Edith Sydney

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Chapter I

There are who sigh that no fond heart is theirs ; None loves them best. — Christian Year,

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Bella NapoU!^' What a world of bright sunny memories or of glowing imaginations these two words contain ! " Beautiful/' absolutely and perfectly beautiful, is the undisputed, unchallenged title of the Bay of Naples. Venice, the City of the Sea, on her thousand islands, with her magnificent palaces, the very ruins of which are more noble than any buildings the world will ever see again — ^Venice, once more than royal in her magnificence, sits an uncrowned queen watching the silent, ceaseless beating of the waves upon the steps of her throne. Genoa, with her wealth and her pride, is almost a forgotten name ; while Naples, who never had either Doge, or painter, or merchant, to make her name famous in the world, — ^Naples still reigns supreme by the quiet power of her own loveliness.

It was the hour of sunset : scarcely a breeze

B

Z EDITH SYDNEY.

curled the waves in the bay, the sails of a few little fishing -boats flapped idly against their masts, the rowers of a small pleasure skiff were resting on their oars, a few persons walking on the shore stood still ; there was an evident expectation of something. Suddenly, in one moment, the sun was lost under the horizon : and instantlv from all the churches in Naples rang out the Ave Maria. Then again the sails were strained to the mast and set to catch the first breath of wind, the oars were dipped into the sea and splashed merrily as the pleasure-party returned to the shore, and the ramblers on the beach continued their walk.

There was one who had neither stood still, nor listened for the bells, nor joined in the Angelas ; one who had gazed with contemptuous scorn as the rough fishermen knelt in their boats, and with a sarcastic smile at a priest who reverently crossed himself as she passed him — a young English girl. Her figure was tall and stately ; and while she walked with that perfect ease and grace which is the peculiar heirloom of England^s high-bom daughters, there was a firmness and decision in her tread, and an expression of haughty defiance in her eye, which seemed hardly consistent with the freshness and elasticity of youth. And yet Edith Sydney had only just entered her nineteenth year : what right had she to walk as if she were crushing the whole world under her feet at every step ? What had it done to her, or she to it, that even at that early age she had nothing left for it but scorn ?

That evcning^s scene was no new one to her ;

day after day she had witnessed it, for day after day she had come to watch the sunset on that southern shore

Where the summer hath no twilight, And the salt sea hath no tide.

Often too she had sketched it ; for Edith was a true artist, and though she despised the reality of Catholic devotion, she fully appreciated its iBsthetic beauty. But this evening her thoughts were evidently little occupied even with "the beautiful ^^ in the scene before her; after that one scornful gaze, her brow contracted as if with some keen suffering, and as she passed on to a lonely part of the beach a short quick sigh escaped her. Something moved close to her; she started, for she had fancied herself alone, and looking down she saw a child, perhkps five years old, kneeling on the ground with a rosary in his fingers. His eyes were fixed intently on a red streak in the sky ; they were those large lustrous eyes, soft and yet passionate, which are seldom met with in our cold northern land, and their expression Was one of pure, simple, childlike love. Everything beautiful, either in nature or art, had a peculiar charm for Edith ; and, stooping down, she kissed the child^s brow, at the same time asking his name.

" Leonardo, signora,^^ replied the child.

" Ah,^^ thought she, " a painter^s name, and a painter^s eye. I wonder if Leonardo da Vinci had eyes like that ? ^^

Meanwhile the child went quietly on with his rosary.

B 2

" Who taught you to pray 1" asked Edith abruptly.

The child looked a little surprised, but replied at once :

" Padre Giuseppe."

" 0, a priest ! " said Edith, with the slightest possible shrug of her shoulders. But children are quicker of observation than many of us think, and little Leonardo fired up at the implied slight, and poured forth a rapid and energetic panegyric on Father Joseph.

'^ Well, well, never mind all that," said Edith impatiently, and very unceremoniously cutting short a list of his virtues ; ^^ tell me where you live, and what you do all day.'^

It appeared his father was a fisherman; his mother was dead, and. he had no brothers or sisters. On calm days he went with his father sometimes to fish ; in rough weather he sat at home, and mended the broken nets as well as he could; sometimes he joined other children at their play ; but the chief feature in his daily hfe was a half-hour every morning with Father Joseph, who taught him his catechism and prayers and hymns, and moreover had promised to let him serve at the altar when he was old enough. Edith did not make much out of his story, for though she spoke Italian well and easily, she was by no means familiar with Neapolitan provincialisms; but she had been studying the boy's face as he spoke, and when he stopped she said :

" You must come and spend to-morrow morning v/ith me."

EDITH SYDNEY.

What for ? " he asked bluntly ; evidently his new acquaintance had not inspired him with any great confidence.

What for ? '' replied Edith rather sharply ;

Fm not going to eat you, child. I want you, that's all ; and I will give you some pretty pictures and some bonbons.''

" I don't want them," he replied in rather a sulky tone.

'' So ! " said Edith, '' is that the way your friend the priest tells you to answer a lady ? He does not teach you politeness, at any rate."

"He teaches me to be good and obedient," replied Leonardo, who, never having heard of '^ politeness, ^^ was quite at a loss to understand what duty he was accused of failing in.

" Then he obedient, and come when I ask you," said Edith ; " come to my house to-morrow at ten ; " and she described ifcs situation.

The child gave her a puzzled, frightened look, and then again asked :

"What for?"

"What on earth do you take me for?" exclaimed Edith, provoked beyond measure at the child's pertinacity; " are you afraid of being stolen ? I want to draw a picture of you ; there, will that satisfy you ? will you come now ? "

" I will ask Padre Giuseppe, and if he says I may, I will," replied Leonardo.

" Ask a priest if you may have your picture taken ! " replied Edith contemptuously. " Well, that is going pretty far," she added mentally :

what tyrants they must be ! "

I must ask if I may come to your house^ cc

cc signora/^ he said, " because it is in the town, and I may not go there without leave/^

" 0, afraid of those pretty eyes getting into mischief! "Well, there is some sense in that; but you will be quite safe with me, and I will take you back to your home myself in the afternoon. "Will that do for you ? won^t you promise to come now ? ^^

But Leonardo was proof against both bribery and coaxing. He smiled and looked pleased, but still replied firmly :

'^ I will come if I may.^^

That smile touched some chord in Edith^s heart.

" You have lost your mother ; do you remember her ? ^' she asked, with so sudden a change of manner and softening of tone that it was hardly like the same person who was speaking but a moment before.

''No, signora, she died when I was a little baby,^^ he replied ; and a large tear rolled down his cheek : the thought of his mother, the longing to have known her, was his one only sorrow. Once again Edith stooped and kissed his forehead, and as she did so said in a rapid low tone, as if half-ashamed of the sympathy she was expressing :

'' So did mine.^'

Then turning away she took out a card, wrote a few words in pencil on the back of it, and giving it to the child said :

'' There, show that to Padre Giuseppe, and tell him I will take good care of you if he will let you come to me to-morrow ; '^ and, without waiting for any reply, she walked quickly towards the town — quickly, and with one hand pressed tightly on her brow, and a dull heavy beating at her heart which made her breathe with difficulty. What was the matter ? What were her thoughts ? They were far, far away, with the mother whom she had never known on earth ; for it was the anniversary of her death — the vigil of the Annunciation. " If she had lived she would have loved me,^' she thought ', ^^ and now there is no one, nothing. I would give anything to have even a dog that loved me, that would lie at my feet and lick my hand, and be grateful if T spoke to it. And yet, after all, what matter ? Who is worth loving ? What is the use of it ? What does intellect want with affection? No, no ; knowledge is power, and power is strength, and strength is life — the only life worth living for. Who wants to feel ? Who wants to love, if they had but strength to tread it down and be independent of it ? What a fool I am to wish for what I despise ! I should hke just to try the experiment, though. I wonder if I could make that child love me; — perhaps I should end by loving it. Well, no matter; I may as well love that as a dog or a horse. Suppose I offer to adopt it and take it to England with me ? I daresay the old fisherman would be pleased enough ; but that Padre Giuseppe is a great bore ; I wish he were at the bottom of the sea.'' With which highly charitable desire she ended her train of thought, having reached the door of her lodging.

EDFTH SYDNEY.

CHAPTER 11.

For not a sonl inhabits this wide earth, Inside the Church or out, that is not led By some stray blessing or uncertain grace, Irregular, and oft miraculous.

F. W. Faber.

Was Edith\s home, then, a dreary one ? We will turn back and look at it. Sir Charlds Sydney was the last descendant of a family which traced its ancestors up to one of the proud Norman barons who came over with Duke William to trample upon the rights and liberties of our good forefathers.

Proud of his ancient lineage, and, perhaps, with some excuse, proud of an escutcheon which had never seen a " bar sinister,^^ Sir Charles Sydney lived with almost princely magnificence in his ancestral hall. It was a noble old house, and contained much that would have been invaluable to any deeply religious or highly intellectual mindj but all this was wasted on Sir Charles Sydney. He cared nothing for the ruined chapel where his ancestors, with all their faults (and Norman barons were certainly not over-scrupulous), had been wont to assist daily at the Holy Sacrifice, and commonly spoke of it as " an old Popish hole '/' he cared nothing for the magnificent library, stored with many of the most valuable books in the world. What were they to him ? he was neither a scholar nor a theolo^ gian ; he cared neither for science nor revelation; he did not even care for art, and some of the masterpieces of the glorious old Italian painters hung unnoticed on his walls, except indeed that, knowing their supposed worth, he was proud of possessing them. What were " the wild thought of Tintoret,'' the refined intellect of Da Yinci, the inspired glory of Baffaelle, and, most of all, the pure and spiritual conception of Fra Angelico, " that most holy monk of Fiesole,'' to a man whose whole interest was centred in his horses and hounds, and whose chief boast was that he possessed the finest hunters and the purest breed of dogs in the kingdom ? And yet Sir Charles had qualities which rendered him a popular man in his neighbourhood. The fact of his being rich of course went far in itself to make him so— for mammon-worship is England^s idolatry — ^but he was also what the world commonly calls generous, that is to say, he was hospitable, gave large dinner-parties, and kept open house during the hunting and shooting seasons ; moreover, he gave large sums to all the local charities, and never allowed any appeal for money to be made to him in vain. Whatever faults he had, certainly stinginess was not one of them ; he was far too proud to be mean. With his own servants and workpeople too he was popular ; for he gave them higher wages than anyone else in the county, and always paid them regularly ; but he considered this the utmost extent of his duty towards them. What business was it of his whether a man spent his money at the alehouse or took it home to his wife ? whether he sent his children to school or suffered them to grow up with no religion, and worse than heathen morals ? whether he went to church or whether he didn^t ? That was the parson^ s affair, not his.

Mr. Bruce had once ventured to remonstrate with him about a groom whose disorderly habits gave great scandal in the village ; but Sir Charles had only replied very courteously (for he prided himself on being a perfect gentleman), ^^ My dear sir, it really is no concern of mine. I am very sorry; the man is too good a servant for me to part with him ; I really cannot interfere in these matters. Preach as many sermons as you like against drunkenness or any other vice, but pray don^t ask me to do it/^

Mr. Bruce was no favourite of Sir Charles Sydney^s. Stern and uncompromising in character, he had no sympathy with the easy laissezfaire temperament of the baronet; and though Sir Charles could not help respecting him as a man of high principle, his manner of carrying out his principles was peculiarly distasteful to him. For instance, Mr. Bruce had established daily service, and the sound of the church-bells broke in unpleasantly upon his breakfast and dinner ; it was a great deal " too much of a good thing^^ to be forcibly reminded twice a day of the existence of God. Then, again, though at Mr. Bruce^s request he had removed certain red curtains which surrounded his pew as if it had been a four-post bed, he by no means liked the consequent publicity which prevented him from going comfortably to sleep during the service, and obliged him at all events to hear occasionally a few plain-spoken truths^ by no means either flattering or palatable to him.

Of course^ if Sir Charles had merely consulted his own inclination he would have absented himself from church altogether; but that would not have been quite respectable^ and Sir Charles Sydney worshipped respectability, and worshipped it with considerable devotion too; for he submitted habitually to much that was exceedingly irksome to him in order to keep up a fair character in the world. A naturaUy refined taste made everything low or vulgar simply odious to him ; but neither irreligion nor self-indulgence are vulgar, and Sir Charles took infinite trouble to keep strictly within the bounds of ^^ respectability^^ in his conduct. Consequently he went to church every Sunday, and even on Christmas-day and Good Friday, and insisted on his servants doing the samo ; and sometimes invited the rector to dinner, on which occasions he always talked in a most exemplary manner about the necessity of proper instruction in schools, or abused Catholics (it was about the time of the Emancipation Bill) with a zeal which, to judge from Mr. Bruce's cold politeness in reply, was not particularly gratifying to him.

At length an event happened which threw the whole village of Fernley into excitement — Sir Charles Sydney was married. Not, of course, that this was anything wonderful or unexpected in itself ; but his choice of a wife was the very last that could have been imagined. Lady Sydney was neither a fashionable beauty, a person of high rank, nor a modem " Die Vemon,^^ but the daughter of a plain country gentleman^ and^ except that she certainly was very beautiful, possessed one only preeminent gift— a holiness and purity of mind that would have made her a saint if she had been a Catholic. Some of Sir Charles's friends shrugged their shoulders, and asked each other if the baronet was ^' going to pull up, and turn serious.^' Others laughed, and said, " What a fool the girl was to marry him V' and Mr. Bruce, who had been for some time acquainted with Miss Lyle, was both astonished and grieved that she should have thrown herself wilfully into a life so uncongenial to her. Of course, ill-natured people said she had married for money, for a position in society, for a name ; and even her best friends were utterly unable to account for it, for no one supposed or believed what, after all, was the simple truth — that from the very depth of her heart she loved him. How this coi:dd be who shall say ? Our aflTections are not in our own power ; they will not submit to be analysed. Enough that it was so. But Mary Lyle's was no blind affection; she knew, better perhaps than she cared to acknowledge even to herself, that her husband was both careless in his life and indifferent, if not actually sceptical, as to his faith; but she made a woman's most common and most fatal mistake : she believed that her own influence over him was strong enough to counteract, and at length to remedy, these faults.

She believed that his affection for her was as strong as her own for him. " Why else,'' she fondly thought, '^ would he have cared for one so unlike himself in every way ?" " Why else " was it ? Her singular grace and beauty had first attracted him; his refined and fastidious taste fully appreciated the difference between natural and artificial grace and elegance. Then it was much more comfortable (to say nothing of more respectable) to be married ; to have some one to make his breakfast and tea for him^ receive his visitors^ sit at the head of his table^ enable him to enjoy more of general society than he could do as a bachelor. In short. Sir Charles married out of pure selfishness ; and the question of whether or not Mary Lyle would be happier as Lady Sydney never once occurred to him. It was not his nature to be cruel or unkind to anything ; he never spoke roughly or harshly to her, never thwarted her, never troubled her about anything whatever; gave her always plenty of money, and never asked how she spent it ; never opened her letters or asked to see them ; and never interfered with her religious opinions or practices. But Lady Sydney learnt only too soon that this was not afiection, but indifference ; he did not care enough about her to trouble himself the least about anything she thought or did. The wound sank deep into her heart, far too deep for outward show. No word or look or sigh ever betrayed her secret grief, even to her nearest and dearest friends ; she knew too well her duty as a wife to suffer the least shadow of blame to rest on her husband through her, and she loved him too well to endure that his coldness to her should be noticed by any.

But she had one sharper sorrow still — the pang of self-reproach. She felt, she knew, that she had worshipped the creature more than the Creator, and, with the humiliation of a crushed heart and an accusing conscience, she bore her punishment meekly, uncomplainingly — ^nay, for his sake, with outward cheerfulness ; but it was gradually wasting away her life. For his sake she spent the winter in a ceaseless round of gaiety at Clare Hall, and. the spring in the heartless frivolities of the London season; and while he admired her exceeding beauty, and led her proudly through crowded halls and assemblies, he knew nothing of the thorns that lay concealed under the wreath of white lilies that bound her brow. For his sake, too, she did w.hat was harder still — ^met him always with a bright sunny smile and cheerful step. He never saw a cloud on her brow or a tear in her eye ; but he little knew what this cost her. He knew nothing of the hours spent in her lonely room or in the cold bare church (which Mr. Bruce would never allo.w to be closed), where vainly, but with earnest yearning longing, she sought what only the one true Church can give. No, not altogether vainly; prayer can never be in vain, and it may be that some special grace supplied what was wanting. Surely no soul can be lost for sins of ignorance, or utterly deprived of grace, while earnestly loving and serving her Lord. No shadow of doubt had ever crossed Lady Sydney's mind ; there was only a vague indefinite consciousness of something wanting ; but in her humility she always attributed this to herself, and only grieved that she could not realise the Presence in which she believed.

Mr. Bruce was a real friend, and a great comfort to her ; but, after all, it was merely human comfort, human sympathy — ^it did not even profess to be more ; for the time had not arrived when Catholic doctrine raised its head boldly among Anglicans, and claimed to be heard^ believed, obeyed, by the mere force of its own intrinsic truth.

Mr. Bruce had daily prayers and weekly communions in his church. He taught Baptismal Regeneration and a (though not (he) doctrine of the Real Presence ; h» taught that holiness was the obedience, and sin the rebellion, of the will ; he maintained the duty of fasting on the same authority as that of prayer and almsgiving ; he unreservedly used and recommended the sign of the Cross, and prayers for the departed ; never spoke of the Blessed Virgin except with a degree of reverence which often procured him hard words from his parishioners j and constantly referred to the intercession of saints and the protection of guardian angels as a powerful assistance in all difficulties or temptations. But he did not as yet teach the Sacrifice of the Altar or the sacrament of penance, — ^he had not come to that yet. If he had seen those things himself he would have taught them without scruple, for all compromise or reserve with regard to God^s truth was utterly hateful to him. If he thought a thing ri^lit he said it or did it without caring a straw about the consequences, and yet in a very simple childlike manner always, as if the possibility of doing anything else had never occurred to him : so that he seldom offended people, and they took many things quietly from him which they would have resented in anyone else.

Chapter III

[ Sin can follow where gold cannot ; Pictures and books the damps may rot, But what hath passed from the soul of mortal —

Be it word or thought of pride — Hath gone with him thro' tne dim low portal, And waiteth by his side.

F. W. Faber.

It was a bright December morning about a year after their marriage : a small hunting party was assembled at Clare Hall; and Lady Sydney, throwing a shawl over her head^ came out for a moment to admire a new horse which her husband had just mounted for the first time. Perhaps he was pleased at her taking any interest in what he knew was in itself indifferent to her, or perhaps for the moment a spark of real affection was kindled^ — at all events as she patted the animaPs arching neck and playfully stuck a bough of evergreen between his ears. Sir Charles stooped from his saddle and kissed her brow. The tears started into her eyes, for it was long since she had received so spontaneous a mark of affection ; but, brushing them hastily away, she said gaily, ^' You have a fine day for your hunt. A merry ride and a safe return to you all.^^ They waved their hats and started, and she returned to the house.

It was a gallant hunt that day, and the stag, after giving his pursuers a somewhat intricate chase through the narrow lanes, struck out into the open country across the marshy fens, in the direction of Peterborough and Crowland. Sir Charles Sydney urged his noble steed over the broad fens and across the wide ditches ; and as they approached the little village of Crowland he was full a quarter of a mile in advance of the rest of the hunt. The stag dashed wildly through the village, to the delight of the boys and terror of the girls who happened to be playing in the street, and, making straight towards the Abbey, sprang over loose stones and broken bases of pillars, finally falling bruised and exhausted on a low fragment of the inner wall.

^^ Please stop, sir,^^ said a boy, bravely confronting Sir Charleses foaming steed ; '^ the stag is safe enough in the Abbey ; your horse can't follow there.''

^^ Get out of my way !" exclaimed the baronet with a blasphemous oath, as, striking his spurs into the animal, he rode furiously on. " Cfan't follow !" he thought to himself; '^ what does the rascal mean ? We'll soon see about that. So ho, steady !" he exclaimed, suddenly checking his mad career, as the ruined archway, blocked up with large masses of stone, stood close before him ; but it was too late. A loose stone rolled away as the horse set its foot upon it ; the animal staggered and fell, and Sir Charles was thrown with great violence over its head. A few moments brought the rest of the party to the spot. Sir Charles had struck against a sharp piece of stone, and the blood flowed copiously from a wound in his head ; he was perfectly insensible. The horse, as is the wont of those noble animals,

c stood apparently regardless of ita own pain, tbougli blood streamed from its broken knees^ gazing wistfully into its mast^s face. One gentl^nan rode off at fo3l speed for a surgeon, another hastily bound up the wounded man's head with a handkerchief^ and another was about to lead away the horse.

^^Let the poor beast alone, Maynard/^ said Sir William Grant, an old officer who had joined the hunt that day by that providence which men call accident, for it was not his ordinary custom ; ''the creature^s warm breath may do more to restore him than anything we can do for the present.'^

Probably he was right, for in a few moments Sir Charles opened his eyes, glared wildly around him, and then in a voice, the agony of which none of those who heard it ever forgot, exclaimed, *' I cannot, I dare not die V The effort burst the bandage round his head, and he almost immediately again fainted from loss of blood.

By this time the surgeon had arrived. Without saying a word, he bound up the wound, forced as much as he could of a strong cordial down his patient^s throat, and felt for some moments the beatings of his heart ; then, turning round, he briefly inquired of the person next him where Sir Charles lived and of whom his family consisted.

''Poor thing, poor thing !^^ he said compassionately; "will anyone ride on and break it to her ?"

Sir William Grant instantly mounted his horse.

" What shaU I say V' he asked.

''There is no hope/^ replied the surgeon; '' but don^t tell her that ; say the injury is very serious^ but will probably not affect the brain; that's enough^ and it is the only comfort I can give her. Tell her to send for his own physician.^'