exact meaning of "all that sort of thing," Helen interrupted her musing by walking on impatiently saying — " You forget mamma will be waiting for us." " Oh ! I thought she would stay out late to-day ; surely I see the carriage now." They walked on more quickly, but before crossing the road that led to the Priory, Helen stopped short.

" What's the matter? Oh ! it's not the carriage." " It's a carriage," replied Helen, disconsolately ; " I do believe it's aunt Maria." Her conjecture proved true. A combrous vehicle stood at the door, from which all manner of packages were being carried into the house. " Oh, Helen, is she come to stay !" " We can't help it now if she is," said Helen, in a tone between annoyance and resignation ; " we must go in," and they quickly entered the house, where " Aunt Maria" was giving endless directions to the servants. Mrs. Johnson, the " Aunt Maria," -whose advent was hailed with so little pleasure by her nieces, was Mr. Somers' only sister. She was in every respect strong minded ; fond of ruling, delighted to arrange every body's affairs, and her superabundant activity was vented painfully on all those connected with her.

It suited Mrs. Somers' indolent nature to be ruled, and she seldom opposed Mrs. Johnson's suggestions with regard to her children, so it was not surprising that a visit from their aunt should be looked upon by Helen and Christine as areal infliction. " Well, this is pleasant," was her somewhat abrupt greeting as they entered the house. " Here have I been broiled to death, driven fourteen miles in this heat to find you all out," and her countenance betokened no small displeasure. " I am so sorry, aunt," was Christine's gentle reply, " but mama will be home soon, and of course you mean to stay." Of course Mrs. Johnson was going to stay, in spite of the hope that lurked in her niece's mind, that she was only calling on her way to the neighbouring town. She assured them she had no idea of going back.

Mr. Johnson was detained at D by the assizes, and she intended to spend the week with her sister; she could not make out her letters at all ; she had come on purpose to look them all up. Where was Mrs. Somers gone? " To Edgely, with Lady Verschoyle," Christine replied ; " they were going to drive ; mama dined early, and is coming back to tea." This answer was received in cross silence, and Helen, who had grown impatient under her aunt's chiding manner, said, abruptly: — " You will come upstairs, aunt, and take your bonnet off, will you not?" Mrs. Johnson followed Helen upstairs, her portly figure encumbered by railway-bags, parasols, and parcels, and the " things" which always accompanied her. Christine's look of dismay was almost ludicrous as she watched them across the hall, but her fear lest she should influence Mrs. Somers just at that time was only natural.

She knew that her aunt's greatest dread was any renewal of their old intimacy with the family at Edgely Park ; her letters had been full of the terrible consequences that must result from it, and she believed this visit to have been planned solely to extort a promise from Mrs. Somers never to allow the young people to meet. Christine feared greatly that Mrs. Johnson would succeed in detaching her sister from the Verschoyles; " anything for a quiet life" had been so long Mrs. Somer's rule of action, and she felt aunt Maria's unexpected arrival, and irritable manner, portended anything but quiet. On Helen opposition would probably have the exactly contrary effect. She pondered on, till her mother's hasty entrance roused her. " My dear child, your aunt has just arrived ; so unlucky that I was out; I hope that you have seen her.

Pray ring for tea, and tell Sarah to prepare the yellow room. Maria prefers that, I fancy ; and, Tiny, do clear all those books away." Mrs. Somers glanced uneasily round the room, feeling sure that her sister's lynx eyes would detect some atrocity among Christine's treasures. "Oh! yes, mama, I will do it all; you need not tire yourself;" and with compassionate feeling for her mother's evident anxiety, hastened to fulfil her injunctions. She found Helen upstairs, and gladly lingered till summoned to tea. By that time the cool room, and some grapes Mrs. Somers had fortunately brought from Edgely, had in some degree soothed Mrs. John son's perturbed spirit; she looked almost placid, and all were satisfied that the evening would pass over quietly, when suddenly she turned round to Mrs. Somers with an eager inquiry, as to whether there were not a new butcher at Charlcote?

Mrs. Somers thought not, and looked provokingh* uninterested. " But I certainly met a different butcher's cart on the road not far from the village," said Mrs. Johnson, solemnly. " My dear aunt, you can't care," said Christine laughing. Yes, Mrs. Johnson did care, and cared very much ; and it was very well for Tiny to laugh, but it was no laughing matter. She understood it all very well, and had heard such things ! " What kind of things?" " Dreadful things, about Roman Catholic priests and Jesuits, and things that you know about very well," and she glanced indignantly at her nieces. " But, my dear aunt, what can priests or Jesuits have to do with our butcher?" asked Helen, in real surprise. " A great deal; your uncle has long been uneasy at the goings on at Edgely : he is convinced some plot is hatching there, and if I can assist him to discover it, I certainly shall.

I shall not mind what I have to go through in such a cause ; no, not even for such inso lence as I have met with to-day," and the good lady waxed warm in her patriotism, and had to take breath before she could proceed. " I stopped at Mr. Jones' shop to-day to ask if he bad a new apprentice ; well, he would not give me a direct answer. Then I told him that it was of real importance to me to know if he had lent his cart to the Italian master at C to go to the popish chapel, and if his apprentice drove him there. " He said that he believed his apprentice had occasionally done so ; indeed he cared far too much for his horse to trust him to that old, blind mounseer to drive, and impertinently asked me if I wished to go too. I said, ' No, no, Jones ; but it is my duty to inform you that you are responsible for that young man's soul in allowing him any intercourse with idolaters.' " He turned it off by saying that the signor paid him for using his cart, and that he had plenty to do all the week without troubling himself about his apprentices on Sunday ; it was all very well for people who wanted something to do, and so he grumbled on, leaving a very mysterious and unpleasant impression on my mind, and when I met (as I thought) a new butcher in Charlcote, I fancied he might be another popish priest."

" What, a butcher ; a man in a blue smock frock a Roman Catholic priest ?" exclaimed Christine, breathless with amazement. " Oh ! what can you mean?" " I mean nothing but what happens every day in every town in England. Depend upon it, Mr. Jones is employing a popish priest ; he may not know it, but 7 am sure of it." " But," expostulated Helen, rather shocked at her aunt's unqualified assertions, " how could a Roman Catholic priest know how to cut up sheep and oxen, and sell meat, even if the whole idea were not too prepos terous ?" " Oh, easily enough ; there are foreign colleges that teach Jesuits every trade, and it is becoming the same thing with servants. I am quite afraid to engage even a kitchen-maid, lest she should be a nun in disguise ; but since Mrs. Adderly's affair with the washerwoman, I have made it a rule, before I engage a servant, to ask if she can say the Church Catechism, and, if she knows it, I hear her say it straight through ; they don't fancy it much, but it is the only way to know what people really are !"

Mrs. Somers instantly took fright lest she should be called upon to put all her servants through the same ordeal, and asked quickly — " What happened to Mrs. Adderly, sister?" " Did you not hear the story? Only imagine; they were living at Wareham, and of course employed a washerwoman in the town. One day Mrs. Adderly asked her where she lived, as she never saw her at church. ' No, ma'am, I always go to mass on Sundays,' and she said it without the smallest shame, quite in a barefaced way. It gave Mrs. Adderly such a turn ; of course she ordered the woman out of the house, and rang for her maid, and desired that everything that had come from the wash should be washed over again. The c servants were very much put out, for it was Saturday ; but she said that she would not go to church in clothes that woman had washed, so it had to be all done in the house.

I think Mrs. Adderly quite right; I should have done exactly the same," concluded Mrs. Johnson. " Well, we always heard that ' cleanliness was next to godliness,' and they seem combined in this case," said Helen, in a low voice, to her sister, who could not help smiling ; but Mrs. Somers looked quite alarmed at the various dangers by which she seemed suddenly sur rounded, and was relieved when the summons to family prayers interrupted the discussion.

Chapter III

"My God, lo, here before Thy face, I cast me in the dust ; Where is the hope of happier days ? Where is my wonted trust ? Where are the sunn3' hours I had, Ere of Thy light bereft ? Vanished is all that made me glad, My pain alone is left." — Lyra Germahica. Sunday was always a busy day at Charlcote. Breakfast was quickly despatched, and then came the walk to the Sunday school, the long morning service, and only just time to walk home before the early dinner, so there was nothing for Mrs. Johnson to find fault with, or no one was able to listen to her ; besides, nothing had occurred to ruffle her Protestant patriotism. Mr. Hunter's sermon was so admirably dry and uninteresting, that it was impossible for her to object to any part of it, or to the cold, pompous manner, which showed that he never for a moment forgot his own dignity in the house of God !

The girls went to the school in the afternoon ; but Mrs. Johnson was tired, and altogether Sunday was a day of rest, but Monday was not destined to pass so quietly. Mrs. Johnson's only occupation was needlework, and she was always irritated to find it of so little importance at Charlcote. This time she produced a more formid able piece of tapestry than usual, and, after unpacking an alarming quantity of wool and canvas, established herself at the girls' work-table. Unfortunately her scissors were not forthcoming, and Christine's work-box being at hand, she opened it, and her eyes fell not on working materials, but on a rosary ! She looked at it as if it had been some live and venomous reptile ; she longed to throw it away; then she thought of abstract ing it, but she felt a little afraid of such extreme measures, and before she could decide upon her line of conduct, the unlucky culprit stood before her.

" Christine," said her aunt solemnly, " I wish to speak with you." " Yes, aunt," she replied, nervously, immediately guessing, as the box still stood open, the cause of her summons. " Is this yours ?" "Yes— no — not mine. That is, Florence brought it from Paris ; I meant to return it." " And you really mean that you have come to such a pitch of— to such idolatry, as to tell your beads ?" Christine felt nervously inclined to laugh as she replied, " that she did not know how to use a rosary but felt sure there could be nothing wrong in it. It was because people did not understand about it that they felt shocked." "Understand what?" repeated Mrs. Johnson indignantly. " If you mean paters and aves, and all such gibberish, thank God I don't." " But, aunt," returned Christine, gaining courage, " you do, for you say the Lord's Prayer every day, and I believe these beads are only used as a help to medita tion.

Florence told me it was only away of thinking for a given time on different events in our Lord's life, and surely we cannot do that too much or too often." " Cannot think too much or too often, child !" cried the old lady, getting more angry, as Christine looked unconvinced of any crime, " of course you can ; I believe all the misery in the world comes from thinking. We were sent into the world to be useful, and not to sit praying and thinking like a set of nuns !" " Then you believe that nuns really pray, Aunt Maria." " I know nothing about them, child; but I do know that I would rather follow you to your grave than see you made the victim of such delusions. I believe it all comes from the devil, and these wicked priests want to entrap vou, and then there is no knowing what may be the consequence.

Perhaps you may be carried off to Italy, and put away in one of those dreadful dungeons under their convents; there you will probably be tortured, or starved to death, and then," said the poor lady, quite distressed for want of a sufficiently awful climax, " you will be sorry !" "Indeed, aunt, no one wants to entrap me," said Christine, astonished at the rapidity of her aunt's imagination ; " and as to the rosary, I meant to give it back. I will take it away now," and glad to escape, she re treated through the open window. She found Helen in the garden ; but they both agreed that the home atmosphere was too stormy to risk a visit to Edgely. A note was accordingly despatched to tell Florence of their change of plans, and promising to come over the first opportunity. When they came into the drawing-room they found Mr. Hunter just taking leave.

" Ah ! young ladies, delighted to see you. Just called to pay my respects to Mrs. Johnson ; I saw her in the church yesterday." " Yes, indeed, Mr. Hunter, and I feel quite obliged by your early call, and only sorry you can't stay longer that we might finish our conversation," and Mrs. John son looked with meaning at Christine. "Perhaps Mr. Hunter will look in this evening," Mrs. Somers said, kindly. He readily accepted the invitation, and bustled away. Helen and Christine had an almost unreasonable dread of Mr. Hunter's visits ; it is true that he was not attractive, or a person likely to influence young and refined minds. A short, thick man, with a pompous manner and unprepossessing appearance, and yet he had a kind of good nature about him, mingled with extreme egotism. His assumption of learning made his word law with some ignorant people, but more respect than love was felt towards him by the poor.