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BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UN1VERSFTY OP 
 

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MRS. GERALD'S NIECE 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON 
 
 NEW EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 BURNS AND OATES 
 
 GRANVILLE MANSIONS W 
 1886 
 
HAVERSTOCK HILL NW 
 PRINTED BY THE SOCIETY OF ST ANNE 
 
 r 
 
 ^ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 

 
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 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 PART I. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Chapter the First i 
 
 
 ,, Second 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 26 
 
 
 Third 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 49 
 
 
 Fourth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 68 
 
 
 Fifth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 86 
 
 
 Sixth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • US 
 
 
 Seventh 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 153 
 
 
 Eighth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 174 
 
 
 Ninth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 188 
 
 
 Tenth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 206 
 
 
 ,, Eleventh 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 P 221 
 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Chapl 
 
 er the First ......... 238 
 
 
 , Second 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 261 
 
 
 Third . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 283 
 
 
 Fourth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • • 
 
 296 
 
 
 Fifth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 314 
 
 
 Sixth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 334 
 
 
 , Seventh . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 354 
 
 
 Eighth . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 372 
 
 
 Ninth . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 388 
 
 I ' 
 
 Tenth . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 410 
 
 • 
 
 , Eleventh 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 432 
 
 
 Twelfth . 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 459 
 
 
 Thirteenth . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 512 ' 
 
 
 , Fourteenth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 530 
 
 
 , Fifteenth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 55o 
 
 
 , Sixteenth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 57o 
 
 
 , Seventeenth . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 587 
 
 
 , Eighteen 
 
 th . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 613 
 
 432 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 kitchen-garden and an old archway overgrown with 
 ivy and bearing the fragments of a Latin inscription, 
 were likewfse supposed to be remnants of the ancient 
 enclosure. The present house dated from the reign of 
 James I. Successive additions had been made to it 
 which were not all improvements ; but whatever faults 
 it possessed in an architectural point of view were dis- 
 guised by the abundance of creepers which covered its 
 walls. On the southern side especially, pink, white, 
 yellow, and red roses, pomegranates, and myrtles, 
 passionflowers and jessamine climbed up to the second 
 story, invading and wreathing with their blossoms 
 the framework of the windows, peeping into the sunny 
 rooms and mingling their delicate shoots with the stout 
 branches of the westeria, which in spring clothed the 
 whole of the front and western side of the house with 
 its luxuriant lilac clusters. The garden, too, was one 
 bright mass of colours, not a mere flowery patchwork 
 of various hues, laid out in a systematic manner, but 
 a charming combination of flowers, such as Perdita 
 might have woven, or Ariel couched in — 
 
 "Merrily, merrily, 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 
 
 This blooming maze occupied the whole space be- 
 tween one side of the house, and a low moss-grown 
 wall which separated it from the churchyard — one of 
 those old fashioned burial places full of tall trees and 
 waving grass, and daisies innumerable growing on the 
 nameless graves of obscure villagers, and white roses 
 and clematis adorning the tombstones of the more 
 honoured, if not more honourable, occupants of the 
 consecrated ground. On the opposite side a smooth 
 green lawn extended to the edge of a grove of ash- 
 trees, and a hill, covered partly with wood and partly 
 with gorse, rose behind the house. Before it flowed a 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 rapid and transparent stream, in which many a speckled 
 trout and careless minnow courted its doom. The con- 
 stant sound of rippling water was one of the charms of 
 the place. It was like its own peculiar music in the 
 ears of those who loved it. Little diminutive brooks 
 wended their way through the park, the shrubbery, and 
 the grove, singing their songs of joy under the bushes, 
 across the lawn, amongst the flowers. Though sheltered 
 by its woods and secluded in its own grounds, Holm- 
 wood had also glimpses of distant country. Through 
 the brariches of the grove, where it was thinned, and 
 straight away in front of the*house, was to be seen, in 
 the midst of a wide extent of pasture-land and corn- 
 fields, the spire of Ashdown Church, and farther on a 
 broad river bearing on its bosom black barges which 
 looked in the distance like flies on a mirror. A ridge 
 of blue looking hills, over which a heavy mass of clouds 
 generally rested, was discernible towards the west ; 
 and by certain lights, especially when the sky was « 
 stormy, the sea could be perceived lining the horizon 
 with a silvery thread or a dark-blue ribbon. 
 
 The whole of this fair scene was gilded by the 
 rays of the setting sun, when the three girls reached 
 the steps in front of the house, and turned back to give 
 a last look to the illuminated landscape, and the sky 
 tinged by fiery and rosy-coloured clouds. What need 
 is there to dwell on what every one has felt, the de- 
 light of the first evening in the country after months 
 spent in a town ? Who does not know that delightful 
 sensation ? Even those whose lot is by their own choice 
 cast in that great huge London, so forcibly described 
 by a modern writer as " That monster which looks so 
 unmanageable and is so awfully wicked, so hopelessly 
 magnificent, so heretically wise and proud after its own 
 fashion, and yet after a fashion so good also ! Such a 
 multitudinous remnant in it who have never bowed the 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 knee to Baal. Such numbers seeking their way to the 
 light ; so much secret holiness, such supernatural lives, 
 such loyalty, mercy, sacrifice, sweetness, and greatness." 
 Yes, even they who love it with all its miseries, and 
 who would not willingly live many days out of the 
 year far from the great City, the mighty pulse of which 
 seems to throb in their own hearts, they know the joy 
 of leaving it behind for a time. More than others, 
 perhaps, they appreciate the luxury of the silence which 
 seems only the more deep for the low twitter of the 
 birds amongst the leaves, or the drowsy hum of the 
 bees over the flower-beds. With more or less of glad- 
 ness or of melancholy, of hope or of souvenance, that 
 beautiful old French word, according as life, and age, 
 anl God have dealt with their souls, they gaze on the 
 shadows lengthening on the dewy grass, and listen to 
 the night wind whispering among the branches. It 
 would be difficult to say which is sweetest at that 
 hour — the young man's vision or the old man's dream. 
 W T e who are old remember the gradual manner in 
 which the sense of this agreeable change used to steal 
 upon us in days of yore, as we passed from the streets 
 into the suburb, where the houses, standing wider and 
 wider apart, admitted glimpses of green fields and 
 hedges, till at last the high road was reached, and the 
 fragrance of the air gave token that we were really 
 getting into the country. How welcome was the sight 
 of the little roadside inn, where we stopped to change 
 horses — the picturesque gable-ended cottage-like hostel- 
 ry, with its tiny garden and large spreading tree. And 
 then after perhaps three or four days' journey, came 
 the longed-for arrival, the glad revisiting of favourite 
 haunts, the sunset hour, the quiet stroll, the falling 
 asleep that first night lulled by the profound stillness, 
 one of Nature's greatest charms i^and yet Charles 
 Lamb, the London poet, fled from Wordsworth's house, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 in Westmoreland, scared by the silence of those 
 mountainous regions. He could not rest far from the 
 murmurs of the great City. 
 
 Now that a few hours will take us to the furthest 
 part of England, the transition is more striking still. 
 The noise of the streets has scarcely died away in our 
 ears, when we find ourselves in the midst of pure air, 
 rural scenery, and sylvan shades. A newspaper or a 
 doze have filled up the time, and we seem scarcely to 
 have left behind the bustle of the London station be- 
 fore we are landed in the depths of country retire- 
 ment. But the exquisite pleasure of the contrast is 
 seldom purchased nowadays by an uninterrupted 
 residence of many months in town. Eliza and Jane 
 Conway, however, had bought their enjoyment at that 
 price, and thoroughly appreciated the change. 
 
 " It seems so strange, Annie," Jane exclaimed, 
 " that this wonderfully beautiful place should be your 
 own — your very own, as children say." 
 
 " And those woods and fields, and that pretty little 
 village, does it also belong to you ? " Eliza Conway 
 asked. 
 
 "Almost all you see from here is my property," 
 Annie replied ; " one or two of the cottages in Holme 
 are Mr. Hendon's; he is our nearest neighbour." 
 
 "What an immense responsibility it is for a young 
 girl like you to possess such a property." 
 
 "But I do not, of course, manage it myself; Aunt 
 Gerald does all the business with the trustees and 
 agents." 
 . " But it will not always be so ? " 
 
 " No, not when I am of age, I suppose. It amuses 
 me to see that the gardener begins to inquire what 
 flowers I wish to have in the beds, and the house- 
 keeper actually asked me this morning which rooms 
 she was to get ready for you. I think my aunt had 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 told her to do so. If you are not comfortable you 
 must complain of me, you see." 
 
 " We will complain to you in that case," Eliza an- 
 swered, smiling; "but from what I saw of them before 
 I came out, there is not much chance of our being 
 discontented, I think." 
 
 "Oh, no, they are quite charming," Jane added. 
 
 " Come this way," Annie said, " I want to get some 
 flowers. Do you not like wearing natural flowers in 
 your hair in the country ? " And she led the way to 
 the conservatory, where, somewhat to the dismay of 
 the old gardener, who was watering the plants, she 
 gathered a handful of red and white camelias, which 
 she gave to her friends. 
 
 " You have not kept any for yourself," Eliza said. 
 
 " Yes, this white one," Annie replied; "I have so 
 much hair that I can only wear in it one little sprig 
 or flower." 
 
 " It is really very hard in these days," Eliza said, 
 laughing, " for those who have a great deal of hair of 
 their own. Nobody gives them credit for it." 
 
 " Don't you believe in mine ? " Annie exclaimed. 
 " Look." She took off her bonnet and comb, and 
 masses of jet black hair fell on her shoulders and half- 
 way down her back. 
 
 " Indeed, I believed in yours without this ocular 
 demonstration," Eliza answered. " I know you well 
 enough to feel sure that you would not wear anything 
 false." 
 
 " I see nothing false in wearing false hair," Jane 
 said, " any more than artificial flowers. It is the 
 fashion, and everybody 'does it." 
 
 " Everybody does it ! " Eliza repeated. " The worst 
 reason in the world ! Don't you think so, Annie ? " 
 
 Annie had twisted up her hair, and stuck the white 
 camelia behind her ear. " It is not a reason I care 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 about," she answered. " It is nothing to me what 
 people say or do ; but I agree so far with Jane that it 
 prevents there being any deceit in the matter. There 
 is the dressing-bell ! Are you long getting ready ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ! " both the sisters replied. Is there 
 any one who ever honestly answers " yes " to that 
 question ? 
 
 " Have you company at dinner to-day ? " Jane in- 
 quired, w T ith a view to the choice between her blue silk 
 and her white muslin gown. 
 
 " Only Mr. Hendon, Mr. Pratt, our clergyman, 
 and my cousin Edgar. Not a very formidable party, 
 you see. What are you counting on your fingers, 
 Jane ? " 
 
 " That makes seven ? " 
 
 " Well, and what of that ? " 
 
 " I can never open my lips at dinner where there are 
 fewer than eight persons." 
 
 11 You don't say so ? Why, at the cours you used to 
 be one of the quickest at answering. I remember being 
 quite jealous at the number of presidencies you got. 
 * Mademoiselle a la langue tres bien pendue,' some of 
 the girls said when they thought you took the shine 
 out of them." 
 
 " Oh, Annie, slang ! " Eliza exclaimed. " It is not 
 pardonable in you who have no brothers." 
 
 Annie laughed, and answered, " Take care, Lizzie. 
 I shall be on the watch, and I venture to say I shall 
 detect you using some slang expression before the day 
 is over." 
 
 " We shall have to define what is slang, and what 
 is not," Eliza answered, with a smile. " Rather a dif- 
 ficult thing I fancy." 
 
 " But how long have you been afraid of the sound 
 of your own voice, Jane ? " Annie asked. 
 
 " I do not mind answering a question, but I do not 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 like to converse with my neighbours when everybody 
 can hear what I say." 
 
 " But do you think they listen? I find it difficult 
 enough to attend to what is said to myself. I should 
 never think of listening to what was said to other 
 people. Should you, Lizzie ? " 
 
 " Oh, as to Lizzie," Jane exclaimed, " she knows every 
 word everybody utters all round the table. And that is 
 another thing; I cannot bear her to hear what I say." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because I know she thinks it all so stupid." 
 
 " Really, Jane, you are too humble," Annie said. 
 
 " Or too vain," Eliza added, with a smile. 
 
 " It is getting very late," Jane observed. And, as. 
 that remark was undoubtedly to the point, they all ran 
 into the house, and up to their rooms. 
 
 " Are you ready, dearest love ? " Mrs. Gerald asked, 
 as she knocked at her niece's door at a few minutes 
 before seven. Annie appeared dressed for dinner, and 
 looking very handsome. They went downstairs to- 
 gether. The windows of the drawing-room were wide 
 open, and when they came in a young man, who was 
 walking on the terrace, hastened to meet them. This 
 was Edgar Derwent, Mrs. Gerald's nephew and Annie's 
 cousin. They both seemed very glad to see him ; there 
 was, however, something a little reproachful in the 
 tone with which Mrs. Gerald said, " I was almost afraid 
 you would not come. We fully expected you would 
 arrive by the four o'clock train, and I went in the 
 pony-chaise to the station in hopes of finding you 
 there, and having the pleasure of driving you home. 
 But I suppose you did not think we should expect you 
 by that train ? " 
 
 " To say the truth, I did not know when you would 
 expect me ; but I could not leave London by an earlier 
 train." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " It was fortunate Annie did not volunteer to fetch 
 you. She would not at all have liked to be disap- 
 pointed. I have lived long enough to know that people 
 can never get away from London till the very last 
 possible minute." 
 
 Edgar smiled good humouredly, and said, " If I had 
 come when you expected me, I should have had a much 
 pleasanter drive than in that creeping fly, which went 
 at the rate of four miles an hour, I think." 
 
 " And you would have had the society of two young 
 ladies," Annie said ; " that is, if you had happened to 
 sit in the same carriage with them." 
 
 " Friends of yours coming here ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes; the Miss Conways. I have known them a 
 long time. We were always meeting at M. Roche's cours." 
 
 "Are they daughters of Mr. Conway, a barrister?" 
 
 " Yes, their father is a lawyer ; they live in Bryan- 
 ston Square." 
 
 " I know him, and I am very glad his daughters are 
 friends of yours." 
 
 " Mr. Hendon and Mr. Pratt are also coming to 
 dinner. There is Mr. Pratt in his gig coming up the 
 avenue." 
 
 A moment afterwards both those gentlemen, who 
 had driven up to the door at the same time, were an- 
 nounced. Just as dinner was on the table, the Miss 
 Conways came down. It had taken a long time to 
 fasten the camelias in their hair. Jane explained this 
 to Mr. Pratt, who took her in to dinner, and she also 
 defended herself warmly from the charge of unpunctu- 
 ality, which, in a rather pointed though jesting tone, 
 Mrs. Gerald had made against her and her sister. 
 
 If it had not been for Mrs. Gerald's exertions, there 
 would have been very little conversation during dinner ; 
 she had managed to keep it going, and to start sub- 
 jects generally suitable, rather than particularly inter- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 esting. She was a warm-hearted and well-informed 
 person, but her manners were stiff and her language 
 studied. Her voice, too, was always pitched in the 
 same key, and the use of set phrases had become so 
 habitual with her that it had grown into a second 
 nature. It is said that Mrs. Siddons and all the 
 Kembles acquired so strong a habit of using Shaks- 
 perian expressions in ordinary conversation, that they 
 did it at last unconsciously. Mrs. Gerald, without 
 any effort, talked like a well-written book. Is it our 
 own fault that we find this tedious — more tedious than 
 many a worse defect ? There was, however, much 
 difference of opinion as to her powers of agreeableness; 
 some people thought her very clever. There was no 
 doubt that she acquitted herself extremely well at 
 tenants' dinners or school-examinations, when she 
 made fluent little speeches in what the schoolmaster 
 called a mellifluous voice, and the housekeeper gener- 
 ally informed the ladies' maids, the first evening they 
 were at Holmwood, that her lady read prayers beau- 
 tifully. " It was quite a treat to hear her." But if 
 Mrs. Gerald's voice and her way of expressing herself 
 w 7 ere under strict control, not so her countenance, 
 which, by a singular contrast, manifested with strange 
 clearness the various emotions of a quick temper and 
 keenly susceptible nature. She easily changed colour, 
 her lips sometimes quivered, and her eyes filled with 
 tears on apparently trifling occasions. She had been 
 very pretty, and was still good looking. She had 
 light-blue eyes, a small aquiline nose, and thin lips. 
 There was in her disposition a mixture of impulsive- 
 ness and of reserve, of coldness of manner and 
 impetuosity of character. In theory she worshipped 
 common sense, and what the French call les convenances 
 de la vie. She was very severe on any follies of conduct 
 or aberrations of mind in others, and was rather prone 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 to read lectures to her friends on the faults she ob- 
 served in their characters and proceedings ; but under 
 this worldly-wise exterior were hidden many of the 
 weaknesses of a womanly and ardent nature. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald had been a widow for more than twenty 
 years. Her husband had died of a fever at Nice a few 
 months after their marriage ; and although she had 
 not been supposed to be excessively attached to him, 
 she grieved deeply over his loss, and never thought 
 of marrying again. 
 
 The person she had always most loved was her 
 eldest brother, Robert Derwent, Annie's father ; and 
 one of her strongest feelings was her passionate fond- 
 ness for the home of her childhood, and the old family 
 place of the Derwents. 
 
 After the death of her idolized brother and his 
 young wife, who had perished by a terrible accident 
 which occurred about a year after she had lost her 
 husband, Mrs. Gerald fixed all her affection on their 
 infant daughter, of whom she was left sole guardian. 
 Holmwood devolved to this child, though a girl, her 
 father having been the last of the entail. His younger 
 brother, Herbert, was Edgar Derwent's father. Mrs. 
 Gerald devoted herself to her niece with all the energy 
 and exclusiveness belonging to her character. Little 
 Annie's health and education, and the care of her 
 property, were the only objects she lived for. 
 
 Annie was four years old when her aunt brought 
 her for the first time to Holmwood. They stayed 
 there almost constantly till she was about fourteen ; 
 then they began to spend some time every year in 
 London for the sake of masters, and to attend the 
 cours, which were beginning to be in fashion. It was 
 there she had made acquaintance with the Conways. 
 Jane was her own age, Eliza older. As soon as her 
 aunt told her that she was old enough to invite her 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 own friends to Holmwood, which she had done about 
 the time our story begins, Annie had proposed to 
 ask the Conways. Mrs. Gerald had avoided till then 
 giving that invitation. Perhaps she thought Eliza 
 likely to gain influence over Annie, and, without 
 owning it to herself, had a secret jealousy on that 
 point. However, when Annie pressed it, she saw no 
 reason to object, and in that, as in everything else, 
 Annie had her own way. 
 
 Any one who had only judged Mrs. Gerald by 
 hearing her talk, would have fancied her to be the 
 last person in the world likely to spoil any one. She 
 was so sensible in her theories of education, so judi- 
 cious in her views of moral and intellectual training, 
 so severe on the weakness and folly of the generality 
 of parents, that it would have been natural to suppose 
 that Annie's education would have been systematic 
 and strict, if not severe. But far from it — the lectures 
 freely given to the rest of mankind were scarcely ever 
 bestowed on her own niece. She literally worshipped 
 her, and expected that others should join in that 
 worship. It was easy to perceive that she was always 
 on the watch to see if the idol of her heart was suf- 
 ficiently admired. There was something touching in 
 this over- weening affection, because it was not selfish ; 
 not in one sense at least. Perhaps it engrossed too 
 much of her heart ; perhaps it made her hard, in- 
 different, and exacting towards others ; but as regarded 
 herself it was self-sacrificing and disinterested. She 
 would have offered up the whole human race as a 
 holocaust, if it could have ensured Annie's happiness ; 
 but she would have readily laid herself also at the top 
 of the pile. She had no jealousy of those Annie loved, 
 if only they loved Annie as much as she thought they 
 ought. When this was the case, she gladly admitted 
 them to offer up incense at the shrine of her idol. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 13 
 
 The habit Mrs. Gerald had of constantly looking at 
 Annie through her spy-glass, might have been annoy- 
 ing to the young girl had she not been so accustomed 
 to it from childhood, that she hardly noticed it. She 
 did not seem at all aware that her aunt was fonder 
 of her than the generality of parents, aunts, or 
 guardians are wont to be of their children, nieces, or 
 wards. She loved Mrs. Gerald, and knew she had 
 taken great care of her all her life, but looked upon 
 that care and affection rather as a matter of course. 
 At nineteen years of age, she had all the simplicity, 
 straightforwardness, and brusquerie of a girl of twelve. 
 There was a great deal to admire in Annie's looks, 
 and yet it was not everybody that thought her hand- 
 some. She had a well-shaped head and magnificent 
 dark hair, a good figure, a way of walking and holding 
 her head which made her French dancing-master say, 
 " Mademoiselle a le port d'une deesse." But her 
 hands and feet were large — her complexion pale, 
 though healthy — her mouth rather wide. She had 
 large, honest, bright, fearless blue eyes, whose inno- 
 cently bold expression and confiding gaze-, together 
 with the guileless simplicity of her manner, reminded 
 one of Dryden's lines — 
 
 " Without unspotted, innocent within, 
 She feared no danger, for she knew no sin." 
 
 Annie and her cousin Edgar had been great friends 
 ever since she could remember. She had always 
 cared for him, in fact, more than for anybody else in 
 the world. As long as she had been a child her power 
 over him had been absolute. Afterwards this state 
 of things became reversed ; a girl from the age of 
 thirteen to seventeen naturally looks up with some 
 degree of awe to a young man four or five years older 
 than herself. Now again she felt there would be 
 
i 4 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 another change in their relative positions. They had 
 not met for a long time, and in the meanwhile she 
 had come out, an old-fashioned expression still in use, 
 but hardly applicable in the present day, when even 
 little girls are oftener out of the school-room than 
 in it. 
 
 In Annie's case it meant dining late with Mrs. Gerald 
 instead of at one o'clock with her governess, and 
 dressing in a manner more accordant with the existing 
 fashion than had been till then considered necessary. 
 But the change had made her, of course, a much more 
 important person, and she flattered herself that Edgar 
 would now talk to her as much as to her aunt. There 
 was a heightened colour in her cheeks, and a bright 
 look in her eyes, when she shook hands with her tall 
 pale cousin. The last time he had been at Holmwood, 
 she had been somewhat vexed and mortified at the 
 little notice he had taken of her. She was too old at 
 that time to be played with, and he was perhaps not 
 old enough to like the trouble of conversing with a 
 young girl between sixteen and seventeen, who had 
 suddenly become shy and reserved with him. Since 
 then he had travelled abroad, Mrs. Gerald and Annie 
 had been a great deal away from home, and they had 
 in consequence seldom met, but now for several months 
 he had been studying for the bar in London, and had 
 gladly accepted his aunt's invitation to spend some 
 time with them in the country. He was delighted at 
 the thoughts of seeing the place again, which had been 
 to him in boyhood a sort of earthly Paradise, and at 
 renewing his former intimate intercourse with the only 
 relatives that were dear to him, besides his mother 
 whom he loved, but with whom he had but little sym- 
 pathy. Annie was very happy to meet again her old 
 playmate and companion, and at the same time felt as 
 if they were for the first time really to make acquain- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 15 
 
 tance with each other, for now they were both grown 
 up, and would be on a different footing together. 
 
 When he took her in to dinner, she felt pleased and 
 a little excited. Any kind of feelings with her rose 
 slowly to the surface. It was like one of those great 
 waves which surge up from the depths of the sea, and 
 are slow to break because of their strength. 
 
 They did not talk much during dinner, but as soon 
 as Edgar came into the drawing-room he sat down by 
 her at the table where she was working with her two 
 friends. " How soon you have come," she said, looking 
 up with a bright smile. 
 
 " Too soon ? " he added, smiling also. 
 
 " Oh, no ; I did not mean that. On the contrary, 
 I was afraid Mr. Pratt and Mr. Hendon would have 
 kept you ages in the dining-room." 
 
 " What are you working ? " Edgar asked, taking 
 up a corner of the bit of stuff on her knees. 
 
 "A child's pinafore," she answered; "I can do 
 nothing but plain work. But look at that wonderful 
 thing Eliza is making." 
 
 Edgar glanced at the piece of silk in Miss Con- 
 way's hand. He smiled as his eyes met hers, and 
 looking towards the card table where Mrs. Gerald, 
 Mr. Hendon, and Mr. Pratt were about to sit down to 
 whist, he said, in a low voice, " What would Mr. Pratt 
 say to that piece of work ? " 
 
 " Would not he approve ? " Eliza inquired. 
 
 " Approve of a vestment ? The very sight of it, I 
 think, would give him a nervous attack." 
 
 " I am so sorry," she answered. " Perhaps I had 
 better put it by." 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Gerald asked Miss Conway if 
 she could play at whist ; and, when Eliza said " Yes," 
 she exclaimed, " Then do come and save us from 
 dummy; we are so tired of him." 
 
i6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Eliza immediately complied, and in a few minutes 
 Jane inquired if the pianoforte was Erard's or Col- 
 lard's ; upon which hint Annie spoke, and begged her 
 to play "that pretty thing Lc Zephir ;" and then 
 Edgar and she began to converse comfortably under 
 cover of the rattling execution of Jane's well-practised 
 fingers. Each time a piece came to an end, Annie 
 said, " How pretty that is ! Won't you play that 
 other pretty thing, Jane ? " and the pleasant noise 
 and the agreeable conversation went on in perfect 
 harmony. 
 
 " Annie, how beautiful Holmwood is looking," 
 Edgar said, drawing aside a little the curtain of the 
 window near which they were sitting. The moon was 
 shining on the lawn, on the grove, and on the river, 
 which was glittering in its rays like a ribbon of liquid 
 silver. It was nearly as bright as day. " It is almost 
 a shame," he added, " to be indoors on such a night 
 as this! " 
 
 " I am glad you admire Holmwood as much as ever," 
 Annie said. " I think it is in great beauty just now." 
 
 " I much more than admire it ; I love it as if it was 
 a person. I am afraid I should dislike any one who 
 did not appreciate Holmwood. To my mind there is 
 no place in the world to be compared to it." 
 
 " That is saying too much. There must be some 
 very beautiful places in the world, if we are to believe 
 travellers." 
 
 11 I am sure everybody would admit it to be one of 
 the loveliest places in England." 
 
 " Now you are getting more reasonable. England 
 is a small part of the world." 
 
 " Well, England is the world to me. I see the 
 beauties of other countries — I feel those of my own. 
 If ever I write a novel, I shall begin by describing 
 Holmwood." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 17 
 
 44 What will you say about it ? " 
 
 " That it is an old house, but not a gloomy one. 
 That not even the moonlight can make it look sad, 
 which is saying a great deal. Just before dinner, 
 Annie, I walked round the garden, and thought it 
 all looked so pretty, prettier than ever. I delight in 
 that dear old court, the vine, the fig-trees, the sun-dial, 
 and the sunflowers, the holly-hocks, the pigeon-house, 
 and, more than everything else, the archway and its 
 inscription." 
 
 "Oh, so do I. I repeat it very often — Nisi 
 Dominus edificavit domum, in vanum labovavevunl qui edificant 
 cam" 
 
 "Very well pronounced for a woman, Annie," ex- 
 claimed Edgar, laughing. " I am so glad to find that 
 you are worthy to possess this beautiful place of yours. 
 You used not, I think, to be so fond of it." 
 
 14 1 remember your being very angry with me three 
 years ago, because I was glad to go to London. You 
 always used to scold me for not liking it enough." 
 
 41 Yes, I know I am touchy on that point. Holm- 
 wood not only reminds me of the happiest days of my 
 life, but it is to me the type of the most beautiful de- 
 scriptions of scenery in the old English poets, and of 
 the good old times in English country life." 
 
 " Good old times ! Well, I never shall under- 
 stand . . . . " 
 
 "What, I wonder! " 
 
 44 I say I don't understand, and never shall, why 
 people will always call old times good times. Even 
 the Greeks and Romans did so." 
 
 " The Greeks and Romans ? why, Annie, I did not 
 know you were a classical scholar! " 
 
 44 Nonsense. I am not a scholar at all — but one of 
 the good things of these poor new times is that one 
 learns a little of everything." 
 
 c 
 
iS MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " I should sa}^ that it was one of the bad things of 
 the present day, and the reason why so few people 
 now know anything really well." 
 
 " But you will not deny that ever since good books 
 have been written they always speak of the past in 
 that way. I dare say a hundred or two hundred years 
 hence our great grand-children, if such people ever 
 exist, will be sighing over the wickedness of the twen- 
 tieth or twenty-first century, and calling this time the 
 good old time." 
 
 11 Well, the world may have really grown so wicked 
 by that time, that the present age may in comparison 
 seem good to them." 
 
 " But I do not believe that the world is getting so 
 wicked — worse, I mean, than it used to be." 
 
 " Do you know much about the world, Annie ? " 
 
 " I have read with Miss Rose no end of histories 
 of the world — Greek, Roman, French, English, ancient 
 and modern histories. It is rather hard to be told 
 after that that I know nothing about it." 
 
 " I only asked the question. I hope you will never 
 know much more of its wickedness than you learned 
 in the school-room. But we have lost sight of my 
 novel." 
 
 " Let us go back to it. You have described the 
 house ; you must now say something of the people 
 who live in it." 
 
 11 Oh, I did not bargain for that. How could I, 
 for instance, describe the mistress of Holmwood to 
 her face? " 
 
 "The mistress of Holmwood! How funny that 
 sounds ! I who am not even my own mistress." 
 
 " No, really ? I thought you had always managed 
 to have your own way ever since you were born." 
 
 "Now that is just the sort of thing people choose 
 to suppose. You would not at all fancy giving up 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 19 
 
 your own will as often as I do. But never mind about 
 that, I want you to describe me. It will be like look- 
 ing into a glass . . . . " 
 
 " And then going away, as the Bible says . . . . " 
 
 " Forgetting what manner of creature I am ? Very 
 likely ; but as I am not obliged to believe in you as 
 much as in the Bible, or even in the looking-glass, I will 
 take my chance, and hear what you have to say of 
 me. Here is a pencil and a bit of paper. Begin and 
 imagine you are writing a book." 
 
 Edgar mused a moment, with a half pensive, half 
 amused expression of countenance, as if collecting his 
 thoughts ; and then wrote rapidly, stopping now and 
 then to read sotto voce what he had scribbled. " This 
 enchanting abode, the sylvan beauties of which bring 
 to our recollection some of the prettiest descriptions in 
 Sir Philip Sydney's ' Arcadia,' owns for its mistress a 
 young lady. . . " 
 
 " Do not call me a young lady.''' 
 
 " Well a young woman .... 
 
 " That is still worse." 
 
 " A young girl." 
 
 *■' That sounds as if I was not more than fifteen." 
 
 " . . . . the descendant of one of the oldest families 
 in the county of . . . ." 
 
 " But I don't know if it is one of the oldest fami- 
 lies . . . ." 
 
 " Well, let that pass, as we are writing a novel .... 
 and one of the handsomest girls . . . ." 
 
 " I do not like to be called handsome, it is so much 
 nicer to be pretty." 
 
 " Her blue eyes and jet black hair give a somewhat 
 peculiar character to her .... prettiness. Her smile 
 is charming — her frown awful. If her mouth is rather 
 wide . . . ." 
 
 " I did not know it was." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " . . . . this defect is redeemed by the most brilliant, 
 white teeth . . . ." 
 
 " Come, I don't want to hear any more of that non- 
 sense. It is my character I wish described." 
 
 11 But I have not seen anything of it for two years- 
 It may be quite changed since that time." 
 
 " Say what you thought of it then, and I will tell 
 you if it is changed." 
 
 "Well, the merits of this young lady are, first, a 
 very honest, truthful nature. She would sooner have- 
 ner head cut off than tell an untruth. She never beats 
 about the bush to gain her end, but goes straight at it,. 
 even through thorns and briars. She has, on the 
 whole, a very good temper, but, like some climates we 
 read of, it is subject to rather violent storms. There 
 is a little stubbornness and not a little pride in her 
 character. She likes better to oblige others than to 
 own herself obliged to any one ; and when she is 
 offended at anything . . . ." 
 
 " Oh, now I know what you are going to say ! "' 
 
 " No, I am sure you don't." 
 
 " Yes ; you will say I am then like Helvellyn."' 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 M Don't you remember that you used to tease me 
 by repeating when I was angry that line that teaches 
 children to pronounce the letter H — 
 
 ' How high Helvellyn holds his haughty head ! ' " 
 
 " I assure you that I had quite forgotten that old 
 piece of impertinence of mine, and that now I should 
 not think of saying anything so rude." 
 
 " I suppose your description of my character is a 
 true one, and that it will be so to the end of my life. 
 I don't believe in characters changing." 
 
 11 Surely faults can be cured." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Have you ever known an ill-tempered person be- 
 come good-humoured, or a lazy one active ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have observed great changes of that kind ; 
 and, moreover, I believe the best tempers are those 
 which have been made so by effort and self-conquest, 
 and that the most indefatigable activity is that of an 
 indolent person who has become hard-working." 
 
 " How do you account for this ? " 
 
 II By the fact that mere natural good qualities are 
 not made of such solid stuff as those acquired with 
 labour and difficulty ; and then distrust of self is the 
 first condition of perseverance in goodness." 
 
 " That may be so. But still I think natural sweet- 
 ness of temper would always be more attractive than 
 the acquired self-control you speak of." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but attractiveness is a poor sort of 
 merit after all. It is a charm, but not a virtue." 
 
 " It is like sunshine, I think ; whereas the other kind 
 of good temper is like gas-light or candle-light — always 
 the same, but without warmth or brightness." 
 
 " I think I could convince you of the contrary. 
 Think the matter over, and watch those two sorts of 
 dispositions." 
 
 II I will. Every time I make a new acquaintance, I 
 shall try to discover if they were born good-tempered 
 or made themselves so ; and I will tell you which I 
 find the pleasantest." 
 
 11 By the way, talking of new acquaintances, have 
 you seen yet Mr. Hendon's sister-in-law, Lady 
 Emily ? " 
 
 " No, she does not arrive till to-morrow. It is a 
 great many years since she has been at Marchbanks." 
 
 " I heard in London that she has a young girl with 
 her." 
 
 " Yes ; Mr. Hendon told us about her. She is the 
 daughter, I believe, of some friends of Lady Emily's 
 
MRS.- GERALD'S NJECj 
 
 who died abroad. Her name is Miss Flower. ' We 
 shall be obliged to see a great deal of her, I suppose.'' 
 
 " I have heard that your friend Miss Conway is a 
 very delightful person." 
 
 " Oh, yes; she is so good and clever, and not tire- 
 some about it." 
 
 Edgar laughed. 
 
 " Well, but some good and clever people an tire- 
 some. I think, if it is not high treason to say so, that 
 Lady Emma Cars is one of them. She is not plea- 
 santly good, like Eliza." 
 
 " I dare say not ; I am very glad you like Miss 
 Conway." 
 
 " Ah ! I see they have finished their rubber. I 
 wonder who won. Mr. Pratt, have you won ? " 
 
 " No, Miss Annie, I have lost eighteen-pence. But 
 it was not Fortune's fault. I revoked, and my partner 
 bore it like an angel." 
 
 " I was only too glad," Eliza said, with a smile, 
 " that that one great crime covered my numerous mis- 
 deeds." 
 
 The good clergyman smiled too, and soon afterwards 
 took his leave. He was a venerable, gentle-looking 
 old man, with a kind and simple manner which pre- 
 possessed every one in his favour. When he had left 
 the room, Mr. Hendon said — 
 
 " Dear old Pratt is much aged lately." 
 
 " He has had many annoyances this year," Mrs. 
 Gerald answered. " W^hen he went away last spring, 
 the young curate who did duty for him introduced 
 into his church some of the novelties which are now 
 the fashion, and when he came back many of his 
 parishioners were not at all pleased that he suppressed 
 them." 
 
 Eliza Conway's face flushed a little, and Edgar bit 
 his lip. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 23 
 
 " Was daily service one of those innovations ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes," his aunt replied. "And early communion, 
 too, on Sundays. And then Mr. Rolles put a cross of 
 flowers over the altar, and made a wretched attempt 
 at teaching the school children to chant. This sort 
 of thing should not be attempted unless it can be done 
 properly. Our beautiful Liturgy, when it is well read, 
 is far more impressive than abortive attempts at a 
 choral service." 
 
 " But does not that depend on the sort of persons 
 whom we wish should be impressed ? " Edgar said. 
 11 Paintings and music, which appear to us very im- 
 perfect, often may and do excite devotion in unedu- 
 cated people." 
 
 " Of course they do," Mr. Hendon cried. " I have 
 seen peasants abroad praying most fervently before 
 some ugly, tawdrily-dressed image of the Madonna, 
 which would have made educated persons smile." 
 
 " But I do not call that ignorant fervour real devo- 
 tion," Mrs. Gerald exclaimed. 
 
 "Well, I remember," Mr. Hendon said, "observing 
 one day a woman kneeling at Lagheto before a statue 
 of the Virgin, praying with outstretched arms and 
 streaming eyes. She cried over and over again, 
 1 Madre mia, ho quattro fanciulli, e sono fuor di testa. 
 Capisce, Madre mia ? ' (' My mother, I have four 
 children, and I am out of my mind. Do you under- 
 stand me, my mother ? ') There was something in that 
 simple statement of a terrible fact, and the urgency 
 with which it was repeated by the poor insane creature, 
 that seemed to me more like real prayer than anything 
 I have ever heard or witnessed in our churches." 
 
 " I suppose," Mrs. Gerald rejoined, "that a rational 
 religion would not suit the insane, but you must excuse 
 me if I think that this is no reflection upon it." 
 
24 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Have we not all a ' petit coin de folie,' which 
 it would be well to take oftener into account ? " 
 Mr. Hendon said. 
 
 11 Surely," Edgar began — he was fond of beginning 
 his sentences in that way — " surely, we may impart 
 beauty to our services, and enlist imagination, which 
 is, after all, one of God's greatest gifts to men, in the 
 cause of religion, and yet avoid the blamable lengths 
 to which Roman Catholics carry outward practices of 
 devotion." 
 
 " I do not myself object to anything in good taste," 
 Mrs. Gerald said. 
 
 " I did not like what Mr. Rolles did," Annie ob- 
 served, " because it vexed dear Mr. Pratt, and he said 
 things about him I cannot forgive. He called him a 
 heretic. I am sure he is much more of a heretic 
 himself." 
 
 " Are you certain, Annie," Edgar whispered, " that 
 you know what it means to be a heretic ? " 
 
 II It is something bad," she quickly answered, " and 
 I know no one so good as Mr. Pratt." 
 
 Edgar was preparing to answer that argument, but 
 Mrs. Gerald changed the subject by asking Mr. Hendon 
 how long it was since Lady Emily had been at March- 
 banks. 
 
 ''More than twenty-two years," he replied. 
 
 " This is the first time since my brother's death 
 that I have been able to prevail upon her to pay me 
 a visit. I hope she will spend all the autumn with 
 me, and that it will be a fine one. She has lived so 
 entirely abroad, and is so delicate, that I am rather 
 anxious about her. You remember Lady Emily, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. We used [to meet very often in former 
 days." 
 
 II I hope Miss Derwent will be pleased with my 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 25 
 
 sister-in-law's adopted daughter, Miss Flower. If she 
 is as attractive now as she was when I last saw her, 
 four or five years ago, she must be a very engaging 
 little person." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald said she was sure Annie would be 
 delighted to make acquaintance with Miss Flower. 
 
 Annie made no remark. 
 
 As Mr. Hendon was going away, he said, " I hear 
 the Carsdales are going to give a ball for Lord Cars- 
 down's coming of age." 
 
 " So I have been told," Mrs. Gerald said. " If we 
 are asked, I think we must go. It will be, strange to 
 say, Annie's first ball." 
 
 " I may tell Lady Emily you will soon come to see 
 her?" 
 
 " Certainly, I will," Mrs. Gerald answered, and then 
 Mr. Hendon departed. 
 
 The ladies lighted their candles, and went to bed. 
 Edgar walked on the terrace, and smoked a cigar. 
 The night was beautiful — the sky perfectly cloudless 
 and starry. Not a breath of air stirred the leaves — ■ 
 no sound reached the ear except the murmur of the 
 little river. 
 
 "Dear, dear old place, I love you better than ever! " 
 he thought, or perhaps exclaimed, for the window of 
 Annie's room was open, and she heard, or fancied she 
 heard, him say those words ; and she smiled as she 
 looked at the view, which she had never before admired 
 half as much. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald went into Annie's room, as she often did 
 the last thing at night. She found her, having just 
 closed the window, and sitting before her dressing- 
 table in a pensive attitude. She kissed her, and said 
 — " I hope you have been amused and happy to-night, 
 my darling ? " 
 
 " Yes, very happy indeed. I am so glad Edgar likes 
 Eliza. I thought he would. We are such a snug, 
 comfortable party just as we are, I hope nobody else 
 will come. Oh, Aunt Gerald ! that Miss Flower I 
 Shall we be obliged to see much of her ? " 
 
 " It will be difficult to help it. But let us hope for 
 the best ; from what Mr. Hendon said she is likely to 
 be pleasing. Perhaps she will prove a pleasant addi- 
 tion to our society." 
 
 " I do not want any additions to it." 
 
 11 You did not take too long a walk to-day? I hope 
 you did not overtire yourself? " 
 
 It was one of Mrs. Gerald's peculiarities to be in 
 constant fear of fatigue for Annie, who was really as 
 strong as a little horse. 
 
 "Tired," she exclaimed, bursting out laughing; 
 " what, with walking once round the Park ! You know 
 I am never tired when I am amused." 
 
 " You seemed to get on very well this evening with 
 Edgar. I never saw you talk so much to any one 
 before, I think, except the Conways." 
 
 " It is very easy to talk to him. It seemed so 
 natural. Don't you think he is grown very hand- 
 some ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 27 
 
 " Yes, and he looks so refined — so distinguished. " 
 
 "And you can't think how enthusiastic he is about 
 Holmwood. He does not think I am half as fond of 
 it as I ought to be." 
 
 " I hope he is mistaken there, dearest Annie ; I 
 flatter myself you are getting every day more alive to 
 its beauties, more grateful for the possession of such a 
 place, and more anxious to fulfil your duties towards 
 those whom Providence has, in a certain sense, placed 
 under your care." 
 
 " Oh yes. Did you remember to speak to Davis 
 about the croquet ground ? Jane would like to play, 
 I know." 
 
 M He will come to-morrow morning to receive your 
 directions about it." 
 
 " I must go after breakfast to-morrow to the East 
 Lodge to see Nancy Drake ; Mr. Pratt says she wants 
 some broth. Edgar will walk there with Eliza and 
 me." 
 
 " You must not go there if she has a fever, my 
 love." 
 
 "She has broken her leg. That is not catching," 
 Annie replied, looking at her aunt in a triumphant 
 manner. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald kissed her over and over again, and 
 then wished her good-night. Before going to bed 
 she wrote the following letter to Miss Rose, who had 
 been Annie's governess. She was now settled in Lon- 
 don as a music-mistress. 
 
 " My dear Miss Rose, — I must write a few lines 
 to tell you that Edgar arrived today. As far as I can 
 judge, he is as much as ever all I could wish. Amiable 
 and pleasing in manner, and, moreover, much hand- 
 somer than I used to think he would be. There is 
 great beauty in the expression of his brow and eyes, 
 
28 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 and something refined and intellectual in his coun- 
 tenance, which recalled to my recollection Mrs. Norton's 
 lines — 
 
 ' Pale to transparency the pensive face, 
 Pale not with sickness but with studious thought, 
 The body tasked — the fine mind overwrought. 
 With something faint and fragile in the whole, 
 As though 'twere but a lamp to hold a soul.' 
 
 " Annie seems delighted with her cousin, and shows 
 it in her own charming, unaffected manner. It would 
 be a great happiness to me if the affection which al- 
 ways existed between her and Edgar as children should 
 now assume a different character, and they were to 
 marry. It has always been my wish, and I am giving 
 him now, as it were, the first chance of winning this great 
 prize, which so many would try for if I allowed them 
 the opportunity. I know so well the strength of 
 Edgar's principles and the goodness of his heart, that 
 I should not hesitate to confide Annie's happiness to 
 his keeping. Of course, few girls would have so many 
 opportunities of marrying in what is called a brilliant 
 manner as this dear child. But that is the very reason 
 why I dread taking her into society, where she would 
 become an object of interest and pursuit to persons ( 
 bent on making or mending their fortunes, and run 
 the risk of attaching herself to a man not sincerely 
 devoted to her. 
 
 " There is another reason, perhaps a foolish one, 
 which makes me, I own, very much wish her to marry 
 Edgar. If it had not been for her narrow escape from 
 death when a baby, he would have inherited this large 
 property and this place, which you know he is so pas- 
 sionately fond of. Twice she was nearly dying : on 
 that fatal day when both her parents perished ; and 
 again, a year or two afterwards, by a long lingering 
 illness. When she was slowly recovering at Nice, where 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 29 
 
 she spent the early years of her life, Edgar came there 
 with his mother, the present Mrs. Langdon. His father 
 (my brother Herbert) had not long survived poor Robert 
 and his wife. He was then a little fellow, about six or 
 seven years of age, and proved at that time the greatest 
 of comforts to his tiny cousin. She was so delicate that 
 I could not venture to let her play with other children, 
 but he was so gentle and sensible that he could be 
 trusted with her, and the society of her young com- 
 panion did her more good than any medicine. I dated 
 her recovery from the time when she began to play 
 with him in the garden of the Villa Bianca. They 
 used to stay .out for hours together, creeping under the 
 orange-trees, building houses with cones, or digging 
 trenches in the sand. 1 can see them now ; the strong 
 rosy boy full of health and vigour, and the pale wee 
 toddling creature trotting after him, or sitting on his 
 knees, looking like a wax doll. He seeming almost 
 afraid of hurting the fragile little thing, by touching 
 her, while she cuffed him and tyrannized over him with 
 all the pretty despotism of indulged infancy. Even 
 then I remember thinking that they might perhaps one 
 day marry, and possess together this place which neither 
 of my brothers lived to enjoy. This evening, seventeen 
 years afterwards, here at Holmwood, as I saw them 
 sitting together on the sofa near the window, I was 
 musing on the change which time had wrought. The 
 pale, delicate infant grown into our healthy blooming 
 Annie, and the robust, rosy boy of former days turned 
 into a grave, thoughtful-looking man. Both still hand- 
 some, each in their way, but so different from what 
 they were as children. And now you may imagine, 
 dear Miss Rose, how anxiously I wait to see what 
 course things will take. 
 
 " You sometimes see Edgar's mother. I should have 
 no objection to your giving her a hint of my feelings 
 
3 o MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 on the subject.' Under the circumstances it is clear 
 that he could hardly think of such a thing himself 
 without some very decided encouragement from Annie 
 herself and from me. What amount of encouragement 
 she may give him remains to be seen, but there would 
 be no harm in his knowing that if she wished to marry 
 him I should offer no opposition to that wish. 
 
 " I have never been on terms of intimacy with my 
 sister-in-law. I could not speak, and still less write, 
 to her on the subject ; but a remark which would seem 
 to come from yourself might be a sufficient hint, and 
 yet not commit us in any way. 
 
 "I will soon write again, for I know how anxious 
 you are to hear everything about Annie. I wish you 
 were here ; I miss our conversations in the school-room ; 
 you are the only person to whom I can speak of her 
 without reserve. 
 
 11 Yours affectionately, 
 
 "M. Gerald." 
 
 When Mrs. Gerald had written, sealed, and directed 
 this letter, she went to one side of her bed-room and 
 drew aside a silk curtain which covered the pictures of 
 several members of her family who were dead. She 
 kept their portraits in a sort of sacred seclusion. What 
 to many persons is a consolation — the hourly sight ; 
 amidst the occupations and business, the joys and 
 trials of life, of loved faces which were once the 
 objects of hopes or of cares which made life happy 
 or anxious, of faces never again to be seen in this 
 world — was to Mrs. Gerald a pain too acute to endure. 
 She never would look at them except when alone. 
 Amongst these pictures there was one of Annie's 
 mother, with Annie herself in her arms when a baby 
 of a few months old. It had been painted in Florence 
 a short time before Mrs. Derwent's death. Annie 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 31 
 
 used sometimes to go into her aunt's room, when she 
 knew she was out, to have a good look at these family 
 portraits. There was a half-length picture of her 
 father, and some small sketches of him as a boy. One 
 also of Edgar's father, of Mrs. Gerald's parents, and 
 her husband. That evening the curtain was lifted up, 
 and Mrs. Gerald stood for a few minutes gazing first 
 on one and then on the other of those pictures, with 
 a thoughtful, scrutinizing look. Especially she fixed 
 her eyes long and wistfully on the portrait of Annie's 
 mother, and sighed deeply as she turned away. 
 
 On the following morning, Jane and Annie played 
 duets together, Eliza wrote letters in her room, and 
 Edgar read in the library. When at about one o'clock 
 Annie came in to fetch a book for her aunt, he looked 
 up and said, " Are you a worthy possessor of this de- 
 lightful library, Annie ? Do you make much use of 
 these charming books ? " 
 
 She shook her head, and answered with a smile, 
 " ' Vous vous moquez de moi,' as M. Legrand said 
 when I asked him if he could teach me the figure of 
 an English country dance. No, I have not, unfortu- 
 nately, any taste for reading." 
 
 " You don't say so ? I could hardly have believed 
 this possible for any one brought up by Aunt Gerald." 
 
 " She cannot believe it herself. I assure you that 
 she labours under the illusion that I read a great deal 
 — at odd times, she says. I have heard her tell people 
 so. Have you not observed that she has a wonderful 
 talent for believing whatever she wishes ? It provokes 
 me very much sometimes. I don't know if it is right 
 or not to let people go on thinking things are true 
 when they are not so, if it gives them pleasure." 
 
 " If the illusion does not do them nor any one else 
 harm, I suppose you are not bound to dispel it." 
 
 " Oh, as to dispelling Aunt Gerald's notions, it 
 
32 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 would be quite labour thrown away to attempt it. All 
 I can do is to protest against them." 
 
 " Suppose you were, in this one instance, to turn 
 her illusion into a reality." 
 
 " By reading more, you mean ? Well, perhaps I 
 may try that some day. I suppose a library is quite a 
 paradise to you ? " 
 
 " It is a great enjoyment, and this particular library 
 is such an available one. The books are so close at 
 hand, so easily reached, and so well arranged. There 
 is a combined smell of flowers and of books here which 
 is very delightful, and I have been reading since 
 breakfast without a single interruption." 
 
 " Did not the playing in the next room disturb you ? " 
 
 11 Not at all. The quadrilles did not interfere in the 
 least with my enjoyment of the 'Idylls.' " 
 
 " What ! were you reading doleful poems? I wonder, 
 then, that our merry tunes did not bother you." 
 
 " No, gay music always gives me a feeling of plea- 
 sant sadness — if those two words can go together — so 
 there was no discordancy between the impressions 
 produced by Tennyson's poetry " 
 
 "And our strumming! Well, I'm glad of it." 
 
 " Is music your favourite occupation ? " 
 
 "No, what I like best is work — plain work, at least. 
 Gardening also amuses me, but there is such a fuss 
 made about my not standing in the sun, or in the wet, 
 that it ends by being tiresome. I believe I like nothing 
 so much as riding. Will you ride with me this after- 
 noon ? I want to take you to see the new road across 
 the Park, and the summer-house we have built at the 
 top of Lonehill." 
 
 " I shall like it very much. Do your friends ride 
 too?" 
 
 "Jane does, and, Eliza will drive in the pony chaise 
 with Aunt Gerald." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 33 
 
 So Annie had planned, and so it happened, except 
 that Jane had a headache, and would not go out ; so 
 she and her cousin had, in consequence, another long 
 conversation, in the course of which she found out 
 that he was very High Church, which vexed her a 
 little. Not that she had any clear ideas herself on the 
 subject of churches, high or low, or broad, but because 
 he would not now, she was afraid, like Mr. Pratt, or 
 Mr. Pratt's sermons, as much as she wished him to 
 do. They stopped at the parsonage on their way 
 home and paid the clergyman a visit. They found 
 him, having just finished his five o'clock dinner, and 
 sitting by the window which overlooked his garden 
 watching his bee-hives, a favourite amusement of his, 
 and one which Annie had often shared. " To go and 
 see Mr. Pratt's bees," had been held out to her, and 
 indeed always proved through her childhood an extra- 
 ordinary treat. A pleased smile beamed on the old 
 man's face as he saw the cousins dismount and walk 
 up the narrow approach to his house. 
 
 " Welcome, Miss Annie," he said. " How do you 
 do, Mr. Edgar ? It is some time, Miss Annie, since 
 you have paid my bees and me a visit. ' How doth 
 the little busy bee improve each shining hour.' Eh ? 
 Do you remember my teaching you that hymn the first 
 time you ever came to see me after you arrived from 
 abroad?" 
 
 " Yes, of course I do ; and have not I been ever 
 since ' gathering honey from every opening flower ? ' " 
 
 " Well, my dear, I hope you have. There is a pretty 
 lesson in that line. The world is divided between 
 those who go about gathering honey, like my good 
 bees, and those that sting and leave poison behind 
 them, like idle, mischievous wasps. Have you been 
 showing Mr. Derwent all the new improvements, as 
 you call them ? I do not know that I think them all 
 
 D 
 
34 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 improvements, but then I am an old man, and I dislike 
 changes and novelties of every kind." 
 
 This, he said, kindly but pointedly, as he looked at 
 Edgar, who coloured a little, and replied, " But do 
 you not think it desirable to build up again the ruins 
 of the past ? " 
 
 " To build up ruins, my dear sir, is a hazardous 
 undertaking, and an imprudent one I think, if, in order 
 to accomplish it, you pull down a good serviceable 
 house, as my friend Mr. Bayley did at Rangeside. In 
 trying to restore part of his mansion, which was old, 
 he pulled to pieces the remainder, which had been 
 inhabited by his father and his ancestors for many 
 generations." 
 
 Edgar smiled and said, " You are speaking allegori- 
 cally I suppose, Mr. Pratt ? " 
 
 14 Well, I confess, my dear sir, I am afraid that with 
 those new ideas of reviving old practices, the good 
 people of this day will pull down our Protestant 
 Church of England and deal a fatal blow to the 
 reformed religion." 
 
 Edgar winced at the word Protestant. He had been 
 associating with members of the Church of England 
 who repudiated the name of Protestant, and called 
 Protestantism a heresy. It was very painful to him to 
 hear an Anglican clergyman use that obnoxious word. 
 It vexed, it shocked him very much, and yet what 
 could he say ? It was difficult, indeed almost impos- 
 sible, to give expression to this feeling. To persons of 
 advanced age in England, there is something so pre- 
 posterous in the idea that the Church which they have 
 always considered to be Protestant, and which was 
 universally accepted as such till within the last few 
 years, is not so, that it would really require some 
 degree of moral courage to make the assertion in their 
 presence. An old-fashioned clergyman of the Church 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 35 
 
 of England, surrounded by Ritualists, must feel some- 
 what as a sane man would do if accidentally shut up 
 in a lunatic asylum. Such a one might hear those 
 about him declare so confidently that they were 
 emperors or kings, that he might, after a while, almost 
 question his own sanity in disbelieving their assertions. 
 Perhaps, after all, they might be in their right mind, 
 and he himself insane. Certainly, if anybody had 
 attempted to prove to Mr. Pratt that England was not 
 an island, he would not have been more taken by 
 surprise than by being told that its church was not 
 Protestant. 
 
 Edgar felt a consciousness of this, and said nothing 
 in reply to his last remark ; and Annie, in order to 
 change the subject, began to speak of the approaching 
 school feast, and of the number of buns and pounds 
 of tea which would be required. She saw her cousin 
 in the meantime taking up one after another the books 
 on the table, and putting them down again with a look 
 of annoyance. This disturbed her calculations, and 
 she had to go over them a second time. 
 
 When that part of the business was accomplished, 
 Mr. Pratt said, " I have just seen Mr. Hendon's car- 
 riage drive by with Lady Emily in it. She is not as 
 much altered as I should have expected. I should 
 have known her again, though it is now twenty-three 
 years since she went away." 
 
 " Did you see if her ward, Miss Flower, was with 
 them?" 
 
 " There was a young lady by her side. I did not 
 know who it was." 
 
 Edgar made an effort to join in the conversation., 
 " I wonder if there is more of pain or of pleasure in 
 this return after so long an absence." 
 
 " I should think there must be a great deal of heart- 
 ache in it. Mr. Charles Hendon died here quite. 
 
36 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 suddenly, and he was not the sort of man one would 
 have wished to see die in that way." 
 
 " I am curious to know," Annie said, " if I shall 
 like Miss Flower. What did you think of her looks? " 
 
 " I scarcely saw her. They passed very quickly, 
 and I was thinking only of Lady Emily." 
 
 After a little more talk on various subjects, the 
 young people took leave of Mr. Pratt. He wished 
 them a pleasant ride home. The parsonage was at 
 one end of Holmwood Park, about half a mile from 
 the house. 
 
 " By the way," Annie said, turning back, "may 
 I have the key of the church ? Edgar wants to go 
 into it, and it is always locked." 
 
 " The sexton has got the key, my dear ; but there is 
 nothing new to be seen since your cousin was here 
 before." 
 
 " But he says that when he was abroad he often 
 went into the churches, which were always open. I 
 think," she added, lowering her voice, "that he likes 
 saying his prayers there." 
 
 " Well, my dear, it is always a good thing to pray ; 
 but I read in the Bible that we are to go into our 
 closets, and shut the door, that men may not see us 
 praying ; and except at the time of public worship, I 
 own I think we may as well keep to that precept. I 
 do not see myself what there is in an empty church to 
 help us in our prayers." 
 
 " Nothing certainly," Edgar answered, " unless there 
 are in it objects which excite holy thoughts, and aid 
 us to lift up our souls to God. In many of our 
 churches now we do find such objects." 
 
 " You will not find anything Popish in mine, dear 
 Mr. Derwent. God forbid I should speak harshly of 
 any class of Christians, but as long as I live I will 
 resist the introduction amongst us of practices which 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 37 
 
 lead to errors of doctrine, and to a mode of worship 
 quite inconsistent with the spirit of our reformed 
 church." 
 
 Edgar did not make any reply, but looked pained. 
 Annie got upon her horse. Her old friend gathered 
 a bunch of Banksia roses, and as he gave them to her 
 whispered — 
 
 " You can have the key of the church, my dear, 
 as often as you want it. I am always glad to find a 
 young man caring about saying his prayers, wherever 
 it may be ; and your cousin seems a thoughtful kind 
 of person, not giddy — ' fast,' I think, they call it now- 
 a-days — as so many young people are. Only I hope 
 he will not make you a Puseyite. I should be sorry, 
 my dear, very sorry, if you were ever to be ashamed of 
 calling yourself a Protestant." 
 
 "How could I ever be ashamed of being what you 
 are ! " exclaimed Annie, smiling affectionately on the 
 old man. " But I am glad you are not displeased 
 with Edgar. I want you to like him, because," she 
 lowered her voice a little, and added, " because I like 
 him very much — more than ever." 
 
 11 Mr. Pratt smiled too, and said, as they rode off, 
 " God bless you both." 
 
 He stood a moment shading his eyes with his 
 hand from the slanting rays of the afternoon sun ; 
 and when they were out of sight he returned to his 
 bee-hives, and sat thoughtfully musing on the visit he 
 had received. 
 
 " Dear me ! " he murmured to himself, " what a pity 
 it is that young men in our days cannot be contented 
 with reading their Bibles, and being quiet, practical 
 Christians. If they think of their souls at all, they 
 must be taking up all sorts of strange crotchets, and 
 unsettling people's minds. This cousin of my little 
 Annie's seems a good sort of youth, I saw he was 
 
38 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 vexed at what I said about the Puseyites ; but he did 
 not tell me to my face, as Mr. Rolles did, that I had 
 been teaching heresy all my life, and did not under- 
 stand the Prayer-book, which I used and loved long 
 before he was born." 
 
 Everything seemed to promise well for the fulfilment 
 of Mrs. Gerald's wishes. Edgar had been more 
 than a fortnight at Holmwood. Annie was apparently 
 delighted with his society, and he showed no disinclina- 
 tian to prolong his visit. Miss Rose had written that 
 she had not seen Mrs. Langdon since she had received 
 Mrs. Gerald's letter, but that when she had an oppor- 
 tunity of doing so she should not fail to convey 
 the important intimation. Mrs. Gerald did not regret 
 the delay ; on the contrary. It would be all the better 
 that a little more time should elapse before the hint 
 was conveyed to Edgar, and there could be no doubt 
 his mother would lose no time in doing so, when once 
 in possession of the fact. 
 
 Towards the end of July, several days of almost 
 ceaseless rain confined to the house Annie Derwent 
 and her friends. Time, however, did not hang heavy 
 on their hands. Eliza Conway had plenty to occupy 
 her mind, and Jane had no mind to occupy, or at any 
 rate so small a one that a little stitching, a little music, 
 and a very little thinking were enough to fill it. Mrs. 
 Gerald and Eliza Conway conversed a great deal with 
 Edgar, and Annie listened attentively; less, perhaps, 
 that she cared much for the subject of these conversa- 
 tions, than because she liked to hear her cousin talk. 
 Mrs. Gerald often introduced topics of discourse that 
 related to politics and literature. Edgar and Eliza 
 eagerly entered on these discussions, but did not confine 
 themselves to the limits she would have been inclined 
 to assign to them, such as the state of political parties 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 39 
 
 and the comparative merits of different books and 
 authors. With the spirit of the present generation 
 strong within them, they plunged into the social and 
 religious questions of the day, and descanted upon 
 them with all the fervour of youth and inexperience, 
 and the ardent interest which the actual state of the 
 world, and our own country in particular, excites in 
 earnest natures. For everything now in politics and 
 literature, whatever relates to the fate of nations or 
 affects the course of legislature, is connected with the 
 creeds of men, and bears directly or indirectly on 
 those all important questions, " Church or no Church," 
 " Faith or no faith," and, as far as the world's verdict 
 goes, " God or no God." 
 
 Christianity has never been, perhaps, so openly 
 blasphemed, in the ears of the multitude at least, so 
 intensely hated, so violently attacked, as at the present 
 day ; but never, also, has it been less despised and less 
 ignored. Whereas, some of the most popular authors 
 of the beginning of this century could write volume 
 upon volume of fiction with hardly a word in them in- 
 dicating that the thought of it ever crossed their minds ; 
 now scarcely a book of any sort is published which 
 does not take sides for or against religion, or attempt 
 to reconcile the denial of revealed truth with a vague 
 adherence to some nameless faith. Atheism itself has 
 become a sect, and despair a creed. Religious forms 
 of speech are borrowed by the sceptic, and sentimental 
 allusions to an unknown God, wind up with open 
 attacks and covert sneers. On the other hand, no real 
 Christian, of any denomination, can treat of the reali- 
 ties of life, or picture in fiction its mysteries of sorrow 
 and joy, without reference to the supernatural truths 
 which influence the souls of men. While democracy 
 rises like a surging sea, and men feel that, whether for 
 good or for evil, the masses of their fellow-creatures 
 
4 o MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 must gain more and more power, the more eager, 
 strong, intense, becomes the desire of the Christian 
 and the Atheist, of the Catholic and the Infidel, to win 
 them to hold or to deny, to retain or to abjure the 
 faith which stands like a battered fortress, incessantly- 
 assailed by fresh enemies, but eternally defended by 
 new combatants. The immense change in England 
 with regard to the books which take the greatest hold 
 on the mind of youthful readers of the better sort, of 
 those that shun in fiction unwholesome excitement, is 
 strikingly exemplified when we contrast the works of 
 Miss Edgeworth with those of Miss Sewell, those of 
 Miss Austin with Miss Yonge's. Even Sir Walter 
 Scott's novels have almost ceased to charm the present 
 generation. Stirring descriptions of historical events, 
 glowing pictures of the pageantries of past ages, have 
 far less interest, even for the young, than the analysis 
 of character and revelations of a hidden life, which are 
 often contained in the writings of the present day. 
 Whatever treats of inward conflicts, secret perplexities, 
 and the various trials of individual minds and hearts, 
 necessarily commands attention at a moment when 
 anything that can throw light on the difficulties which 
 so many are experiencing may tend, even remotely, to 
 their solution. 
 
 Edgar and Miss Conway shared the tendency of 
 their generation in this respect. They had already 
 taken their side in the most important point at issue 
 in the religious community to which they belonged. 
 The revival of Catholic doctrine and practice in the 
 Anglican Church excited to the uttermost their sym- 
 pathy and enthusiasm. Both of them had been lately 
 living in London, and had been actively engaged in 
 works of charity in connection with the Established 
 Church. Miss Conway was intelligent, well-informed, 
 conscientious — capable of laying down her life had it 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 41 
 
 been necessary for a principle, a friend, or a fallacy. 
 Although naturally most honest and truthful, she had 
 an extraordinary power of shutting her eyes to the 
 clearest amount of evidence if it told against her own 
 views, and disliked the society of those who differed 
 from her ; not from any unamiable feeling towards 
 them, but because it gave her absolute pain to hear a 
 doubt expressed or implied with regard to the theory 
 on which she rested her faith. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald, on the contrary, delighted in dis- 
 cussion ; she was an extremely candid and liberal 
 person, and objected to no opinions which did not 
 involve disagreeable practical conclusions. She had 
 very great skill in drawing out people in conversation, 
 and leading them to express their ideas, and a way of 
 listening, which conveyed the impression that though 
 she did not altogether agree with them, there was, 
 nevertheless, a great deal in what they said which 
 struck her very much. She always seemed ready to 
 give a favourable construction to the opinions of 
 others, and to allow the most she could for their side 
 of the question. It was in this manner that she lent 
 a willing ear to Edgar's Anglo-Catholic views. At 
 first she had felt uneasy from the fear that some 
 Romish tendencies might exist in his mind. But 
 when she found that he was decidedly averse to 
 Romanism, and that in answer to some remark she 
 made on recent secessions, he made a most energetic 
 protest against what he called the sin of abandoning 
 " the Church of our baptism," she was quite reassured, 
 and, without adopting his opinions, was willing to 
 extend to them the utmost indulgence. 
 
 As to Annie, she neither understood, nor approved, 
 nor sympathized with her cousin's opinions ; but she 
 admired him. It was quite new to her to hear any 
 one, and especially a young man, speak of religion in 
 
42 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 the earnest way he did. She had been used to think 
 it rather a dull subject than otherwise. It had not 
 much occupied her thoughts. She had followed the 
 daily routine to which she had been accustomed from 
 childhood. Whatever Miss Rose had told her was 
 right to do she did, and what Mr. Pratt had taught 
 her she believed. The books through which she had 
 learnt history and ethics, were, on the whole, guiltless 
 of having imparted to her mind any particular shades 
 of opinion, beyond a general idea that Catholicism 
 was wrong, and Protestantism right ; but no reflections 
 on the subject, or comparison in her own thoughts 
 between different creeds, had ever disturbed or even 
 occupied her mind. Since she had known Eliza Con- 
 way, indeed, she had sometimes felt surprised at her 
 saying things that seemed to her very different from 
 what she had ever learnt in the school-room, or heard 
 from the pulpit ; but her attention had not been roused, 
 and she had taken little heed of them. But it was 
 very different now that she listened to Edgar talking 
 " on serious subjects," as Miss Rose used to call them. 
 It was with awe and pleasure, though sometimes with 
 a little uneasiness also, that she watched his eager 
 countenance, when he was broaching what seemed to 
 her new and startling doctrines. Perhaps the very 
 novelty of his opinions interested her in his favour ; 
 they implied belief in what was more supernatural 
 than anything she had ever been taught about religion. 
 She did not feel the least inclined to adopt those views; 
 but by a strange, yet not uncommon inconsistency, 
 she liked him the better for holding them. 
 
 He was pleased at the attentive way in which she 
 listened to him ; for he had been afraid, from what he 
 had heard, that she would take very little interest in 
 the questions he had most at heart. At first he hoped 
 -Annie might be easily made into a good churchwoman ; 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 43 
 
 but though she did not oppose anything he said, he 
 soon perceived that he was not making any impression 
 upon her. She did not show any disposition to adopt 
 the opinions of the school to which he belonged. The 
 fact was that her plain, straightforward, unimaginative 
 mind was incapable of admitting the idea that the 
 Protestant Church, in which she had been educated, 
 was, after all, not a Protestant Church. Everything 
 she had ever been taught or read now came back to 
 her mind, and in the midst of Edgar's learned expla- 
 nations and appeals to antiquity she kept saying 
 sometimes to herself and sometimes aloud, " But for 
 all that, I am a. Protestant." He was vexed at this 
 one day, and answered, " I am afraid so, Annie." This 
 made her a little angry. Hers was not one of those 
 womanly natures which are always ready to follow in 
 the wake of those they love. If she had been ever so 
 much attached to any one, it would not have influenced 
 her on such points. It might even have induced her 
 to remain more immovably attached to the ideas in- 
 stilled into her in childhood. Nevertheless, she would 
 have been perhaps less attracted by her cousin, less 
 occupied about him, less inclined to muse over what 
 he said and thought, if he had not held this new faith, 
 or led in many respects a different life from other 
 people ; if he had been, like herself, a Christian and a 
 churchman after Mr. Pratt's fashion. 
 
 One chilly afternoon, towards the end of the third 
 week in July, Mrs. Gerald was sitting with Annie, over 
 a wood fire in her own room. The conversation turned, 
 not an unusual occurrence, on Edgar's merits. 
 
 11 There is something so noble, so generous about 
 him," Mrs. Gerald said. " Some of his ideas are a 
 little enthusiastic and eccentric ; but this is so often 
 the case with clever people that it does not surprise or 
 alarm me." 
 
44 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 11 1 suppose it is because he is so clever that I some- 
 times feel frightened when I talk to him." 
 
 " Do you feel afraid of him, my love ? I thought 
 you seemed quite at your ease with Edgar." 
 
 " I am never shy with anybody. It is not that sort 
 of feeling I mean, but I am puzzled by the things he 
 says — about religion, for instance. I cannot argue 
 with him. I am not clever enough. But it is all quite 
 different from what Mr. Pratt thinks, and a clergyman, 
 after all, ought to know best." 
 
 " I do not think, my love, that you ought to trouble 
 your mind on that subject. There is such a variety in 
 men's minds that you will hardly find two persons 
 thinking alike on every point, and there are many 
 things about which it is not at all necessary that 
 people should agree." 
 
 " Well, perhaps not ; but I like things to be settled. 
 I was always sorry there were so many different reli- 
 gions in the world, but it is still worse if in the same 
 church people think so differently." 
 
 " They agree in essential points." 
 
 " Do you think so ? Edgar and Mr. Pratt ? " 
 
 " They have both signed the Thirty-Nine Articles." 
 
 11 Oh ! the Thirty-Nine Articles ! But Edgar wants 
 to do away with them." 
 
 " At any rate, they use the same prayers." 
 
 "Yes, on Sundays, I suppose they do. But Edgar 
 says prayers that Mr. Pratt would not use on any 
 account. He told me so." 
 
 " But those are minor points. There is surely 
 enough to establish sympathy between members of 
 the same church if they believe in the great truths of 
 Christianity and go to the same church." 
 
 "Ah, but Edgar says Mr. Pratt does not believe 
 in some great truths of Christianity, and Mr. Hendon 
 believes only in the existence of God and a future 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 45 
 
 state, and not that the whole Bible is inspired, and he 
 thinks it shocking if people call our Lord Jesus Christ 
 God ; and yet he says he is a member of the Church 
 of England. Then Mr. Pratt is a Protestant, and so 
 are we, if I am to believe what I have always been 
 taught ; and yet Edgar and Eliza do nothing but abuse 
 Protestantism, and won't be called anything but 
 Catholics. It is dreadfully puzzling." 
 
 " But, at any rate, we all go to church together, and 
 use the same beautiful Liturgy." 
 
 " Oh, yes. Going together to church is a great 
 thing. I was thinking yesterday how nice it was to 
 have Edgar with us again in the dear old pew, where 
 he used to find for me the lessons when I was little. 
 Don't you remember? Those first Christmas holidays 
 he spent here ? But I was sorry that he said as we 
 came out that he hated those old pews." 
 
 " He has such good taste that anything ugly shocks 
 his eyes ; and you must own, dearest Annie, that those 
 dear old pews, as you call them, disfigure a church." 
 
 " I don't care ; I like the old green baize thing, and 
 nobody shall talk me out of that liking." 
 
 " Not even Edgar? " 
 
 " No ; not even Edgar," Annie answered, with a 
 rather conscious smile. There was something in her 
 countenance at that moment that made Mrs. Gerald 
 think that the moment was perhaps come to give her 
 niece a hint as to her own long-cherished desire. 
 Since Edgar had been at Holmwood this time she had 
 rejoiced to see how well the cousins were getting on 
 together, and seemed to enjoy each other's society. 
 Her disposition to believe whatever she wished led her 
 to conclude that everything was progressing favourably 
 towards the accomplishment of her hopes. She longed 
 to speak to Annie on the subject. It was a dangerous 
 experiment, but she could not resist the impulse. If 
 
46 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 any one had seen her face and Annie's during the 
 conversation that ensued, it would have been supposed 
 that the aunt was more deeply interested in the matter 
 than the niece. " Dearest love," she began, " you 
 know I cannot help thinking a great deal about the 
 future, and often wondering what your fate will be. 
 There is nothing I care about as much as your 
 happiness, and lately my thoughts have been run- 
 ning . . . ." 
 
 " On what, Aunt Gerald ? " Annie quickly asked. 
 
 " Well, I have been wondering whether if Edgar 
 was to fall in love with you .... there are more im- 
 probable things than that .... whether you would be 
 inclined to like him . . . ." 
 
 " Like him ! " Annie exclaimed. "Why, Aunt Gerald,, 
 don't you know that I have loved Edgar with all my 
 heart since I was quite a baby? . . . ." 
 
 " Oh yes, my love ; but what I mean is, whether 
 you would like him in a different kind of manner .... 
 Whether he is the sort of person you — would wish to 
 marry? " 
 
 Annie blushed, but answered bluntly, " That is just 
 what I have been thinking of myself." 
 
 " Have you indeed ? " Mrs. Gerald exclaimed ; " and 
 what do you think ? " 
 
 "When he was speaking yesterday after church of 
 this place, and giving me advice about building cot- 
 tages and making all sorts of improvements here, it 
 occurred to me how very nice it would be for both of 
 us if he should like to marry me. He said, with that 
 eager look in his eyes which they have when anything 
 interests him, ' Oh, Annie, what a position yours will 
 be ! What a field to work in : what talents God has 
 placed in your hands ! You will have a strict account 
 to give of them ; but I am sure you will do all you 
 ought.' Now you know, Aunt Gerald, if he was my 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 47 
 
 husband he would help me to do everything that is 
 right, and it would be easy to be good with one like 
 him to teach me what to do." 
 
 " These are the very thoughts I have had, Annie 
 darling, not for some hours or some days, but for a 
 long time past. It would make me so happy." 
 
 " Well, and so it would me ; but I do not expect it 
 will happen. He is very fond of me and very kind to 
 me ; but I do not think I am the sort of girl he would 
 like to marry. I am too stupid for him." 
 
 " My love, that is a great mistake. You are not at 
 all stupid ; on the contrary, you have a great deal of 
 good sense and intelligence, but the merits of your 
 understanding are of a different sort from his, and 
 that is what gives you a sense of inferiority. This 
 does not at all make it unlikely that he should admire 
 and appreciate you ; on the contrary, it is often the 
 persons least similar in mind and character who get 
 on best together. I have seen him look sometimes 
 when he is talking to you as if he might be in danger 
 of admiring you too much for his peace." 
 
 " I am sure he does not think of anything of the 
 sort. He sometimes speaks of the time when I shall 
 be married, and not at all in the way he would if he 
 was thinking of himself." 
 
 " Well, you know he would not easily imagine that 
 such a possibility existed." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Because, as the opinion of the world goes, it- 
 would be such a bad marriage for you. He has no 
 fortune at all, and you are a rich heiress. This would 
 make him, of course, very diffident. He would feel 
 afraid that the attentions he might pay, and the at- 
 tachment he might show to one whom it would be so. 
 very much his interest to marry, might be ascribed to 
 worldly and selfish motives. Edgar is so generous and 
 
48 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 high-minded that I am sure he would feel this very 
 strongly." 
 
 " Would it be then like with the Queen and Prince 
 Albert ? Should I be obliged to say to him, ' My 
 cousin, would you like to live always at Holmwood ? ' ' 
 
 " No," Mrs. Gerald answered, laughing. 
 
 " You would not be obliged actually to propose to 
 him. All I meant was, that in your relative positions 
 a little more encouragement on your side would be 
 needed than is generally the case. But mind, Annie 
 darling, you must take time to consider whether he is 
 really the person most likely to make you happy. It 
 is fair to tell you that if I was to take you to London, 
 and you went much into society, you would soon have 
 ten offers of marriage rather than one." 
 
 " Because I am so rich, you mean. But I should 
 not like any of these people ; I should never care 
 about any of them as I do for Edgar." 
 
 " You have not had opportunities of comparing him 
 with other young men." 
 
 " I am sure I should not think anybody to be com- 
 pared to him, and there is no one who would be so 
 fond of Holmwood, or who would like so much to have 
 it for his own, as he would." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald could not help smiling. 
 
 " As to liking to have Holmwood, I am not so sure. 
 But I am quite ready to agree with you that no one 
 would be worthier of possessing it and of marrying my 
 Annie. And so you feel about your cousin as Miranda 
 did about Prince Ferdinand ! She had no ambition to 
 see a goodlier man, and wished for no other companion, 
 nor could she form in her imagination a shape to like 
 of besides him. Is it even so, Annie ? " 
 
 Annie laughed. " But for all that, Aunt Gerald, I 
 do not think Edgar will ever be . . . ." 
 
 " At your feet, my Miranda. Well, we shall see." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 49 
 
 There the conversation ended, and the rain that had 
 kept for so many days the inhabitants of Holmwood 
 imprisoned within doors, came also to an end. There 
 was a bright red sunset that evening, and the next 
 morning the sun was shining brightly. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 On the following morning, Annie rose in high good 
 humour. Her conversation with her aunt had left an 
 agreeable impression on her mind ; and when she came 
 downstairs, and went out from the breakfast-room on 
 to the terrace where everything was fresh and lovely, 
 the flowers smelling deliciously, and the distant views 
 veiled by a transparent and most becoming haze, pro- 
 mising a fine day, she felt a pleasurable emotion in 
 the thought that this home, this ancestral home of hers, 
 as Mrs. Gerald liked to call it, was a gift in her pos- 
 session, a gift she could bestow on any one she loved. 
 Her heart swelled with some little self-complacency, 
 and a shade of that feeling might have been detected 
 in her manner as she walked into the house and took 
 her place at the breakfast table. 
 
 The post arrived at Holmwood early in the morning, 
 so that Edgar had read his letters before leaving his 
 room. When he came down, Annie said to him, " The 
 sun, you see, has come out as I predicted last night ; 
 but the worst of it is that I am sure Aunt Gerald will 
 insist on our going to Marchbanks to-day." 
 
 " I do not see, Annie, how we can put it off any 
 longer," Mrs. Gerald observed; " and you must come 
 with us, Edgar, you have not called yet on Mr. 
 Hendon." 
 
 " I am so sorry," Edgar answered, " but I am obliged 
 to go away to-day." 
 
50 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " To-day ! " 
 
 11 Yes ; I have received letters which oblige me to go 
 to London." 
 
 " On business ? " Mrs. Gerald asked with a height- 
 ened colour, " Will it detain you long ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell. It is quite uncertain." 
 
 " Nothing unpleasant has happened, I hope ? " 
 
 11 Nothing that concerns me personally, or any of 
 our friends," he replied. 
 
 Annie was looking grave. She was very much dis- 
 appointed, and not at all used to disappointment. She 
 had been gradually discovering that she not only loved 
 Edgar very much as she had always done, but that 
 since he had been this time at Holmwood a new feeling 
 towards him had been springing up in her heart, like 
 what she had often read of, not exactly in novels, for 
 few of them had been put in her hands (and indeed of 
 her own accord and for her own pleasure she seldom 
 opened a book), but in tales and poems she had read 
 with Miss Rose. It was, she thought, or would be 
 some day like what Amy in the Heir of Redclyffe felt 
 for Guy, or Evangeline for Gabriel the son of the 
 blacksmith. These descriptions had made little im- 
 pression upon her at the time, but now they helped 
 her to see that she was really likely to love Edgar, 
 provided he also loved her in the way Mrs. Gerald 
 meant. Almost all night she had been awake thinking 
 over the new ideas suggested by what her aunt had 
 said, and considering what was the sort of encourage- 
 ment she ought to give to a cousin who was not rich, 
 but whom she should like very much to marry if he 
 should wish it himself. 
 
 Annie had never thought much for a girl of her age, 
 and this had been almost the first occasion on which 
 she had exercised her reflective powers on a subject of 
 importance. On the whole those sleepless hours had 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 51 
 
 been happy ones, and the conclusion she had come to 
 satisfactory. It was, therefore, with difficulty that 
 she restrained tears of vexation, not only at Edgar's 
 going away so suddenly, but at the suspense and un- 
 certainty in which this departure had left her. Annie 
 was not romantic or sentimental, but her feelings were 
 strong, and they were at that moment wounded. She 
 hardly spoke during breakfast, and answered very 
 shortly the questions addressed to her. As soon as the 
 meal was over, Mrs. Gerald drew Edgar aside, and 
 tried to extract from him the reason of his departure, 
 but she did not succeed. He would only repeat that 
 he was obliged to go to London, and could not tell 
 for how long. When his fly drove up to the door, he 
 went to shake hands with Annie, who said, " You 
 know, of course, that we shall be very glad to see you 
 whenever you can come back, but I do not expect 
 you will care to do so." 
 
 " You would not say that," he answered, " if you 
 knew how happy it has made me to be here. There 
 were many things I wished to say to you .... and as 
 it is possible . . . . " (there was a little emotion in his 
 voice which made Annie look at him with surprise), 
 " as one never knows what may happen," he continued, 
 " I thought I would just say this much. Do, dear 
 Annie, think over some of the things we have talked 
 about, and read the books I have left with you." 
 
 " I should like very much to be as good as you are," 
 Annie answered, in a softened manner. 
 
 " Do not talk of my being good, dear Annie ; but 
 pray that you may be led into all truth." 
 
 11 Led into truth ! " she said to herself, as he drove 
 away. " But who is to lead me ? I suppose he means 
 God, as I am to pray for it. But God seems to lead 
 him one way and Mr. Pratt another ; for I am sure 
 they both wish to know the truth, and to do what is 
 
52 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 right — they both pray a great deal. Oh, dear me ! 
 What is the use of my reading about the Apostolical 
 Succession, and the power of the keys — I cannot make 
 out who is right, and who is wrong." 
 
 In this desponding mood she sat down to her work, 
 having, somewhat crossly, refused to play a duet with 
 Jane Conway. Mrs. Gerald was also very much an- 
 noyed. It had crossed her mind that Miss Rose had 
 perhaps given a hint to Edgar's mother as to her wish 
 that he should marry Annie, and that Mrs. Langdon 
 (Mrs. Herbert Derwent had married again) might 
 possibly have written to him on the subject. If so, 
 his abrupt departure was perhaps in consequence of 
 that letter. Perhaps he was attached, possibly engaged 
 to some one else ! And she had been putting her own 
 foolish ideas into Annie's head ! She would have given 
 anything to unsay what she had said ! When a plan 
 is likely to fail, people are apt to get unreasonably 
 angry with themselves for having made it; that is, if 
 they cannot find any excuse for being angry with any- 
 body else. Mrs. Gerald did, indeed, begin inwardly 
 blaming Miss Rose for having so quickly acted on her 
 suggestion, taking no time to think — it was so like 
 her. There were two ways of doing things — she had 
 no tact, no judgment. "Then why did you employ 
 her in so delicate a matter ? " retorted conscience, or 
 something between conscience and temper — and the 
 inward voice had the best of it. We generally test 
 the merit of our actions by their results ; and there are 
 few persons good enough to feel as the holy Cure 
 d'Ars did, and said when he had lighted his candle 
 with a bank-note, that the greatest mistake is not half 
 so bad as the smallest possible sin. Mrs. Gerald was 
 in a state of conditional anger with herself, Edgar, 
 Miss Rose, and Mrs. Langdon. // what she feared 
 was true, she could not forgive herself or any of them. 
 
MRS, GERALD'S NIECE. 53 
 
 After luncheon, the newspapers arrived by the 
 second post. Miss Conway was reading the " Times," 
 whilst the rest of the party wrote their letters. She 
 suddenly looked up, and said to Jane — 
 
 " Now I am sure I know why Mr. Derwent has gone 
 to London." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald instantly asked what she meant, and 
 then Eliza felt sorry she had made the remark. Even 
 sensible people sometimes speak without thinking ; but 
 there was no help for it, and so she answered — 
 
 " I see the cholera has broken out very badly in the 
 Borough, and particularly in the district where I know 
 he visits the poor." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " exclaimed Mrs. Gerald, " I hope 
 he will not go there now." 
 
 Eliza made no answer. 
 
 Annie said, " I am certain he will. He was talking 
 last night about the poor, and the sort of feeling people 
 ought to have about them ; and this is just the kind of 
 thing he would do." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald felt in one respect greatly relieved and 
 pleased also with Annie's manner of speaking about 
 her cousin ; though anxious about his being exposed 
 to the danger of catching the cholera, she was less 
 distressed and better satisfied with herself than a 
 moment ago. So she listened complacently to Eliza's 
 next remark. 
 
 " You can have no idea how much good he has been 
 doing in London ever since his return from abroad ; 
 he has set before his eyes the example of the saints in 
 all ages, and his continual object is to imitate their 
 charity, and help to rekindle the same spirit in our 
 Church. There is not one of our Anglican Sisterhoods 
 or Houses of Charity that he does not in some way or 
 other assist. Sometimes he sits up all night himself 
 with sick people." 
 
54 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " How strange ! " Annie said. 
 
 " Strange in one sense certainly, because so few 
 persons act in that way. But is it not most strange 
 that, considering what our Lord has said, there should 
 be Christians who do nothing at all for the poor ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; of course people ought to be charitable." 
 
 " In the account of the day of Judgment, are not 
 works of charity made the criterion of a man's prospect 
 of salvation ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I have often thought that chapter a very 
 uncomfortable one. Lizzie, do you think Edgar 
 would like me to give him some money for those poor 
 sick people he goes to see ? " 
 
 Eliza's face brightened. " Yes, I am sure he would," 
 she answered. " People who do not see or hear much 
 of the poor, little know what a suffering it is to be 
 constantly witnessing misery without the power of 
 relieving it — to feel how much could be done with a 
 little money, and not to have it to give, whilst it is 
 squandered in every direction, and lavished on dress 
 and every luxury. If your' cousin is, as I am fully 
 persuaded he is, visiting the cholera patients, often 
 and often he must meet with persons who would die 
 with resignation if they knew their orphan children 
 would be provided for. He finds, no doubt, cases of 
 terrible misery wherever he goes." 
 
 Annie went up to Mrs. Gerald, and said, " Aunt 
 Gerald, will you immediately send for me to Edgar 
 fifty pounds." 
 
 " Yes, my love ; but you must write to him yourself, 
 and I will enclose a cheque for you." 
 
 Annie sat down, and wrote with a full heart : — 
 
 " Dear Edgar, — I wish more than ever that I 
 could be as good as you, though I am afraid if I think 
 ever so much over the things you said to me about 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE: 55 
 
 being High Church, that I shall not understand them. 
 I send you some money for the poor people Eliza says 
 you go and see in London. 
 
 " Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 "Annie." 
 
 " You must let me help you, Lizzie, with your poor 
 people when you go back to London," she whispered 
 to her friend. 
 
 " Thank you, dear," Eliza answered. 
 
 '•And now, darling," said Mrs. Gerald, when she 
 had sealed the letter to Edgar, " do put on your things. 
 We must drive to Marchbanks ; we really cannot put 
 it off any longer. They arrived, you know, three weeks 
 ago, and Lady Emily wrote to me four days ago that 
 she felt now quite well enough to see me." 
 
 " Very well," Annie said, with a look of resignation. 
 " If you all knew how I hate making new acquaint- 
 ances, you would pity me. What is Miss Flower's 
 Christian name, Aunt Gerald ? " 
 
 " I don't know, my love. Now, do get ready." 
 
 At last they started. During the whole drive Annie 
 was thoughtful, and spoke very little. She was not 
 shy, but she had a sort of sauvagerie as the French 
 call it, which made her dislike to meet strangers. But 
 besides this, her aunt's thoughts and her own were 
 much engrossed by the conversation about Edgar 
 which had just taken place, and the idea of the danger 
 he was running in visiting the cholera patients in an 
 infected district. Mrs. Gerald mused on this subject 
 with the nervous apprehension of one who had known 
 many losses and sorrows. Annie dwelt upon it with 
 comparatively little fear. Young persons untried by 
 grief do not realize danger ; or, if they do, it is with a 
 kind of excitement which hides from them the amount 
 of suffering involved in it. Still, whilst picturing to. 
 
56 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 herself her cousin in a sick-room kneeling by the side 
 of a dying person, she thought of death more seriously 
 than she had ever done before. She had never com- 
 muned much with herself, but had taken life day by 
 day, as it came before her, with all its little pleasures, 
 vexations, and anticipations. Death seemed immeasur- 
 ably far off, and Heaven something more distant and 
 unreal still. Perhaps she had with regard to it a little 
 of the feeling of the farmer, who said with a deep 
 sigh to a fellow traveller who happened to speak of it, 
 " Ah, well, I suppose we must all come to that at last." 
 It was a matter of course she should go to heaven 
 some day, but luckily not for a long time to come. 
 But now the appearance of the cholera in London, and 
 Edgar actually exposing himself to the risk of catching 
 it, seemed to change a little the position of things. It 
 really made her think that people did die, young as 
 well as old people ; but she did not communicate any 
 of her thoughts to her aunt, only as they turned into 
 Marchbanks Park she asked her if she had put her 
 letter to Edgar into the letter-box. When satisfied on 
 this point, she said, " Marchbanks is not nearly so 
 pretty a place as Holmwood." 
 
 " Is that a new discovery you have made ? " Mrs. 
 Gerald answered. 
 
 "It never struck me so much before." 
 
 " I think Edgar has taught you to appreciate Holm- 
 wood." 
 
 Annie smiled. And now that Mrs. Gerald was 
 relieved from the fear that her nephew's departure 
 had been the result of the message she had wished 
 conveyed to him, all her self-reproach vanished, Miss 
 Rose was acquitted, and she began again to pursue 
 her favourite object with the same ardour as before. 
 
 Lady Emily Hendon was at home, and Mrs. Gerald 
 and Annie were shown into the drawing-room, which 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 57 
 
 looked more habitable and cheerful than when its use 
 was confined to the days on which Mr. Hendon gave 
 dinner parties. An invalid couch, books besides those 
 in the book-case, flowers on all the tables, and two 
 little dogs in two separate arm-chairs, were new fea- 
 tures in the room, which was now exclusively occupied 
 in the morning by Lady Emily. Twenty-three years 
 had elapsed since she and Mrs. Gerald had met, and 
 both seemed affected with the sense of the changes 
 that had occurred since they had last seen each other 
 in that house. They sat a moment without speaking, 
 a silent pressure of their hands expressing what was 
 passing through their minds. Mrs. Gerald then said, 
 " This is my niece, Annie Derwent." 
 
 Lady Emily shook hands with her, and exclaimed, 
 " I am so sorry Ita is not at home." 
 
 Though Annie had disliked the idea of a new ac- 
 quaintance, she was perverse enough to feel disap- 
 pointed that she should not after all see Miss Flower. 
 
 " If you go into the garden, my love, perhaps you 
 will meet her," Lady Emily added. 
 
 Annie did not quite like to be told like a little girl 
 to go into the garden, or to be called " my love" by 
 somebody she hardly knew. But on the whole, as it 
 was pleasanter to stroll out of doors even if Miss 
 Flower was not to be seen, than to sit with the two 
 friends, feeling herself in the way, she took the hint, 
 walked out into the shrubbery, and went to a bench 
 where a shawl and a book indicated that somebody 
 had been sitting. She looked at the title-page of the 
 volume, and saw that it was a French translation of 
 Fabiola. A little picture of the sort that Catholics 
 keep in their Prayer-books fell at her feet ; this one 
 represented a heart with a sword running through it. 
 Annie hastily replaced it between the leaves, with a 
 feeling which was almost like one of fear and disgust j 
 
58 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE, 
 
 she saw it was something religious, and most minds 
 recoil from what is new and strange to them on that 
 subject. She had hardly done so when she saw a small 
 figure hastening towards her, whom she, of course, 
 knew must be the young lady of the house — the little 
 Miss Flower she was to make acquaintance with. " It 
 is rather a bore without any one to introduce me," she 
 thought ; however, starting up, she advanced a few 
 steps towards the breathless girl, who had been running 
 to meet her. They both smiled and shook hands. 
 " You are Miss Derwent, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes, and you, Miss Flower ? " 
 
 " I am Ita ; nobody calls me anything else. Will 
 you sit here, or come back into the house ? " 
 
 " Just as you like. It's just the same to me." 
 
 " We can, if you please, stay out till the clock 
 strikes five, and then go in to tea. Mamma must be 
 very glad to see Mrs. Gerald. She is such an old 
 friend of hers." 
 
 Annie took at once a fancy to her new acquaintance. 
 A most engaging little being Mr. Hendon had said she 
 was four or five years before, and Annie thought she 
 certainly continued to be so now. What was she like? 
 When the Conways put that question to Annie on her 
 return home, she said, " I am sure I cannot tell ; she 
 is nice all over." And this was perhaps the best des- 
 cription she could give of Ita. She had the sweetest, 
 prettiest, dearest face imaginable — perfectly brown 
 eyes, shaded with dark black curling eyelashes, a little 
 round nose with no particular shape at all, the loveliest 
 small mouth, with a charming smile that rippled over 
 her face, dimpled and soft as a child's. Her hair was 
 of a colour that matched perfectly with her eyes. Her 
 whole figure, her hands, her feet, were exactly of the 
 size that suited her face. There was not anything 
 about her that was not pretty, though nothing perhaps 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 59 
 
 was beautiful. Her voice and her laugh had a pleasant 
 sound in them which made one think of the low twitter 
 of birds in hedges. Three French words, were appli- 
 cable to her : she was mignonne, spirituelle, caressante, and 
 yet she was not like a Frenchwoman. "Lovely" is 
 perhaps the English word which would best describe 
 little Ita. As soon as Annie saw her she had a singular 
 feeling that her face was somehow familiar to her ; 
 though, at the same time, she could not remember 
 having ever set eyes on one so engaging. Almost for 
 the first time in her life she felt a wish to make herself 
 agreeable. 
 
 " I am so glad to know you," Ita said. " Mr. Hendon 
 promised me I should, and I have been looking forward 
 to it so much." 
 
 " We should have called last week, but the rain 
 prevented us." 
 
 " And mamma is scarcely ever well enough to drive 
 out." 
 
 " Is this the first time you have been in 
 England ? " 
 
 11 Yes ! I have lived all my life abroad." 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " Almost always at Mentone." 
 
 " Where is that— in Italy ? " 
 
 " No, not exactly. We say we are not Italian, 
 French, or Piedmontese. We are Mentonese ? " 
 
 " We," said Annie, smiling. " Are you Mentonese ? " 
 
 "I cannot tell what I am," Ita answered, blushing a 
 little. " I know I love Mentone as if it was my native 
 place." 
 
 " Oh, I am sorry for that ; I am such a thorough 
 Englishwoman." 
 
 " In time, I dare say I shall grow fond of England. 
 I can fancy that the country about here may be very 
 pretty." 
 
60 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Can't you see it is? " Annie answered, in an offended 
 tone of voice. 
 
 " It has rained a great deal, you know, since I have 
 been here," Ita rejoined, with one of her pretty smiles. 
 
 " And does it never rain at Mentone ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ; it pours sometimes for days together, and 
 everybody is so glad. But when once the rainy season 
 is over, the sun shines for weeks, and sometimes for 
 months, without ceasing." 
 
 " I hope you will soon come to Holmwood." 
 
 " Is that the name of the place where you live in ? " 
 
 " It is my own place." 
 
 "Your own, because you love it ? " 
 
 " No, because it belongs to me, and I shall like to 
 show it you. Everybody thinks it pretty." 
 
 11 Thank you, I should like very much to see it. 
 You are so kind to me, I feel already as if I was not 
 speaking to a stranger." 
 
 " It is very odd you should say so. I cannot get 
 it out of my head that I have seen your face some- 
 where before. Are you only just come to England ? 
 I thought we might, perhaps, have come across each 
 other in London." 
 
 " Oh no ; I never was there except for a few days." 
 
 " Are you going to stay here long ? " 
 
 " I do not know. It will depend on mamma's 
 health ; she is very delicate." 
 
 " Did you always stay at Mentone ? " 
 
 " In the summer we generally went to the Italian 
 lakes or to Switzerland." 
 
 " How much you have travelled ! " 
 
 " Not very much, I think. I should like to go to 
 Rome and Jerusalem." 
 
 " I have never been abroad since I was quite a little 
 child. I can just remember Nice, and a garden with 
 orange-trees I used to play in." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 61 
 
 " Mentone is close to Nice, and it has beautiful 
 orange-trees and such lovely olive woods. I wish I 
 could show you Mentone — its dark blue sea and its 
 lovely mountains. It is my own dear place, not because 
 it belongs to me," this Ita said smiling, " but because 
 I love it so much ; I would rather live there than any- 
 where in the world — everything is so pretty — the sky, 
 the sea, the flowers, and the people's faces." 
 
 " Have they dark eyes and brown skins like the 
 Italian boys we see in London ? " 
 
 " No, they are not very dark. Some of the women 
 have blue eyes like yours, and black hair. You are 
 very like some of the Mentonese girls." 
 
 " I hope as you are so fond of them that it will make 
 you fond of me." 
 
 This was a sort of speech Annie had never made to 
 any one before. She was quite surprised at herself, 
 and still more so when in return Ita kissed her. It 
 was done so gently and simply, just as a child gives a 
 kiss instead of saying " Thank you," that she was 
 touched and pleased. The clock struck five, and the 
 two girls went into the drawing-room. Ita was intro- 
 duced to Mrs. Gerald, and brought her a cup of tea. 
 When she gave it into her hands, and said something 
 about the pleasure it was to have made acquaintance 
 with Annie, there was a charm in her manner that 
 immediately struck Mrs. Gerald. Whenever she saw 
 for the first time a young person of Annie's age, her 
 first impulse was to compare them. During all the 
 rest of the visit she seemed unable to take her eyes off 
 Miss Flower. Perhaps she thought that her sort of 
 beauty was so different from her niece's that nobody 
 but herself would think of comparing them, or else 
 that her manner possessed exactly the sort of charm 
 which was wanting in Annie's ; for intense as was her 
 worship of her niece, she was keenly sensible of 
 
62 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 certain deficiencies in that idolized being. She was 
 so absorbed in watching the two girls that it made her 
 quite absent ; Lady Emily's languid remarks were 
 scarcely attended to. It would have been difficult to 
 say if it was with jealous or admiring eyes that Mrs. 
 Gerald noticed Ita's winning, feminine, graceful 
 movements — the way in which she unconsciously sat 
 or stood in the attitude which an artist would have 
 appreciated, her pretty manner of speaking to Lady 
 Emily, even the engaging playfulness with which she 
 coaxed the two little spaniels that jumped on her 
 knees, as if they were as fond of her as Mrs. Gerald 
 felt everybody was likely to be. 
 
 " Ita, have you and Miss Derwent been taking a 
 walk ? " Lady Emily asked. 
 
 " No, mamma, we have been making friends," was 
 the answer; and the smile with which this was said 
 contrasted with Annie's stiff silence. Not but that 
 her smile was sometimes very beautiful also ; it came 
 and went like a sudden flash of light, and was very 
 different from the dimpling sweetness of Ita's laugh. 
 Whatever was the reason of Mrs. Gerald's absence of 
 mind, it was so remarkable that Annie, very unob- 
 servant of such things in general, could not help 
 noticing it. 
 
 As they were driving home, Annie said, " Don't 
 you think Miss Flower very pretty ? Why, I wonder, 
 is she called Ita ? Do you suppose it is short for 
 anything ? " 
 
 " I do not know, dear love." 
 
 " She does not call Lady Emily mamma, but mamma 
 in the Italian way." 
 
 " Does she ? " 
 
 " How long as she lived with Lady Emily ? " 
 
 " I do not know. Mr. Hendon, writing from the 
 Baths of Acqui about fourteen or fifteen years ago, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 63 
 
 said his sister-in-law was there, and had brought with 
 her a pretty little creature, who could speak nothing 
 but a kind of patois." 
 
 " I am sure I have seen somebody like her before, 
 though I cannot remember where. I don't mind how 
 much we see of her now. I never took so great a 
 fancy to any one." 
 
 " In the evening, Annie gave the Miss Conways an 
 account of her visit, and of the minutest circumstances 
 connected with it, not forgetting the French Fabiola 
 and the strange little picture within its leaves. 
 
 " If this Miss Ita is an admirer of Fabiola," Eliza 
 said, " we should sympathize on one point at least." 
 
 " I hope she is not a Roman Catholic," Jane ex- 
 claimed, who in most points, and about religion 
 particularly, liked to show her independence, by 
 strenuously opposing her cleverer sister's opinions. 
 
 " Oh, I hope not," Annie cried ; and, as Eliza did 
 not speak, she insisted, as she was fond of doing, on 
 making her give an answer. " Don't you hope, Eliza, 
 she is not a Catholic ? " 
 
 " I wish you would say a Roman Catholic." 
 
 " Oh well, a Roman Catholic, if you like ; it all 
 comes to the same." 
 
 " That is just your mistake ; it makes all the differ- 
 ence. I wish everybody was Catholic . . . ." 
 
 " And nobody Roman Catholic ? " interrupted Annie. 
 
 11 No, I do not exactly mean that ; and I was going 
 to say about this young lady, that I could hardly ex- 
 press a wish on the subject, unless t I knew to what 
 country she belongs " 
 
 " She is English of course. She is called Miss 
 Flower. Ita must be her pet name." 
 
 " Well, even granting that she is English, if she 
 has always lived abroad, and never had an opportunity, 
 which is often the case, of knowing what are the true 
 
64 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 principles of the Church of England, it is, I think, 
 questionable whether it would not be better for her to 
 have been brought up a Roman Catholic than in 
 the heretical Protestant ideas unfortunately prevalent 
 amongst so many members of our branch of the 
 Catholic Church." 
 
 " Well, I did not expect," Jane replied, " that you 
 would go so far as that — that you would wish anybody 
 to worship a wafer and adore the Virgin Mary." 
 
 " Oh, Jane, you cannot know what pain you give 
 me," Eliza exclaimed, an indignant blush rising to her 
 cheeks, and her voice trembling with emotion. " It is 
 these ignorant and unjust accusations against the 
 Church of Rome, which drive so many persons out of 
 our purer Church into her communion, which in this 
 country is schismatical. Roman Catholics may dis- 
 figure the truth sometimes by abuses and excesses, but 
 they are right in all essential points of docrine ; they 
 adore our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament, and a belief 
 in the Real Presence has always been maintained by 
 our Church." 
 
 " Mr. Pratt does not think so," Annie retorted. 
 " Do you know what the Church teaches better than 
 a clergyman ? " 
 
 " Well, Annie, I do not wish to say anything pre- 
 sumptuous, or anything that would give you pain — but 
 I have been taught by those who have gone deeply 
 into the question, men of great learning and ability, 
 and very holy men too, that the true doctrines of the 
 Church of England have been fearfully misunderstood 
 and misrepresented by men of Mr. Pratt's age, who 
 lived at a time when heretical principles prevailed 
 almost universally in our Church " 
 
 " I am sure Mr. Pratt would never misrepresent any- 
 thing," Annie indignantly exclaimed ; " and I believe 
 he is just as good a man as any of those you speak of." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 65 
 
 " I am sure he is a good man," Eliza said, with an 
 earnestness that brought tears into her eyes. " I only 
 think he is deceived on some points. The ideas I 
 mean quite took possession of the Anglican Church at 
 one time, like Arianism and the Donatist heresy in- 
 vaded the Catholic Church in former times, so that at 
 one moment hardly any bishop held by the truth 
 except St. Athanasius." 
 
 Now, Eliza had it all her own way. She had gone 
 far beyond the depth of her companions. Annie could 
 only say, " I wish Mr. Pratt was here to argue with 
 you," and Jane fell foul of St. Athanasius ; " I should 
 not at all have liked to be on his side, for I think his 
 creed is very uncharitable. When mamma," she said, 
 " was well enough to go out, she would never go to 
 church when it was read." 
 
 " Mr. Pratt never reads it," Annie said. 
 
 " You don't say so ! " exclaimed Eliza. 
 
 There was a silence — Jane folded up her work and 
 went away. Annie was occupied with her drawing 
 and looking grave. 
 
 " I am afraid, dearest Annie," Eliza said, " that you 
 are more disposed to agree with Jane than with me on 
 these subjects." 
 
 " I don't know. I don't want to side with any one. 
 Since you and Edgar have talked to me about these 
 things, I am puzzled what to think. You take these 
 Church principles so much to heart, and you are both 
 so good . . . ." 
 
 11 Oh no, he is good, but I am not." 
 
 " Now don't make me angry, Eliza, by saying what 
 you really can't think. Look at Jane, look at me — 
 you must see that we are neither of us one half as good 
 as you are." 
 
 " Perhaps I do more useful things, and see more 
 plainly than you do truths which, when once admitted, 
 
 F 
 
66 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 oblige us to act up to them. But then nobody but 
 God knows how much or how little we each of us 
 correspond to the amount of grace He gives us, or how 
 far what looks like goodness may be the result of 
 natural tastes and inclinations. It is only when we 
 die that we shall know what we really are." 
 
 Annie laid down her pencil and exclaimed, " Yes, 
 that is just what I mean, what I was going to say. 
 There is, I am sure, something in your religion which 
 goes deeper and takes a greater hold of you than is 
 generally the case with people, as far as I can see." 
 
 " I think I can tell you, Annie, what that something 
 is." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Catholic teaching — the teaching of Christ's 
 Church." 
 
 •' But what Church do you mean ? " 
 
 " The Catholic Church wherever it exists — the great 
 tree whose branches extend all over the world. Each 
 little leaf growing on that tree draws its spiritual life 
 from the particular branch to which its baptism has 
 attached it. To us the English Church is that branch 
 — for a long and dreary time it has been languishing, 
 and disfigured by ugly excrescences ; but now the sap 
 is beginning again to flow, and the true Catholic 
 spirit to revive amongst us. The duty of every one 
 of her children in this country is to help on that 
 revival by promoting, as much as possible, the spread 
 of Catholic doctrines and practices." 
 
 " But I thought you said it was the teaching of the 
 Church that made people good." 
 
 " So I did." 
 
 " But now you say it is her children that are to 
 make her good — that they are to help her to teach 
 what is true. But then, how are we to know what 
 II true ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 67 
 
 " The creeds, the Prayer-book, the general consent 
 of antiquity testify to Catholic truth." 
 
 " Mr. Pratt says not." 
 
 Eliza felt a sensation which, in a less good and less 
 well-educated person might have betrayed itself, per- 
 haps by some exclamation such as " Hang Mr. Pratt ! " 
 but she only coloured a little, and answered : " If you 
 choose to pin your faith upon what one particular 
 person says, it is useless to argue." 
 
 " How many persons do you build yours upon ? " 
 
 " No particular number. I receive the teaching of 
 the Catholic Church." 
 
 " But who tells you what its teaching is ? " 
 
 " Those who have deeply studied it." 
 
 " But there are other people, I suppose, who have 
 deeply studied it too, and don't agree with them. You 
 told me the other day that the Roman Catholics had 
 added a lot of new things to the teaching of the 
 Church. How do you know that they are wrong, and 
 those who say so right ? " 
 
 " The persons who tell me so are my own appointed 
 teachers." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Pratt is my appointed teacher — I don't 
 see why I'm not to believe him." 
 
 The clock struck seven, the dressing bell rang, and 
 the argument ended — fortunately, perhaps, for the 
 cleverest of the two disputants. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A few days later on Annie received the following 
 letter from her cousin : — 
 
 " Dearest Annie, — I was so busy last week that I 
 could only briefly acknowledge the receipt of your 
 kind note and the cheque enclosed in it. I must write 
 now more at length : in the first instance, to thank 
 you from my heart for that welcome gift, which has 
 enabled me to relieve much suffering, and afford many 
 comforts to the sick and dying. What pleased me 
 most was that you should have. thought of doing this 
 unasked. It was far, far better than if I had made 
 the request, and you had, however good-naturedly, 
 complied with it. We feel alike, I am sure, oh many 
 points, and I do not despair of bringing you one day 
 to think as I do with respect to those principles which 
 are the ruling ones of my life, and have opened as it 
 were a new world to me. From the time I began to 
 know anything about religion up to the age of twenty, 
 I lived quite unconscious of the spiritual treasures 
 which the Church of England has it in her power to 
 bestow upon her children ; I did not in the least realize 
 its relation to my soul or my duties towards her : the 
 whole of her sacramental system was a dead letter to 
 me. Baptism seemed no more than the ceremony of 
 admission into the Christian body ; the word Church 
 conveyed to me no other idea than that of a society 
 which met together for public worship once a week — 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 69 
 
 of the supernatural effects of baptism on the soul I 
 never dreamed. In the same way the power of the 
 keys, the commission by God of an absolving power 
 to man, was perfectly unknown to me as existing in 
 our Church, and, yet more, that Divine and awful gift, 
 the Holy Eucharist, which Alexander Knox, the parent 
 of the great Catholic revival in this country, discerned 
 and described as the sine qua non of a true Christian 
 faith ; justly observing that if we did not possess 
 Christ's real presence amongst us, we were less favoured 
 than the Jews of old, who in the cloud and in the ark 
 did enjoy an actual real presence of God, leading 
 them through the desert, and abiding with them in the 
 promised land ; that sacred mystery appeared to me 
 only in the light of a mere commemoration, a devout 
 ceremony, but not the real dwelling of an Incarnate 
 God on our altars and in our hearts. It was at Oxford 
 that I began to hear of Catholic principles in our 
 Church, and to associate with those whose belief and 
 whose lives were influenced by them. I soon felt that 
 this was the creed I was in need of. Once or twice 
 in my boyhood books had fallen into my hands which 
 had caused the thought to pass through my mind that 
 Roman Catholics had helps in their religion which we 
 did not possess in ours. I had coveted these helps, 
 and mentally exclaimed, like Dr. Newman, before 
 his apostasy, ' O that thy creed were sound, thou 
 Church of Rome.' 
 
 " The world was beginning to display to me its 
 attractions ; temptations met me at every turn ; I 
 wanted not merely to be warned in a general way 
 against its dangers, but to be armed against them ; I 
 felt the need of a stimulus to enter the narrow path, 
 of a helping hand to guide and support me along it ; 
 above all I wanted a Divine love to put in the place of 
 that of self — a love which would be as fervent as a 
 
70 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 human love, and the object of which should be within 
 reach of my soul. I yearned for that nearness to God 
 which Roman Catholics seemed to me to enjoy, though 
 I recoiled with intense dislike from some of their doc- 
 trines and practices, and had then an instinctive 
 feeling, as I now have a settled conviction, that I 
 could never join their communion. Judge then with 
 what rapture I hailed the new ideas about the English 
 Church, which were then presented to me. I remem- 
 ber exclaiming, with intense joy, after reading some 
 of the High Church publications of the day, 'This is 
 beyond my hopes ; this is what I have longed for with- 
 out knowing that it existed — Catholicism without 
 Popery ; a new religion, but one which does not oblige 
 me to forsake the churches 1 have prayed in since my 
 childhood, to part company with my mother and my 
 friends, or to separate myself from our thoroughly 
 English National Church, and yet which offers every- 
 thing I have been tempted to covet in Romanism, and 
 opens to me the accumulated treasures of the universal 
 Church, purified from the dross which human infirmity 
 has attached to them.' 
 
 " These anticipations have been fulfilled. I travelled 
 abroad after leaving Oxford ; I have lived and worked 
 in London since my return. Whilst on the Continent, 
 I found I could enjoy much in the devotions and 
 services of the Roman Catholic Church, even while I 
 clung with increasing earnestness to that purer Church 
 which is reviving in our own land. The writings of 
 the Fathers and the lives of saints inspired me with an 
 ever-increasing love for Catholicism, and detestation 
 of the Protestant heresy, which has so long disfigured 
 and blighted our Anglican faith. When I returned to 
 London I found, to my great delight, that, in several 
 ol our churches, Catholic doctrines were openly taught, 
 Catholic devotions revived, the daily service adopted 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 71 
 
 even where the true faith had not yet made decided 
 progress, and the Eucharistic sacrifice offered up with 
 a distinct recognition of its propitiatory character. 
 Religious houses were opened also, and persons were 
 consecrating themselves by vow to the service of God 
 and the poor. I cannot tell you with what ardour I 
 entered into this movement ; how I felt I had some- 
 thing real to live for, that the Church of England was 
 the true home of my soul, and my one object in life 
 to assist in the development of her true character. 
 But this object is not one of easy attainment ; a falter- 
 ing heart, an uncertain aim, will not advance it. We 
 must be prepared to pursue it in the midst of darkness, 
 gloom, reproach, and discouragement. Our loyalty to 
 the Church of our baptism must be staunch, unflinch- 
 ing, persevering ; no disheartening difficulties within 
 must shake our faith in our spiritual Mother, no seduc- 
 tions from without must allure us from her bosom. 
 Like the youth in Longfellow's poem, who bore through 
 snow and ice the banner with that strange device, 
 • Excelsior,' we must endure to pass through a frozen 
 region on our way to the summit we shall one day 
 reach. Our Church has been shorn of its beauty, of 
 its riches — I speak, of course, of spiritual riches — 
 but it is pure ; it has kept clear of the superstitions 
 and errors which have so fatally beset the Church of 
 Rome, and on that point our filial feelings may justly 
 exult. Yes, we must be true to the Church of Eng- 
 land : many false, weak, deluded persons have 
 abandoned her, exchanging an arduous struggle and a 
 lofty aim for a faithless ease — a noble strife for the self- 
 gratification of a wayward impatience. But I, Annie, 
 will never forsake the English Catholic Church. I 
 have nailed my colours to her mast : I have blended, 
 in one intense feeling, my devotion to her and my 
 passionate love of my own country. In our cathedrals 
 
72 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 and colleges, and above all in our beautiful parish 
 churches, I see the pledges of her future restoration to 
 Catholic truth and beauty, and often find myself ad- 
 dressing to England, dear England, the words of Ruth, 
 1 My people shall be thy people, thy God my God.' 
 
 " What a grave letter, dear Annie ! But the truth 
 is that I have, since I left you, seen several persons on 
 the brink of eternity. I have seen peaceful deathbeds 
 and dreadful ones, and ' cela donne a penser,' as 
 French people say. I met Miss Rose yesterday at my 
 mother's, and had a long talk with her about dear 
 Holmwood. Do write again and tell me what you 
 think of all I have been telling you. Till the cholera 
 disappears, I cannot bring myself to leave these poor 
 people. Pray that I may be able to prove of real use 
 to some of them. — Your affectionate Cousin, 
 
 " Edgar Derwent." 
 
 " P.S. — Dear Annie, I cannot close this letter with- 
 out telling you of a thought which has been pressing 
 more and more on my mind since I have had an 
 opportunity of judging of the great want there is of 
 clergymen devoted to our Church, and anxious to instil 
 her true principles into our people. I think I might 
 do much more good as a clergyman than in any other 
 way, and have almost made up my mind to take holy 
 orders. I did not mean to have mentioned this to you 
 at present ; but, on the whole, I prefer doing so, and 
 should very much wish to know your opinion on the 
 subject." 
 
 Annie was very much perplexed — the postscript 
 especially " lui donnait a penser," though not in so 
 serious a sense as the death-bed scenes Edgar had been 
 so impressed with. The idea of his becoming a clergy- 
 man was not at first agreeable to her ; it did not seem 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 73 
 
 natural, and she had a feeling that it would not be 
 quite proper that the mistress of Holmwood should be 
 a clergyman's wife. The two ideas did not go together. 
 There was, however, no real reason against it, and, 
 on second thoughts, she did not see why Edgar should 
 not be a clergyman if he wished it, or why it should 
 be an obstacle to their marriage, should such a thing 
 ever be in question ; on the contrary, among those she 
 had lived with it was generally assumed that a wife 
 was almost a necessary condition of usefulness for a 
 clergyman, and, though there had been a time when 
 she would have disliked the idea of that kind of life, 
 it did not now seem unattractive to her. Edgar's last 
 visit had changed her way of thinking in many respects. 
 And then she recollected that in the course of a few 
 years it must of necessity happen that dear old 
 Mr. Pratt should die, and the living of Holmwood 
 would be, her aunt had told her, in her gift. She 
 would then, of course, give it to Edgar whether he 
 was her husband or not ; if he was her husband then, 
 they could make Holmwood a perfect paradise for 
 themselves and the poor. 
 
 Annie had made some progress during the last few 
 weeks. A little while before she would have planned 
 a Garden of Eden for herself, and, at most, two or 
 three other individuals ; but now, thanks to her cousin 
 and Eliza Conway, she included in her castle in the 
 air, alms-houses and schools, and, perhaps, a little 
 hospital and a nurse, such as they had told her some 
 friends of hers had established in a village near their 
 home. Then she went on to think (Annie had never 
 thought so much in her life before) that she should like 
 to hear Edgar preach. When he talked about religion, 
 and all he hoped and wished on that subject, she had 
 often felt that it was very interesting to listen to him, 
 and she could fancy that his sermons would be very 
 
74 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 beautiful. If he was one day the master of Holmwood 
 and its vicar also, he would be able to make all the 
 improvements he liked in the church. People would 
 admire him very much, they would say it was very 
 good in a man who had married a rich heiress, to give 
 up the world and live in retirement at Holmwood, 
 devoting himself to his parishioners. The postcript of 
 Edgar's letter had made her entirely overlook all that 
 preceded it. 
 
 There is a strange indifference about doctrines 
 amongst Protestants. As long as they can walk to the 
 same church with their friends and relatives, that is to 
 the same visible building, kneel down side by side and 
 use the same form of prayers, they often seem not to 
 care the least if their opinions are as wide as the poles 
 asunder. One may believe that when the clergyman 
 utters certain words our Lord really descends on the 
 altar, and another that this is a gross superstition, a 
 miserable idolatry ; and yet as long as the outward 
 semblance of unity exists, nothing more is said than 
 that so and so is very extreme in his opinions, or that 
 so and so is very much against Puseyism. If the 
 family is an affectionate and good-humoured one, 
 these remarks are made in rather a playful manner 
 with an amused smile. Yet one would have supposed 
 that it was a matter of deep and vital importance 
 whether a stupendous miracle was continually taking 
 place amongst us unacknowledged, denied, and neg- 
 lected, or, on the other hand, adoration paid to a piece 
 of mere bread. 
 
 It was that vague habit of mind, which results 
 from the uncertain teaching of a Church that has no 
 undoubted or undisputed tenets of its own, that made 
 Annie so perfectfy satisfied with the prospect of marry- 
 ing one whose opinions were as opposed as possible to 
 those in which she had been educated, and who differed 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 75 
 
 from her old instructor on almost every point. It did 
 not even occur to her that it would be wrong or a 
 hardship on any one to transfer the spiritual charge 
 of a congregation, which for nearly fifty years had 
 been taught by Mr. Pratt to believe what he and she 
 herself believed to be true, to the care of one who 
 would teach them exactly the reverse. 
 
 This strange toleration of every kind of opinions, 
 so that it is within the limits of the Anglican Establish- 
 ment, is no doubt an advantage in the eyes of those 
 who think that women have no right outwardly to 
 differ from their husbands in matters which concern 
 their souls. The rights of parents, uncles, aunts, elder 
 brothers, and sisters on this point are considered to 
 vary according to circumstances ; but, the husband's 
 right being generally regarded as indisputable, it would 
 be well, perhaps, now that there are two different 
 religions in the English Establishment, to adopt the 
 plan formerly followed in the Royal Protestant families 
 abroad, and not, as has been seen by some recent 
 examples, yet exploded — that is, of educating girls in 
 no particular religion in order that they may be ready 
 to adopt when they marry, the one which is professed 
 by their husbands. Indeed among foreign Protestants, 
 not of royal birth, this system is apparently acknow- 
 ledged. Some years ago, a German young lady wrote 
 to a friend to announce her marriage ; after describing 
 the merits of her future husband's character and 
 position, she ended her letter as follows : " There is 
 only one thing I regret. You know how long I have- 
 wished to be a Catholic, and I had always hoped, 
 when I married, to have been able to follow my incli- 
 nation. But it unfortunately happens that Mr. 
 
 is a Protestant ; I must therefore submit to the will of 
 God, and resign myself to continue one also." 
 
 In the afternoon of the day on which she had re-. 
 
76 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 ceived Edgar's letter, Annie asked Eliza to take a walk 
 with her, and contrrived to lead the conversation to 
 the subject of clergymen marrying. She remembered 
 that her friend had expressed, one day, an opinion 
 rather unfavourable to their doing so. She had taken 
 no heed of it at the time, but now felt anxious to 
 revert to it. Eliza seemed averse to commit herself 
 at first on that point. She said she did not think it 
 was always desirable, but celibacy should never be 
 compulsory as in the Church of Rome. Is it not 
 curious how young ladies will sometimes pronounce 
 on points which it has taken the experience of ages, 
 and the deliberations of councils under the guidance 
 of the Holy Ghost, to decide ? 
 
 " But then you think," said Annie, " that High 
 Church people consider it most perfect not to marry ? " 
 
 " As a general rule, but not in all cases," Eliza 
 answered ; " in the Greek Church priests marry, but, 
 if their wives die, they cannot marry again, and no 
 married man can be a bishop." 
 
 " And Roman Catholic priests never marry at all ? " 
 
 " No, never — that universal prohibition is one of the 
 abuses of the Church of Rome." 
 
 "In that case," Annie thought, "it will be a good 
 thing for me to marry Edgar if he becomes a clergy- 
 man, because it will prevent him from ever becoming 
 a Roman Catholic." 
 
 He had asked her to answer his letter- — to tell him 
 what she thought of all he had said. This was very 
 difficult, because really about a great deal of it she 
 had no thoughts at all, or at any rate, she did not 
 know how to put what she did think into words. But 
 this might be a good opportunity, perhaps, of giving 
 him the sort of encouragement Mrs. Gerald had 
 spoken of, and so she sat down and wrote this short 
 letter;— 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 77 
 
 " Dear Edgar, — All you say about the Church and 
 
 your attachment to it, and the help it is to you, is very 
 
 interesting. I suppose that about some things men 
 
 and women do not feel quite alike. It would be so 
 
 much pleasanter, and easier I think, and better for us, 
 
 too, if we could be sure who is right and who is wrong. 
 
 You are much more likely to be right than I am ; but 
 
 then I do not see why Mr. Pratt is not likely to know 
 
 about these sort of things as well as you and your 
 
 friends. If you both told me the same thing there 
 
 would be no difficulty, it is the difference that puzzles 
 
 me ; you can't both be right. Sometimes I think that, 
 
 perhaps, it does not much signify what people believe 
 
 if they are good ; but when I say that, Eliza tells me 
 
 I am quite wrong, that there are very good Jews and 
 
 Mohammedans, and yet that it must signify very much 
 
 to be a Christian or not, to be baptized or not baptized ; 
 
 and then I really do not know what to say. If you 
 
 become a clergyman, and especially if one day you 
 
 should happen to be our clergyman here, perhaps you 
 
 would in time persuade me to think as you do. It 
 
 must be a very serious thing to become a clergyman, 
 
 and I suppose you will reflect a great deal before you 
 
 decide. If you make up your mind to it I shall not be 
 
 sorry. Aunt Gerald is writing to you ; at first she did 
 
 not seem pleased, but I think she is coming round to 
 
 it. I wish you could come back to Holmwood, I shall 
 
 get less fond of it again if you stay away a long time. 
 
 I have seen Miss Flower, Lady Emily's adopted 
 
 daughter, she seems a very nice girl. 
 
 "Your affectionate Cousin, 
 
 "Annie Derwent." 
 
 A few days after this letter was sent the Miss 
 Conways left Holmwood to join their parents by the 
 sea-side. They spent one day in London on their way 
 
78 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 to Worthing. Mrs. Langdon, Edgar's mother, called 
 on them in the morning, and asked them to dine with 
 her and her husband that evening. She said they 
 would be quite alone, but that Edgar would come in 
 after dinner, and that he would be so glad to see them. 
 Jane had arranged to go to the play that evening with 
 one of her brothers, but Eliza was delighted to accept 
 the invitation, and to have an opportunity of talking 
 over with Edgar the many subjects of interest they 
 had in common. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Langdon were one of those oddly 
 matched pairs in each of which seems to abound the 
 quality the other wants. She overflowed with good 
 humour ; he was crabbed and uncertain in temper ; 
 she had a wise way of saying foolish things ; he had an 
 arch clever way of talking nonsense. He would not 
 have liked a sensible wife ; it was a constant amuse- 
 ment to him to wrangle with Mrs. Langdon and puzzle 
 her in argument, an easy triumph which did not, how- 
 ever, seem to lose its zest. He did not dislike his 
 stepson, but yet could never resist making sarcastic 
 remarks on what he considered his eccentricities ; this 
 would have irritated Mrs. Langdon, if anything could 
 do so, for she worshipped her son and thought him in 
 every respect perfect. During dinner there were a few 
 skirmishes of this kind, but Mrs. Langdon had informed 
 her husband that Eliza was quite of Edgar's way of 
 thinking, and he was therefore too civil to say any- 
 thing that would have displeased her. She was 
 amused at his dry humour, and found the evening was 
 pleasant even before Edgar arrived. He came in at 
 nine, looking pale and tired, but seemed charmed to 
 see Miss Conway. After a few words of general con- 
 versation, Mrs. Langdon proposed to her husband to 
 play at piquet in another part of the room. " What, 
 my dear," he whispered as she led him away, " are 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 79 
 
 they going to hold a council on Church affairs ? She 
 is a deaconess, is not she, or something of the kind? " 
 
 " No, my dear, you always make mistakes. It is 
 the Protestants who have deaconesses, the English 
 Catholics have sisters." 
 
 " Oh ! then she is a sister ? " 
 
 " No, she is nothing that I know of." 
 
 " But she is serious, is not she, as people used to say 
 in my youth? " 
 
 " No, not more serious than she ought to be." 
 
 " And how much is that ? " 
 
 " I really cannot answer that sort of question." 
 
 " No, my dear, I do not think you can, so will you 
 cut." 
 
 In the meantime Edgar and Eliza did not begin 
 by talking of the affairs of the Church. They spoke 
 first of Annie. " You like my cousin very much, don't 
 you? " he asked. 
 
 " Very much indeed," she answered : " she is so 
 good, so true. If once she can see life, its duties, and 
 its objects in their real light, she will be more than 
 commonly good. But I sometimes wonder that having 
 been educated by so superior a person as Mrs. Gerald 
 there should be something in Annie that gives one the 
 idea that her mind has not been very much cultivated. 
 Do you perceive this ? " 
 
 " I understand what you mean, but I do not think 
 this is quite the case. There is perhaps in her a slow- 
 ness of apprehension which sometimes almost seems 
 like a deficiency of intelligence ; but I have often been 
 struck by her good sense and the excellence of her 
 understanding." 
 
 " Your visit had a great effect upon her. Even after 
 those few days I could see that she was much less 
 childish, that she thought more. I am sure you would 
 have great influence over Annie if you saw more of her-.-" 
 
80 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Edgar remained silent a moment, and then said in 
 a low voice, " How difficult it sometimes is to satisfy 
 oneself as to which would be the most perfect of two 
 lines of conduct." 
 
 "Yes," Eliza answered, "and there is nothing so 
 trying in the world as perplexity. But others, and 
 especially those who are used to guide and to direct 
 us, often see more clearly than we do ourselves which 
 course we should follow." 
 
 " I am in the greatest doubt at present on two of 
 the most important points a man can have to decide 
 upon. I cannot quite make up my mind whether to 
 go into the Church or not, and in the next place 
 whether, if I do so, I ought to marry. It may seem 
 very strange that after so short an acquaintance I 
 should speak to you so openly on such subjects as 
 these ; but, though I have not known you long, Miss 
 Conway, I feel as if we were old friends and that I 
 can open my heart to you without folly or indiscre- 
 tion. On the first of the two points I mentioned I 
 have nearly come to a decision. As I have taken my 
 degree at Oxford I can be ordained with very little 
 delay ; and it seems to me that every man who enters 
 our Church, with a full sense of the duties and 
 responsibilities of a priest, is lending strength to the 
 cause of truth." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " Eliza exclaimed, " it is an inestimable 
 blessing that such persons should take holy orders. I 
 am very, very thankful that such is your intention." 
 
 " What has forced the thought upon me has been 
 the sight of so many poor creatures dying without 
 absolution. While the Papists, as a matter of course, 
 sent for their priests and received the last sacraments, 
 our poor people, in the first place, had never, many of 
 them, been taught to think anything of confession and 
 absolution, or cared to send for a clergyman ; and, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 81 
 
 secondly, if they were visited on their death-beds by 
 an Anglican priest, alas ! it was often only to have a 
 few prayers and verses of the Bible read to them, and 
 not a word said about confession. Indeed, in one 
 instance, a poor dying man, who had some wish to 
 confess, was told to confess to God and not to man, 
 and actually dissuaded from seeking sacramental 
 absolution. On another occasion, when a clergyman 
 was going to administer Holy Communion to a sick 
 person, he spent some time in explaining that our 
 Lord was not present in the sacrament as he said 
 Roman Catholics falsely teach. It is heart-breaking 
 to see God's ministers so utterly ignorant of the 
 treasures of grace they hold in their hands ; and bap- 
 tized persons equally unconscious of their rights to 
 those blessed privileges. I longed during those days, 
 when death was striking on every side those poor 
 sufferers, I pined to possess the right of speaking, of 
 acting as a priest, and then came the thought that 
 God was calling me to devote my life to the sacred 
 ministry." 
 
 " I have no doubt it was an inspiration, dear Mr. 
 Derwent." 
 
 " But then comes the second question. At the very 
 moment that I was anxiously turning over in my mind 
 that important subject, I happened to meet here Miss 
 Rose, Annie's governess. I have known her, of 
 course, all my life, and we have always been great 
 friends. We happened to be left alone together for 
 nearly an hour, and had a long conversation, in the 
 course of which I heard, to my infinite surprise, that 
 my Aunt Gerald's favourite wish is that I should 
 marry Annie ! It had never crossed my mind that 
 such a thing would be possible, that she would be 
 content to see her marry a man as poor as myself. 
 I have always been very fond of Annie, and since my 
 
 G 
 
82 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 last visit to Holmwood have felt an interest in her 
 which might easily grow into a warmer affection. Of 
 course there is everything in this idea that would 
 naturally attract and tempt me — my attachment to 
 Holmwood, the possession of great means of useful- 
 ness and influence, and also the thought, that, if I 
 succeeded in winning Annie's heart and became her 
 husband, I should lead her to the knowledge of those 
 truths which, for those I love as well as for myself, I 
 value more than life. But then there comes the 
 doubt . . . ." 
 
 " What doubt ? What makes you hesitate ? " 
 
 " I do not know. I scarcely think that a clergyman 
 should — mind I do not say that he may not, not even 
 that he ought not — but I doubt if he should marry, 
 especially at a time when all those who have the in- 
 terests of the Church at heart, seem called upon to 
 practise heroic self-denial." 
 
 " I admit," Eliza answered, "that there are great 
 advantages in some cases in priests being unmar- 
 ried " 
 
 " There is a growing feeling of that kind in our 
 Church, I think." 
 
 " But are there not cases also which form an excep- 
 tion to the rule, if, indeed, it amounts to a rule, and 
 yours seems to me to be precisely of that number. 
 Are we not to consider the greater amount of good 
 which can be effected in one way or in the other in 
 each individual instance. The ad majorem Dei gloriatn, 
 which you were telling us the other day was the motto 
 of the Jesuits ? I am not inclined to like them, but I 
 admire these words. And now tell me, do you think 
 Annie would object to your going into the Church ? " 
 
 " No, as far I can judge by her letter. She even 
 gives me a hint that I might become some day Vicar 
 of Holmwood." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 83 
 
 11 Oh, my dear Mr. Derwent, if that could ever be 
 realized, what a career of usefulness would open to 
 you ! What we want are opportunities for the full de- 
 velopment and carrying out of Church principles. 
 If our people could see the effect and judge of the 
 results of Catholic teaching, we might look to a wonder- 
 ful increase of English Catholicism. I am, perhaps, 
 biassed by that thought. Holmwood, with its beauti- 
 ful old church and its ancestral home, exhibiting the 
 ideal of Catholic worship and Christian domestic 
 virtue, with all its sanctity and its poetry, would convert 
 half the county 1 " 
 
 11 Mind that, when I said Annie seemed to approve 
 of my intention, I did not mean to imply that she gave 
 me the least reason to suppose she would marry me. 
 You know, I might be Vicar of Holmwood when poor 
 dear Mr. Pratt departs this life, and Annie be some- 
 body else's wife." 
 
 " Not half the good would be done in that way as 
 if you were her husband. And now as you have talked 
 openly to me, I will in return speak openly to you. I 
 have studied Annie's character, and I am quite con- 
 vinced that with all her apparent strength of will and 
 independence of opinion, she is very liable to be in- 
 fluenced. I believe this is one of the reasons that 
 makes Mrs. Gerald wish her so much to marry you. 
 She has, for instance, seen Miss Flower only a very 
 few times, but I can perceive that she would be easily 
 guided by that girl." 
 
 " And is not she a good companion for Annie ? " 
 
 " I hardly know her ; I only saw her once. She is 
 very pleasing, remarkably so. I could not help being 
 fascinated by her manner ; but I suspect what is indeed 
 perfectly natural, as she had lived abroad all her life, 
 that she has either no religion at all, or a very strong 
 bias towards Roman Catholicism. It could hardly 
 
84 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 perhaps be otherwise, but it would not be the less a 
 terrible danger for Annie. At present she is very ig- 
 norant of everything relating to the Church of Rome, 
 and has the strongest prejudices against it ; but, with 
 her particular turn of mind, I should very much dread 
 her hearing some of those insidious arguments which 
 Papists use, to make it appear that the position of our 
 Church is untenable ; for sometimes she has seemed to 
 come of her own accord to that mistaken conclusion, 
 and I found it very difficult to make her understand 
 the real state of the case. When she is puzzled, she 
 falls back on Mr. Pratt's teaching, which is the safer 
 extreme of the two for the present, for she could not 
 long remain satisfied with the vague, miserable barren- 
 ness of mere Protestantism. But an influence leading 
 her in an opposite direction would be most dangerous. 
 I look to your influence to counteract the effects of her 
 intimacy with Miss Flower." 
 
 " I have not the least idea if there would be any 
 hope of her accepting me." 
 
 " I should say there was every probability of it, and 
 am sure, from what I saw during your visit, and still 
 more so since your departure, that she is, to say the 
 least, very much inclined to return your affection." 
 
 " I do not know," Edgar replied, with a smile, " that 
 I can say that I am actually in love with her yet. At 
 Holmwood I never thought of such a thing ; but since 
 the possibility of obtaining her has been placed before 
 me, I find in myself some of the symptoms of that 
 passion such as Shakespeare describes them, and when 
 I see her next I am only afraid of the malady taking 
 too rapid a development. However, God knows I can 
 say with truth that I would not accept the hope of this 
 happiness which has been, as it were, offered to me, if 
 I did not think it was His will I should accept it, or 
 if it was to stand in the way of my following what I 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 85 
 
 believe He has called me to — the sacred duties of a 
 priest." 
 
 Some further conversation took place between these 
 young people which it is unnecessary to relate. Eliza 
 succeeded in dissipating Edgar's doubts as to the de- 
 sirableness of a clergyman's marrying, at any rate in 
 his own case. Though she had recommended him to 
 consult a spiritual adviser on the subject, she had un- 
 consciously assumed the office herself. It is not fools 
 only who rush in where angels fear to tread, but good 
 and clever people also, especially those whose training 
 and habits of mind have not taught them that there are 
 days and hours in men's lives, turning moments in their 
 destinies, too awful, too sacred, for casual advice, for 
 unconsidered counsel, for decisions taken anywhere but 
 on their knees and in God's presence. Perhaps few 
 people think enough of the fearful responsibility of 
 giving advice. More harm is sometimes done in this 
 way than by acts of unkindness, or even perhaps by 
 bad example. Especially if any possess the dangerous 
 gift of influence, let them beware how by a few rash 
 words they turn the scales in which the fate of a life, 
 and of an immortal soul, may be trembling. 
 
 Edgar made up his mind that evening to try and 
 win Annie. He said to himself, " Eliza is conscientious, 
 sensible, and quite unprejudiced in the question. She 
 thinks it would be the means of so much good, and I 
 see that she is convinced Annie likes me." If he 
 afterwards asked anybody else's advice, it was probably 
 for the chance of its falling in with what he had pre- 
 viously resolved upon, not with the least idea of 
 shaping his course according to its purport. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 The intimacy with Ita Flower, which Miss Conway 
 so much dreaded for Annie, was progressing rapidly. 
 There were few days that they did not contrive to 
 meet. Mr. Hendon's carriage, on the days that Lady 
 Emily did not go out, was always at Miss Flower's 
 disposal ; and, if Annie had not driven over in the 
 morning to Marchbanks, Ita was almost certain to 
 appear at Holmwood immediately after luncheon. 
 They soon became friends, though their dispositions, 
 tastes, and characters were very different. Ita's 
 imaginative and pictorial view of things amused Annie, 
 whilst she in turn was interested by her friend's 
 original turn of mind, and matter-of-fact remarks. As 
 to Mrs. Gerald, she was strangely capricious with 
 regard to their young neighbour. She used to com- 
 plain of her coming too often and monopolizing 
 Annie's time; but, if she chanced not to appear for 
 two or three days, she inquired why she stayed away, 
 and seemed fidgety till she came again, and was 
 very inquisitive as to the long conversations they 
 held together. 
 
 " What were you talking about, my love, during 
 those two whole hours I saw you sitting in the shrub- 
 bery ? " she one day asked her niece. 
 
 "Was it so long as that? It did not seem so. Ita 
 has seen so many places, and known all kinds of 
 people abroad ; she tells me all sorts of amusing 
 things." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 87 
 
 " Has she spoken to you much about her child- 
 hood?" 
 
 " Yes, a great deal. I think I know as much about 
 Mentone as if I had lived there myself." 
 
 " But does she remember anything of the time before 
 she came there ? Does she ever speak of her parents ? " 
 
 " No ; I asked her one day if she had always been 
 with Lady Emily ? She said, ' No — not always ;' that 
 she lived, when she was very little, at a cottage near 
 the sea-side somewhere, but that it seemed like a dream. 
 I asked her if she was with her parents then, and I 
 was sorry I put that question to her, for she grew 
 very red, and the tears came into her eyes. So I 
 suppose they are dead. It was a foolish, thoughtless 
 question ; for, if they had been alive, she would not 
 have been, I suppose, Lady Emily's ward." 
 
 " Do you know why she does not come to church ? 
 Is she a Roman Catholic ? " 
 
 " No. I thought at first she was, and so I asked 
 her. She said, ' No ; ' but that she had been very 
 much used to go to Roman Catholic churches, and 
 that she liked them much better than ours." 
 
 " That is the worst of English girls living abroad ; 
 they are influenced by what they see of the pageantry 
 of the Romish service, and then they get to dislike our 
 simple and beautiful form of worship." 
 
 " I told Ita that Edgar says we have lighted candles; 
 and incense and flowers, in some of our churches now ; 
 but she says it is not those sort of things she cares 
 about. I do not like talking to her about religion. I 
 do not know how to explain to her what Edgar says 
 about our church being Catholic." 
 
 " You are quite right, I think, to avoid that sort of 
 conversation. No good can come of young girls dis- 
 cussing such subjects. I sometimes question, Annie, 
 whether Miss Flower is a good friend for you." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Oh yes, she is, Aunt Gerald, I like her very much. 
 It is only now and then that we ever speak about re- 
 ligion. Oh ! and now I want to know .... we are 
 going to Carsdale next week, I suppose? " 
 
 " Yes ; on Monday. The ball is to be on Thursday, 
 and we stay till Saturday." 
 
 " Well ; but Ita is asked — if she had only anybody 
 to go with — and I want her to come with us." 
 "With us? " 
 
 " Yes ; Lady Emily cannot go, of course, and it 
 would be awkward for her to go with Mr. Hendon. I 
 shall not amuse myself at all if she is not there. She 
 and Edgar are the only two persons I like to be with 
 now/' 
 
 " And the poor Conways ? " 
 
 " Well, I will tell you the truth. I like them, but 
 not quite so much as I did before they were staying 
 with us. Eliza is too good for me, she bores me a 
 little about schools and poor people ; and Jane is rather 
 tiresome when you come to see a great deal of her." 
 
 " But does not Edgar talk almost as much as Eliza 
 of those sort of things ? " 
 
 " No, not so incessantly, and he sometimes makes 
 me laugh. I like to hear him talk, whatever the sub- 
 ject is. But now I want to know, will you take Ita 
 with us to Carsdale ? " 
 
 " I suppose I must, if Lady Emily asks me." 
 
 " You cannot think how fond she is of you, Aunt 
 Gerald." 
 
 •* Of me ! " Mrs. Gerald exclaimed, with a sudden 
 colour rushing into her face, " what can make her fond 
 of me ? I have scarcely said two words to her." 
 
 " Well, she says she does not know why it is, she 
 has taken such a fancy to you. Only to hear your 
 voice, or sit in the same room with you, is a pleasure 
 to her. She is such an odd girlj she thinks that 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 89 
 
 people have lived in some other world, or in this one 
 perhaps, at some former time ; and that when we like 
 or dislike people in some unaccountable way, it is 
 because we have known them in some other state of 
 existence." 
 
 " I never heard such nonsense, my love. It is, I 
 suppose, some superstitious notion that she has learnt 
 from Catholics." 
 
 11 No ; she says the Abate Somebody, whom she 
 knows at Mentone, told her it was a false idea." 
 
 " Well, the sooner she gets it out of her head the 
 better. You have, I am sure, too much good sense to 
 listen to such absurdities." 
 
 " Those sort of thoughts never came into my mind. 
 I was never much alone, you know ; perhaps that 
 makes a difference. Ita used to be hours and hours 
 by herself, and she has told me that all sorts of 
 painful ideas, and sometimes funny ones, occurred to 
 her. She fancied all kinds of things, and held long 
 conversations with imaginary people, and invented 
 histories about them, when she was sitting in the 
 olive woods, or on the sea-shore at Mentone. ' And 
 then about religion she was so bothered, always won- 
 dering what Heaven was like, and how anything could 
 last for ever. She often longed to talk to somebody 
 about those things, but, if she said anything to Lady 
 Emily, she cried, ' Oh, pray, my dear, don't talk of 
 that, you make me nervous ' ; and her governess an- 
 swered, ' II m'est defendu, Mademoiselle, de vous 
 parler de religion.' So she had to think it all out for 
 herself." 
 
 " Her case has been an unfortunate one in that re- 
 spect. She had better speak to Mr. Pratt, or perhaps 
 Edgar's views might suit her. But talking of him, 
 Annie, I must tell you that I heard from him this 
 morning, and that he has quite made up his mind to 
 
go MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 become a clergyman. He has been to see the Bishop 
 
 of , and, after a long conversation he had with him, 
 
 it was settled that the bishop will ordain him privately 
 early in September. I suppose he was struck by his 
 zeal and earnestness, and the purity of his motives in 
 entering the Church." 
 
 " Early in September ! As soon as that ! Then will 
 he not meet us at Carsdale ? I know they have invited 
 him." 
 
 " He says he hopes to be there for two or three 
 days, and then he will go and stay with a clerical 
 friend of his to prepare for his ordination. He speaks 
 very beautifully on that subject, and very touchingly, 
 too, about you, Annie. I do not think, when you meet 
 again, that he will leave you long in doubt about his 
 feelings." 
 
 " Oh, then, I hope we shall not meet at Carsdale." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Because I should not like him to speak of that 
 anywhere but here. I would wish it to be on the ter- 
 race on a fine day, late in the afternoon. If he asks 
 me to marry him, and I accept him, I shall be making 
 him, as it were, a present of Holmwood ; and I should 
 like it to be looking as beautiful as possible, and then 
 I should say, ' There, I give it you ; it is yours.' " 
 
 " Why, Annie, I do not know you again ! That is 
 quite a poetical idea. But, my love, you seem to be 
 always dwelling on that thought of giving him Holm- 
 wood. It is, after all, but a slight gift in comparison 
 with your affection." 
 
 11 No, not a bit of it. If I had not this place he is 
 so fond of to give him, nothing would induce me to 
 marry him. He is twenty times better and cleverer 
 than I am ; he has a taste for all sorts of things I do 
 not care at all about ; he can express what he feels, ' 
 and I cannot. If I love people ever so much I cannot 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 91 
 
 tell them so. No, certainly, If I had only myself to 
 give Edgar I would not accept him, but the possession 
 of Holmwood, which he is so excessively fond of, will 
 make up for my deficiencies." 
 
 When Edgar was describing Annie's character, he 
 had said she was proud, and perhaps there was pride 
 in the feeling she had just expressed, but there was 
 also something touching in the humble estimate of her- 
 self which it implied. Mrs. Gerald felt this, and kissed 
 her with deep emotion. Annie's manner of returning 
 this caress had in it more kindness than warmth. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald, as usual, complied with her niece's 
 wishes, and wrote to propose that Ita should go with 
 them to Carsdale. The offer was gladly accepted, and 
 on a lovely day towards the end of August they called 
 for her on their way there. The two girls were in 
 high spirits. Ita exclaimed, as they went through a 
 lovely glade full of magnificent trees, " Oh, how beauti- 
 ful ! " and, as Mrs. Gerald looked at her beaming face, 
 she also mentally exclaimed, " How beautiful ! " and 
 leaning back herself in the carriage, she listened to the 
 conversation that went on between her two companions. 
 It was merry, full of girlish nonsense and fun. But 
 no smile came on Mrs. Gerald's lips ; once there were 
 a few tears in her eyes. When they reached the park 
 of Carsdale and came suddenly on a new and exten- 
 sive view, Ita's cheeks flushed with delight ; soon the 
 house itself appeared in sight — a large stately building 
 standing in the midst of what looked like a boundless 
 extent of flower-gardens, with fountains playing in the 
 midst of the dazzling masses of colour, and bordered 
 by a lake intersected with little green islands and 
 floating clusters of the large-leaved water-lilies. In a 
 transport of delight Ita seized Mrs. Gerald's hand, 
 kissed it, and kept it a moment in her own. The hand 
 so fondly held was quickly snatched away ; she raised 
 
92 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 her soft eyes with a look of surprise and then cast 
 them down. Mrs. Gerald almost turned her back upon 
 her, and smoothed Annie's hair, which had been blown 
 about by the wind. Before she had done putting it to 
 rights, they arrived at the house, and were shown into a 
 drawing-room, where Lady Carsdale and her daughter, 
 Lady Emma, were sitting with three or four other persons. 
 Lady Carsdale was a short, plump, good-natured- 
 looking woman, full of the milk of human kindness, 
 and on whom the cares and troubles of life seemed to 
 have sat lightly. Though advanced in years there were 
 no hard lines in her fair, placid face, and her small 
 blue eyes twinkled with incessant glee. She seemed 
 satisfied with herself and the whole world, except when 
 the world made a fuss about anything. This discom- 
 posed her, though nothing else did. " If people only 
 took things quietly, nobody would be uncomfortable," 
 she used to say. The principle was to a certain degree 
 a good one, only Lady Carsdale's application of it was 
 too general. Lady Emma was very unlike her mother, 
 a slight shade of superciliousness was visible in her 
 countenance, a perceptible consciousness of being a 
 person of consequence. There were two more ladies 
 in the room, one of them was a Mrs. Harper, who had 
 a sharp inquisitive face that seemed constantly asking 
 a question ; there was something in the very shape of 
 her nose that reminded one of a note of interrogation, 
 and her black eyes might have belonged to a detective 
 officer. The other was Mrs. Walter Sydney, a lady of 
 about thirty-seven or eight years of age, still pretty, 
 and with a most attractive countenance. Her husband 
 was an amiable-looking man, a great deal older than 
 herself. Mrs. Gerald shook hands with her, and in- 
 quired after Mr. Sydney, her father-in-law, a very old 
 gentleman, more than eighty years old, and then 
 presented her to Annie. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. g 3 
 
 Ita had no one to speak to. There was a gentle- 
 man sitting near her, but he went on reading the 
 newspaper and did not change his position during the 
 half-hour which elapsed before Lady Carsdale asked 
 her guests the welcome question on such occasions, 
 " Would not you like to see your rooms ? " But he had, 
 nevertheless contrived to gather in that time more in- 
 formation about the new comers than Mrs. Harper 
 herself. Her curiosity was as active as Mr. Lorton's, 
 but not under such good control. By not seeming to 
 be on the watch, he discovered a thousand details 
 which would have escaped a more unguarded observer. 
 
 There was a running current of jealousy going 
 on between these two individuals. Nothing vexed 
 Mr. Lorton more than to be told a piece of news by 
 Mrs. Harper, and vice versa. Though each was glad to 
 get every possible scrap of information, it was gall 
 and wormwood to their feelings to find themselves in 
 the case of being informed of a new fact by a rival 
 collector. Ita, meantime, was quite satisfied with 
 looking about the room. There seemed to her a whole 
 world of beauty within those four walls. She was 
 gifted (is it always a gift ?) with an intense capacity 
 for enjoyment, she took a keen delight in things which 
 many people scarcely pay any attention to — which 
 they would miss if taken away from them, but of the 
 presence of which they are hardly conscious. The 
 beautiful hot-house flowers in the recesses of the win- 
 dows, and even the pretty Dresden china figures on 
 the chimney-piece, gave her pleasure ; but more than 
 all, the pictures. Her glance wandered from the 
 portrait of a knight in armour to that of a cardinal 
 in his full robes ; but when she caught sight of a group 
 of ragged boys quarrelling over a melon, and then of 
 a procession of pilgrims on their way to St. Peter's, 
 her ecstasy was such that she could hardly help jump- 
 
94 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 ing up from her chair. She tried to catch Annie's eye, 
 but did not succeed ; i she had, there would not, 
 perhaps, have been much sympathy shown for her ad- 
 miration of these works of art. She was in no hurry 
 to move, there was still so much to look at ; but 
 everybody else was glad when Lady Carsdale led the 
 way upstairs. 
 
 " We are quite a small party to-day," Lady Cars- 
 dale said as she stood for a moment in Mrs. Gerald's 
 dressing-room. M My son and two of his friends, Mr. 
 Bayham and Sir John Leislip, we expect by the next 
 train. The Rockcastles are here ; and Mrs. Wellersby 
 — she is a Spaniard — and that clever Mr. Harman you 
 met here last year are coming to-morrow. They are 
 all very comfortable people that one feels quite at one's 
 ease with. The Sydneys you know very well ? Oh, 
 of course you do. They are nearer neighbours of 
 yours than of ours. It is a great pity that they have 
 become Roman Catholics. They are very nice people. 
 Emma used to be very fond of Mrs. Sydney, but lately 
 she has seen very little of her. Lord Carsdale, how- 
 ever, insisted on my inviting them. Mr. Sydney has 
 always been a great friend of his. It is so useless to 
 make a fuss about that sort of thing. I am for people 
 thinking and doing what they like about religion, so 
 that they leave others alone, and keep their opinions 
 to themselves. Formerly, in this part of the world, 
 people in society did not trouble their heads about 
 what religion others were of. I remember one of my 
 constant partners, when I was a girl, was a Roman 
 Catholic, and I never had the least idea of it till long 
 afterwards. Now Emma knows not only if her part- 
 ners are Catholics or Protestants, but what churches 
 they go to, and what views they have. In my days 
 people rode, hunted, dined together, and even married, 
 without all the fuss that goes on now." 
 
. MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 95 
 
 " As to marrying, dear Lady Carsdale," Mrs. Gerald 
 answered, " I must say I am very much against mixed 
 marriages. I would allow any amount of latitude in 
 our own Church, but surely husbands and wives ought 
 to be able to pray together." 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course it is much better ; then there 
 is no difficulty. I always said that, as Mr. Sydney 
 became a Catholic, it was much better Mrs. Sydney 
 should be one also. It makes things so much easier 
 about children and everything." 
 
 "Yes, but then conversions, or rather perversions, 
 to Popery are very sad. However, some people say 
 that the best remedy will be the increase of Catholi- 
 cism in our Church." 
 
 " Oh ! I dare say. I believe that is what Emma 
 thinks," Lady Carsdale replied. " I am sure I hope 
 so." She would have hoped anything rather than have 
 had an argument. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald had been suffering all day from neu- 
 ralgia ; she had struggled against it in order not to 
 disappoint the two girls by putting off their visit to 
 Carsdale. But while dressing for dinner the pain in- 
 creased so much that she was forced to remain in her 
 room. Lady Carsdale kindly came to fetch Annie and 
 Ita, and took them down with her to the drawing-room. 
 It was a great disappointment to Mrs. Gerald not to 
 see Annie make her appearance almost for the first 
 time in society. She asked her to come up after din- 
 ner and tell her how she had got on. Annie did so. 
 
 " Whom did you sit by, my love ? " 
 
 " Between Lord Carsdown and a clergyman whose 
 name I don't know." 
 
 "Did you converse much with your neighbours?" 
 Mrs. Gerald inquired, with her hand pressed on her 
 forehead to still the pain. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; Lord Carsdown talked a great deal." 
 
96 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " What about ? " 
 
 w About riding, and his horses. He is so surprised 
 I have never seen a race. He described to me how 
 exciting it is. He said that two people he knew were 
 once watching a race, and it depended on which horse 
 won if they were to be married or not. I wonder 
 they could look at all. And sometimes people know 
 they will be quite ruined, if one particular horse does 
 not win. I am very glad Edgar is not a racing man." 
 
 " Do you think Lord Carsdown pleasing ? " 
 
 " Yes, very pleasing ; he has such an eager way of 
 talking, and is so much struck by all one says. It 
 amuses me when he thumps the table and cries, ' By 
 Jove ! you are quite right.' He said that five or six 
 times at least during dinner." 
 
 " And your other neighbour ? " 
 
 " I did not like him at all. He would tell me that 
 Puseyites are very dangerous, insidious people, who 
 are pulling down the Church of England, and that it 
 is a dreadful thing that almost all the young men in 
 these days who think seriously become Puseyites. 
 He asked me if it was true that Edgar was going into 
 the Church. When I said I believed he was, he shook 
 his head and said he hoped he had not adopted those 
 dangerous opinions, and went on arguing about it, 
 which I hate, for though I cannot always agree with 
 Edgar I cannot bear any one to find fault with him. 
 As soon as I could I turned to Lord Carsdown, and 
 asked him about the horse they are going to lend me 
 to ride." 
 
 " You will enjoy yourself here, darling ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, very much. We are going to have a 
 round game to-night." 
 
 " Do not stay up here then. Give me a kiss, dear 
 love, and do not think any more about me." 
 
 " How is your head ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 97 
 
 " Still very bad. Never mind. I hope you will be 
 amused, dearest." 
 
 Annie kissed her aunt and left the room, shutting 
 the door after her not quite so quietly as might have 
 been desirable for a person every nerve of whose head 
 was quivering with pain. But Annie did not know 
 herself what headaches are, and had not imagination 
 enough to realize what she had not felt. 
 
 A little while afterwards the door was opened again 
 very softly, and the lightest possible footstep crossed 
 the floor. It was Ita, who timidly came up to the sofa 
 on which Mrs. Gerald was lying, and sitting down by 
 her side, said in a low voice, " I thought it would 
 please you to hear how much my two neighbours at 
 dinner admired Annie." 
 
 " Who were they ? " Mrs. Gerald asked, raising her 
 head from the pillow. 
 
 " Lord Rockcastle and Mr. Bayham, they both think 
 her so handsome ; and after we came out of the 
 dining-room, Mrs. Sydney said the same thing. She 
 is looking so particularly well to-night. And now I will 
 not talk any more, but would you let me tie a handker- 
 chief tightly round your head ? It is the only thing that 
 does mamma any good when she has a bad headache." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald smiled, and looked about for a hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 " I have brought a silk one, a very soft one," Ita 
 said ; and kneeling down by the sofa, she tied the 
 handkerchief round Mrs. Gerald's head, and performed 
 this little act in the quiet pleasant manner which gives 
 to some people a peculiar talent for ministering to 
 pain. This simple remedy afforded the throbbing 
 temples some relief, and Mrs. Gerald remained for a 
 few minutes motionless and silent, but a moment 
 afterwards she said, " You had better go downstairs, 
 my dear ; do not let me keep you here." 
 
 H 
 
gS MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Do let me stay a little, I like so much to be with 
 you." 
 
 " But Annie will miss you." 
 
 "I do not think she wants me, they are going to 
 play a round game." 
 
 '* The young people, you mean ; you ought to be 
 with them." 
 
 As she was saying this, Ita had slipped her arm 
 under Mrs. Gerald's neck, and placed her head in a 
 more comfortable position. " I see you have a talent 
 for nursing," Mrs. Gerald said, with a smile; "you 
 have really done me good." 
 
 " Have I ? I am so glad." Ita hesitated a little, 
 and then blushing, said, " I love you so much." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald was one of those persons to whom 
 people seldom show affection ; partly because there 
 were not many who felt it, and also because those who 
 did were apt to refrain from giving outward signs of 
 that feeling, so greatly did the formality of her manner 
 repel its expression. Ita's simple exclamation, and 
 the little caress which accompanied it, took her by 
 surprise, and caused her a sort of agitation. There 
 are, to use a common expression, strange ins and outs 
 in the human heart, and especially in natures at once 
 impetuous and reserved. Mrs. Gerald's passionate 
 affection for Annie had never met with any return 
 beyond a very matter-of-fact, proper, dutiful sort of 
 regard. In ordinary cases this would have chilled and 
 disgusted her, for she measured her likings for others 
 very much by what is called in French la toise personelle ; 
 but this did not apply to the child who had been 
 snatched from the grave in her infancy, and restored 
 to her when she had thought never to see her again — 
 to the girl whom she had watched, trained, and cared 
 for with parental affection, in whom she had centred 
 all her hopes, her pride, and her delight. She had 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 99 
 
 always felt — more than she knew, perhaps ; certainly 
 more than she had ever acknowledged to herself — the 
 want of tenderness in Annie's character, but it had 
 never been on her she visited the pain it gave her. 
 On the present occasion it was with Ita that she 
 seemed vexed. Why should a mere stranger, one to 
 whom she had only shown a little casual kindness, 
 express what Annie so seldom did — a warm affection 
 for her. She felt almost angry at the contrast being 
 forced on her notice, and there was a shade of annoy- 
 ance in the manner with which she said, " Really, my 
 dear Ita, I do not understand what I can have done 
 to make you so fond of me in so short a time." 
 
 Like a sensitive plant bruised by a slight touch, 
 not meant to hurt, but exquisitely painful, Ita felt one 
 of those pangs which run, not like a dagger, but like 
 a thorn, into her heart. She kissed Mrs. Gerald's 
 hand ; that little act of homage familiar to those who 
 have lived much abroad, but which generally surprises 
 English people, and then said, " I will go down to 
 Annie." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald wished her good-night ; she felt that 
 she had been unkind, but if she had said anything it 
 would have been too much or too little. When the 
 door was shut and the young girl gone, she burst into 
 tears. 
 
 The round game was going on when Ita slipped 
 quietly into the drawing-room. A whist party had also 
 been made up, and Lady Emma was playing on the 
 pianoforte. Most of the persons present seemed to 
 think that the chief advantage of music was to help 
 on conversation. Annie was very much engrossed 
 with her hand at Commerce, and did not pay much 
 attention when Ita whispered to her that Mrs. Gerald's 
 headache was a little better ; and, as Mrs. Sydney 
 seemed the only person at that moment not engaged 
 
ioo MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 in any way, she went and sat by her. Mrs. Sydney 
 was listening to the playing, but smiled and looked 
 pleased as she made room for her on the sofa near the 
 pianoforte. When the piece was finished, and some 
 of the gentlemen came up to speak to Lady Emma, 
 Mrs. Sydney said to Ita, " Are you fond of music ? " 
 
 " Yes, very fond of it ; but I am afraid I like a 
 barrel-organ better than some kinds of playing on the 
 pianoforte." 
 
 " A barrel-organ has its merits, I allow. Do you 
 play yourself? " 
 
 " Not well ; but I can remember tunes and play 
 them from memory — I like my own playing as I do my 
 own thoughts. Nobody else I think would." 
 
 The simplicity with which this was said, made 
 Mrs. Sydney smile, and she answered, " Perhaps I 
 should. Will you try some day ? " 
 
 " Yes, with great pleasure ; but it is not real playing 
 — not at all like Lady Emma's." 
 
 " She has a great deal of execution and taste, but 
 it is not the sort of playing I care about. I believe 
 that the sort I like has gone out of fashion ; I only 
 hear old people play now with a soft touch that seems 
 to linger on the notes and to draw from them tones 
 that are almost like speaking. My husband's mother 
 used to play in that way." 
 
 "Oh yes: I know exactly what you mean. Lady 
 Emily, too, played like that. When I was a child it 
 was my delight to sit by the pianoforte and listen to 
 her playing. I could have fancied she had velvet at 
 the end of her fingers, and one tune followed another 
 as if a bird was singing. I like that so much better 
 than pieces and variations ; it made me feel as if I was 
 myself the instrument played upon. I do hope there 
 will be a great deal of music in heaven. Do you think 
 there will? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " I suppose all that is beautiful and charming on 
 earth is a foreshadowing of the enjoyments of heaven : 
 as beautiful scenery, I often think, must be a relic of 
 Paradise. But Holy Scripture says that we can make 
 to ourselves no idea of heaven." 
 
 " Almost everybody that believes there is a heaven 
 seems to make sure of going there." 
 
 " Too sure, perhaps." 
 
 " Have you ever met with anybody who really 
 longed to leave this world, not because they were 
 unhappy in it, but because they wished to go to 
 heaven ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know that many do, and I have seen it 
 myself in one instance." 
 
 " Was it a young or an old person ? " 
 
 " A young person." 
 
 " And one who was happy on earth ? " 
 
 " She had known much sorrow, but it had passed 
 away, and at last she had everything to make her 
 happy . . . ." 
 
 " Ah, but that is very different from being happy ! " 
 
 Mrs. Sydney smiled sadly. " You are right ; but I 
 think my sister, for it is of her I am speaking, was 
 happy during the last years of her life ; but still she 
 longed, intensely longed, for heaven." 
 
 " Are you speaking of that beautiful Mrs, Neville, 
 whom Mrs. Gerald told us was the loveliest person 
 she ever knew." 
 
 " Yes ; she was my sister." 
 
 " Was she not called Ginevra ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 11 I ought not perhaps to have asked you about 
 her." 
 
 " Why not ? I like to speak of those who are gone 
 before us, and I feel nearer to her now than when she 
 was on earth. Then we had not the same faith. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Though I do not see her now, it seems to me as if we 
 were more closely united." 
 
 " You are a Roman Catholic ? " 
 
 11 Yes ; I was received into the Church two years 
 after my sister's death." 
 
 " Is it as great a change as one fancies it must be ? " 
 
 11 An immense change certainly, but not of the sort 
 many people imagine." 
 
 " What do you think they imagine ? " 
 
 Mrs. Sydney smiled, and said, " That for instance, 
 we cease to care for our relatives ; that we think it 
 right to tell untruths and to betray confidence. I 
 was asked by a very dear friend, a few days after my 
 conversion, if I should think it my duty to show all 
 her letters to my confessor." 
 
 Ita, too, could not help smiling. " It would be 
 hard work," she said, " for confessors to read over all 
 the letters some ladies write and receive ; but what is 
 the great change that you do feel ? " 
 
 " It would be impossible to answer that question in 
 a few words. It is like setting foot on dry ground 
 after slipping about in a bog, or like the clearing off 
 of a mist and getting into sunshine. It is like laying 
 hold of something real after grasping at shadows. Yes, 
 it is a great change." f 
 
 " And has it made you happier ?" 
 
 " It has given me a happiness which I believe none 
 but Catholics know. I was very happy as a girl ; very, 
 very happy as a wife ; but I had no idea of what real 
 joy is till I became a Catholic." 
 
 " But good Protestants say they are quite happy 
 and satisfied with their religion." 
 
 " Yes ; but is it not because they do not know what 
 it is to be in the true Church ? I used to say the same 
 thing in former days ; I remember often telling my 
 dearest Ginevra, who had always been a Catholic, that 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 103 
 
 I was sure I had the same consolations and helps in 
 my religion as she had in hers. She could not know, 
 I said, what I felt, and so how could she tell. But 
 when my husband became a Catholic, he who had al- 
 ways been a good pious Protestant, not belonging to 
 any extreme party, but acknowledged by all to be a 
 thoroughly good man — when he assured me that since 
 he had made the change he had never had a doubt as 
 to the truth of the Catholic religion, and found in it 
 helps and consolations he had never dreamt of before, 
 I could not but be influenced by what he said." 
 
 " And now you can judge for yourself? " 
 
 " Now I can remember and compare. Suppose a 
 child had been born and brought up in a dark room, 
 and had never gone out of it. He might be quite 
 satisfied, because, not having ever known anything 
 different, he could not possibly form an idea of the 
 beauties of earth, sea, and sky, or desire anything 
 beyond what his prison could afford. . . ." 
 
 " He might have perhaps some vague yearnings, an 
 undefined, restless pining for light and fresh air, even 
 if he was not exactly conscious of it. . . ." 
 
 " Perhaps so. And have not some persons a feeling 
 in their souls which would answer in a spiritual sense 
 to what you describe ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think they sometimes have. I wonder if 
 the child would listen if a stranger came and talked 
 to him of the world and its beauties." 
 
 " I should think that would partly depend on the 
 child's character, and partly on what had been instilled 
 into his mind since his birth. If his nurse and com- 
 panions had always kept repeating that outside those 
 four walls everything was bad, deceitful, and poisonous, 
 and that those who would try to take him out of prison 
 were knaves or fools, that were either deluded them- 
 selves, or were endeavouring to deceive him by speak- 
 
io 4 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 ing of green fields, fair flowers, and starry skies, he 
 would probably stop his ears whenever they approached 
 him, or, if obliged to listen, would answer, ' I know 
 better than you do what a horrid place you live in.' " 
 
 " I do think it is odd that people are not more in- 
 clined to attend to the opinion of those who have made 
 the trial of both religions." 
 
 " I suppose you are a Protestant ? " 
 
 " Yes ; that is if I am anything at all. I have lived 
 entirely abroad, and was not taught a great deal about 
 religion whilst I was a child. Since I have been grown 
 up, and have come -to England, I find that English 
 clergymen do not agree at all amongst themselves. 
 One person tells me that I am a Protestant ; another a 
 Catholic. One says the Bible is everything, another 
 the Prayer-book. Some tell one to beware of Rome 
 and Roman Catholicism, as if they were the devil ; 
 others say they want to make the Church of England 
 as like the Roman Catholic Church as possible, and 
 be reunited to it. Sometimes I hear that the Anglican 
 Church is the only Catholic Church in this country, 
 and sometimes that it is only a branch of the Universal 
 Church. It is very puzzling. One clergyman told 
 me that the clergyman in the next parish to his had 
 established an idolatrous form of worship ; and, when 
 I repeated this to Mr. Hen don, he said that that 
 other clergyman says ours is a downright heretic. I 
 tried to find out what the Prayer-book teaches ; but 
 that is worse than all. In one place it says one thing, 
 and another in another. I cannot make it out at all. 
 I began to think that the prayers — a good many of 
 them at least — were like those in the Catholic Prayer- 
 books, and that, perhaps, it came nearly to the same ; 
 but when I looked at the Thirty-Nine Articles it 
 seemed quite a different religion. I said this to a 
 Miss Conway, whom I met at Holmwood, and she 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 105 
 
 tried to explain to me that everybody signed them — 
 all the clergy at least — but that they did not under- 
 stand them in their natural sense ; and that it was 
 for the sake of peace that they had been drawn up, 
 so that people might subscribe them, and yet believe 
 as they pleased. Do not you think it is very puzzling ? " 
 
 11 So puzzling, that it is really impossible to believe 
 that such a Church can be a church at all." 
 
 " I thought at one moment I would be a real good, 
 quiet Protestant, and think of nothing but what the 
 Bible said. But this was worse still. I could not read 
 it without thinking who was right and who was wrong; 
 some texts seemed to tell one way and others another. 
 I thought there were Catholic texts and Protestant 
 texts ; and one day I could not help fancying the 
 Unitarians were right, and this made me very un- 
 happy." 
 
 " What made you think so ? " 
 
 " That text, ' My Father is greater than I,' and I 
 could not find anything positive about the Three Per- 
 sons of the Holy Trinity being equal. It made me 
 so wretched, for I could not bear to think as those 
 people do — they seem hardly to be Christians." 
 
 " Did you keep all these thoughts to yourself? " 
 
 " Yes. What was the use of talking about them ? 
 I had not often opportunities of speaking of such things 
 to people ; but, if I did, they only told me it was right 
 to believe in their way ; and how was I to know that 
 they knew better than those who said just the contrary ? 
 I have spent miserable hours by myself reading some 
 parts of the Bible which made me quite miserable ; for 
 instance, what St. Paul says about predestination ; and 
 then again the idea of eternity, even a happy eternity, 
 used to give me a giddy, aching, terrible sensation 
 which was almost unbearable. I have suffered a great 
 deal in these ways. I do not know if other children 
 
106 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 feel as I did ; but what I do know is, that if it had 
 not been that other things distracted my thoughts, I 
 should have been almost driven wild by all those 
 doubts. Sometimes the thought came (and that was 
 the worst of all), that I did not believe in anything, 
 and then I felt so dreadfully wicked ! " 
 
 " But are you troubled with those doubts now ? " 
 
 " No ; not since a lady, who lived near us at Men- 
 tone, lent me a little French Catholic book, in which 
 I found that thoughts of that kind, if we detested 
 them, were not wicked. When I was not so frightened 
 about them, they went away ; and then if I went into 
 a Catholic Church I could always pray ; it seemed as 
 if God was near me, as if I felt His presence — " 
 
 " He was there," Mrs. Sydney murmured in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " How strange it is that I should speak to you in 
 this way," Ita said, suddenly astonished at her unre- 
 serve towards a stranger. " I wonder what makes me 
 do it." 
 
 14 Perhaps it may be God's will you should ; per- 
 haps He means me to be of use to you. I never went 
 through the trials you have done in childhood and 
 early youth. I took everything for granted, and never 
 questioned the truth of what I had been taught. I 
 was pained when my sister came home at her being a 
 Catholic, but still I troubled myself very little on the 
 subject. It was vexatious, I thought, that she did not 
 come to church with us, and that was all. I think the 
 change in her husband struck me more than anything 
 else — more than her patience through a long trial — 
 more than her holy life and death. I have seen a 
 great many good and pious Protestants, but I have 
 never seen a person who had been proud, selfish, hard, 
 worldly, become, under the influence of religion, so 
 entirely changed as was the case with my brother-in- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 107 
 
 law after his conversion, and I scarcely think such 
 miracles of grace occur except in the Catholic 
 Church." 
 
 " Is not Mr. Neville now a priest ? " 
 
 " Yes, and a most devoted and hard-working one. 
 Ever since his wife's death he has had but one object 
 and one thought." 
 
 " To do good ? " 
 
 " Yes, the highest sort of good — to make men know 
 and love our Lord." 
 
 " Where is he now ? " 
 
 " In one of the poorest districts in London, in the 
 midst of his Irish fellow-countrymen. When I look 
 back and think of the days when we first knew him, 
 it seems incredible. He always says he has so much 
 to atone for. You have heard perhaps of the strange 
 manner in which his marriage with my sister was 
 concealed for some time, and the reason of that se- 
 cresy ? " 
 
 " Yes, I heard Mr. Hendon speak of it some years 
 ago when he came to see us at Mentone, and Mrs. 
 Gerald the other day reminded me of it." 
 
 " He often says he is not worthy to be a priest, but 
 he is so good and humble now. He thinks Ginevra's 
 life was shortened by the sufferings she went through 
 during those terrible years, and the only thought which 
 comforts him is that all that misery increased her 
 holiness and merits." 
 
 " You must have found it difficult to forgive him. 
 I think that must be the hardest thing in the world to 
 bear, seeing those we love ill-used." 
 
 " So it is, but in this case I did not know how 
 cruelly he had acted towards my sister, till his own 
 grief and repentance compelled me to pity and forgive 
 him." 
 
 Just at that moment Lady Emma began playing 
 
lo8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 again, and the conversation was interrupted. Ita gave 
 a little sigh, and turned towards the pianoforte with a 
 look of resignation. She was charmed with Mrs. 
 Sydney in the way young girls are apt to be with an 
 attractive married woman, much older than them- 
 selves. She delighted in the bright smile, the pleasant 
 voice, the kind, unaffected manner of her new friend. 
 The history of her sister's singular marriage and early 
 death, which had made a deep impression upon her 
 some years before, invested Mrs. Sydney herself with 
 a kind of romantic interest in her eyes. She longed 
 to go on talking to her of Mrs. Neville, but there did 
 not occur another opportunity that evening. After 
 the music was over some of the gentlemen came up 
 to the sofa where they were sitting, and amongst them 
 Lord Carsdown and Sir John Leislip, who had been 
 playing at billiards, and discussing the looks of the 
 young ladies who had arrived that day. 
 
 " What do you think of the heiress?" Lord Cars- 
 down had asked his friend. 
 
 " She is rather handsome, but she does not look 
 distinguished," Sir John replied whilst he chalked his 
 cue. 
 
 " Well I should say she was particularly dis- 
 tinguished-looking. She has a magnificent figure, and 
 such a fine open countenance." 
 
 " But such large hands ! and such a wide mouth ! 
 That other girl — I forget her name — who came with 
 them, she is pretty enough, with her soft brown eyes 
 and merry laugh." 
 
 " Yes, she has a nice little face." 
 
 " Is she the other's dame de compagnie ? " 
 
 " No, she is a niece, or ward, or something of that 
 sort, of Lady Emily Hendon's." 
 
 " She has plenty to say for herself. I like talking 
 to girls who are just come out, if they are quick." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 109 
 
 " Fast, you mean ? " 
 
 " No, quick, not fast — nothing is more different." 
 " I thought they were synonymous words." 
 " No, not when applied to girls." 
 When the game was finished, the two young men 
 and Mr. Sydney, who had been looking on, moved to 
 the part of the room where Ita was sitting with Mrs. 
 Sydney. 
 
 "Miss Flower," Lord Carsdown said, "What da 
 you think of Miss Derwent's looks? Leislip and I 
 have been differing on that point." 
 
 " I like her face so much," Ita replied, " that I 
 can hardly tell if I admire it ; and yet I am pretty 
 sure I do think her handsome, and she is such a 
 nice girl." 
 
 " Is she ? Is it true that she is engaged to a cousin 
 of hers, one Edgar Derwent, as our forefathers would 
 have said? " 
 
 11 1 have never heard it from herself or Mrs. Gerald, 
 but I know it is reported." 
 
 " For my part, I think it is very unfair," Lord 
 Carsdown said, " to hand over a girl in that way to a 
 cousin without even giving her the opportunity of 
 seeing other people." 
 
 " I am sure Annie would never be handed over to 
 anybody. She would know her own mind as well as 
 any one in the world. If she is going to marry Mr. 
 Derwent, it must be that she likes him." 
 
 " But if she has not seen much of other people,' 
 Sir John said, " she may meet, when she goes into 
 society, with those she would have liked better." 
 
 Ita shook her head with an impatient little gesture 
 which was peculiar to her, and exclaimed : " Now, 
 really, if you did not mind my saying so, I think that 
 idea is such a very . . . ." 
 
 Very foolish one," Sir John said with a smile. 
 
no MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 "Well, yes, I think so," Ita replied; "because, un- 
 less a person could see at once all the people she was 
 ever to meet, the same thing might always happen. 
 I suppose it is loving one person very much that 
 prevents the possibility of liking another ; do not you 
 think so, Mrs. Sydney? " 
 
 " Yes, as long as the feeling lasts ; but as it may 
 change, the only real security consists in the principle of 
 duty which makes a woman love only where she ought 
 to love." 
 
 " Then you agree with me, and not with Sir John ? " 
 
 " No, not quite. I should think it desirable for a 
 girl to see something of society before she marries, 
 not exactly for the reason he mentions, but because, 
 without it, she can hardly judge whether the character 
 and tastes of her future husband are likely to suit her 
 or not." 
 
 Sir John remarked, " I have heard people say that 
 the more dissimilar they are the better." 
 
 "I cannot believe that," Ita answered. "Of course, 
 if people had the same faults, it would be very bad ; 
 and yet I do not know. Two misers would get on 
 better than a generous husband and a stingy wife." 
 
 " They might quarrel less," Mr. Sydney said, laugh- 
 ing ; " but then they might die of starvation." 
 
 "What do you think, Mrs, Sydney ? " Lord Cars- 
 down asked. " Ever since I can remember, I have 
 heard you and Mr. Sydney quoted as the happiest 
 couple in the world, so you ought to be good authority. 
 Are your tastes and characters alike ? " 
 
 Mrs. Sydney turned her dark blue eyes on her 
 husband with a look of unmistakable affection, and 
 said : " Are they, Walter ? " 
 
 " No, my dear, decidedly not," he answered with an 
 amused smile ; " but as you would marry an old man 
 like me, you knew what you had to expect." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 "You mean that I like to dine out and you do not, 
 and all that sort of thing ? You would never go 
 beyond your library and your garden if you could 
 help it ; but it is very good for you to be dragged out 
 sometimes, and to be obliged to do what I like." 
 
 " There," Sir John cried out, " there is dissimilarity 
 of taste working well. We are getting to the root of 
 the matter." 
 
 " But in some respects I have already seen that you 
 and Mr. Sydney are alike," Ita said. 
 
 11 Indeed, what have you observed in us ? " 
 
 " First, that you have both happy faces — there is 
 one likeness ; and then this : when a servant spilt some 
 sauce on Mr. Sydney's arm and hand at dinner, he 
 managed to hide it so quickly that nobody, and hardly 
 the servant himself, noticed it ; and after dinner, when 
 Lady Rockcastle made a blunder and confounded 
 together Charlemagne and Charles the Fifth, you, 
 Mrs. Sydney, set her right so cleverly, that it only 
 seemed as if she had said one word for another by 
 mistake. I am sure you are both kind, and that must 
 be a great comfort. It would be dreadful to see any 
 one we loved giving pain to others." 
 
 " And yet it is sometimes right to give pain," Mr. 
 Sydney said. 
 
 " Oh, very seldom, I hope." 
 
 " What dreadfully quick eyes you must have, Miss 
 Flower," Sir John said. " If you see people's merits 
 so quickly, you must be equally observant of their 
 faults." 
 
 " Yes, I am ; and there are two persons in this 
 room I cannot endure." 
 
 " Do mention who they are, or I shall think I am 
 one." 
 
 " Oh no, not you. One of them is that man who 
 is speaking to Lady Emma." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Mr. Lorton ? " 
 
 " Yes. The name of the other person I will not 
 mention, because I may perhaps change my mind." 
 
 "That's right," Mr. Sydney said. " La Rochefoucauld 
 said we ought to live with our friends as if they were 
 to be one day our enemies. A more Christian maxim 
 would be to speak of every one as if he might one 
 day be our friend." 
 
 " Nothing, I am sure, would ever make me like Mr.. 
 Lorton, he looks like the man who bothered Harry 
 Hotspur ' when the fight was done.' " 
 
 " He is, in his way, as quick an observer as you are,. 
 Miss Flower." 
 
 "Then I do not only dislike, I quite hate him." 
 
 " Ah, there is an instance of similitude of character 
 producing hatred. You and Lorton should not marry." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! Who could marry such a man ? " 
 
 " Lady Emma Cars is supposed to be thinking 
 of it." 
 
 " Lady Emma ! Oh, then, what is the use of her 
 looking so proud ? I thought she was like Lady Clara 
 Vere de Vere. I wish she would break Mr. Lorton's- 
 heart." 
 
 " I doubt his having one." 
 
 " Oh, come ! " Mrs. Sydney exclaimed, "you young 
 people are very unmerciful. Hearts often lie hidden 
 deeper than you know of." 
 
 Sir John looked earnestly at Ita, and said, "Do you 
 think you know when people have hearts or not ? " 
 
 " I guess sometimes," she answered, a little blush 
 and a bright smile dimpling over her sweet face. 
 
 " Oh, that horrid procession ! " Sir John exclaimed,, 
 as Lady Carsdale got up and led the way to the table, 
 where a long array of flat candlesticks stood. " What 
 a barbarous custom it is for people all to go to bed 
 at the same time, whether they like it or not. W T e 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 113 
 
 were just beginning to be pleasant, and now you must 
 perform what a foreigner called ■ the English ceremony 
 of walking upstairs with a candle in your hand.' He 
 brought his own down the next morning, thinking 
 that part of the function. Good night, Miss Flower." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 On the following day Mrs. Gerald's headache was 
 better ; and, after breakfast, she came down to the 
 drawing-room. Lady Carsdale greeted her with the 
 assurance that everybody was enchanted with Annie. 
 It might be so, but, as far as appearances went, it was 
 Ita who seemed to be the favourite with most people. 
 Even Lady Emma, to the annoyance of some of the 
 party, seemed determined to monopolize her ; she car- 
 ried her off to her own room and, after detailing some 
 of her plans for improving the neighbourhood, told her 
 of several things she ought to make Mr. Hendon 
 attend to at Marchbanks. 
 
 " But I can't make him do anything," Ita expostu- 
 lated. 
 
 " That must be because you do not set about it in 
 the right manner. Where there is a will, there is a 
 way. I am sure if I was staying in his house as you 
 are, I could manage it." 
 
 "But then, you see, Lady Emma, you are yourself, 
 and I am myself." 
 
 "But I can tell you how to set about it ; if you 
 have not tried, of course you have not succeeded. He 
 ought to have a school under Government ; the number 
 of children is sufficient, and it is the only way of 
 securing a really good education. And then he ought 
 
 1 
 
114 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 to build more cottages and not to allow lodgers. As 
 to the Church, it is quite disgraceful to see it filled up 
 with those horrid pews; such a scandal ought not to 
 be allowed in these days." 
 
 "Why is it worse in these days than in any other 
 days, Lady Emma ? " 
 
 " Because people ought to know better." 
 " But I don't see why I should know better than 
 Mr. Hendon and the clergyman." 
 
 Lady Emma's countenance seemed to imply, though 
 she did not utter the words, " Not you, indeed, but /." 
 However, she only said, " Because .... because it 
 stands to reason that it is a great abuse for rich people 
 to enjoy these sort of privileges. There ought to be 
 equality in the house of God, every reasonable person 
 must see this ; but Mr. Hendon belongs to a class of 
 men . . . ." 
 
 What class Ita was not destined to hear, for at that 
 moment Lord Carsdown burst into his sister's room to 
 inquire what were her plans for the day. He was 
 charmed to find Ita in what he called Emma's den, 
 and she was very glad the conversation was inter- 
 rupted. The task of lecturing Mr. Hendon about the 
 state of the parish at Marchbanks, did not at all take 
 her fancy. 
 
 " Will you drive to Grantley Manor, Em ? Mrs. 
 Sydney wants to go and see how her tribe of children 
 get on without her, or had you rather . . . ." 
 
 " Anywhere but to Grantley Manor," Lady Emma 
 said, in a sharp voice. 
 
 Ita's eyes had brightened. She had taken what 
 Annie called an enthusiasm about Mrs. Sydney, and 
 would have enjoyed nothing so much as to have driven 
 with her to Grantley Manor. 
 
 " You can take some of the company if you like 
 to the Roman Camp," Lord Carsdown said, " for there 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE: 115 
 
 are to be two sets of carriages. Which party will you 
 belong to, Miss Flower ? " 
 
 Ita was longing to say what she really wished, 
 but was afraid it would not be civil to Lady Emma ; 
 and, whilst she hesitated, the latter pronounced the 
 verdict, "She ought to see the Roman Camp." 
 
 Ita began to think that if she lived much with 
 Lady Emma it would make her like to do everything 
 she ought not. But she was made to be in one re- 
 spect Lady Carsdale's beau ideal, she never made a 
 fuss about anything, and so remained doomed to the 
 Roman camp. Lord Carsdown was fidgeting about 
 the room, and looking at the weekly papers which 
 were lying on the table. " I say, Emmy," he ex- 
 claimed, " I don't understand your High Church people. 
 Here I find one of your favourite organs — is not that 
 the word ? — speaking of the decayed carcase of Pro- 
 testantism ; and another calling the Bishop of a 
 
 good-natured old Pagan. I wonder what you would 
 have said if poor Mrs. Syd had used such expressions." 
 
 " I do not defend the expressions, but it is natural 
 to feel strongly when one of our own bishops promul- 
 gates heresy." 
 
 " They had better make you a bishop, Emmy. It 
 has always been your hobby to set everything to rights." 
 
 " There is a great deal that wants setting to rights." 
 
 " I daresay there is. Mrs, Harper's wig, for instance ; 
 it comes down so low on her forehead, that it makes 
 her eyes look unnaturally sharp. By Jove, what a 
 woman that is for talking ! She is anxious to find out, 
 Miss Flower, if you are related to a Mr. Flower she 
 knew abroad. So you must prepare to be cross-exam- 
 ined about your cousins three or four times removed." 
 
 Ita coloured, and said nothing. 
 
 " Why is not Mr. Harm an arrived, Em ? I thought 
 he was to come yesterday." 
 
u6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " So he was, but something or other prevented him 
 happily." 
 
 " Happily ? I think he is a very pleasant sort of 
 man. Why don't you like him ? " 
 
 " He talks, but he does not converse ; I always feel 
 that he would say just the same things if he was 
 speaking to any one else as he does to me, and I 
 cannot bear that." 
 
 " I say that is all pride. Those who have the 
 honour of speaking to you must bear it in mind all the 
 time I suppose." 
 
 " I like people to know whom they are speaking to." 
 
 " That they may treat you with due respect ? " 
 
 " No ; but I expect them to think of what I say as 
 well as what they say, and that is what Mr. Harman 
 never does." 
 
 " I hope I thought of what you said at dinner, Miss 
 Flower, yesterday, as well as of what I said, as that 
 is the right thing." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you repeated everything I said," Ita in- 
 nocently answered. 
 
 "With the addition of ' by Jove,' " Lady Emma added. 
 
 Lord Carsdown reddened a little. " You are so 
 confoundedly sharp. It is very hard on a man to have 
 a clever elder sister. By the way, what are the essays 
 about this month ? Has Em enrolled you in her 
 literary society, Miss Flower ? There are I don't know 
 how many young ladies who look upon her as an 
 oracle. They write monthly essays, and she judges of 
 the merits of these compositions, and cuts out what she 
 pleases. She is a great tyrant in her way, is Em. 
 Don't knock under to her too much ; she will rule you 
 with an iron rod, if you don't take care. Come, what 
 are the essays about this month ? The likelihood of 
 the moon being inhabited, or the character of Jack the 
 Giant-killer ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 117 
 
 " You may talk as much nonsense as you please. 
 There is more ability in what my friends write than 
 in anything you and your friends have ever written." 
 
 " As far as I am concerned, I dare say ; but I don't 
 see why you should abuse my friends. There is 
 Edgar Derwent, for instance; he is a fellow who would 
 write you all down in a minute. Do you know him, 
 Miss Flower ? " 
 
 " No ; but I have often heard of him at Holmwood. 
 He is going into the Church, I believe." 
 
 " And is he going to marry Miss Derwent ? " 
 
 " I do not know ; people say so." 
 
 *' I cannot make her out," Lady Emma said. 
 
 " There is nothing in her to make out," Ita answered. 
 " She is what she looks — good, honest, and true." 
 
 " Mr. Lorton thinks her like one of Murillo's Ma- 
 donnas — the same kind of large deep eyes and broad 
 forehead. Well, I must go and order the carriages. 
 You have booked Miss Flower, then, for the Roman 
 camp ? " 
 
 " Not if she would like better to go with the others. 
 I always wish people to do what they please." 
 
 Lady Emma thought she was speaking the truth. 
 There is a wonderful deal of unconscious lying in the 
 world ! 
 
 Ita said, " The Roman camp must be very interest- 
 ing." Perhaps she should have said ought to be so, 
 for at that moment she certainly did not feel any 
 particular interest on the subject. 
 
 When the carriages drove up to the door after 
 luncheon, she found that Mrs. Gerald, Annie, Mrs. Syd- 
 ney, and Sir John Leislip were going in one of them 
 to Grantley Manor ; and that she was to drive with 
 Lady Emma, Mrs. Harper, and Mr. Lorton in the other 
 to the Roman camp. Her heart sank a little within 
 her at that arrangement ; the other party would have 
 
n8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 been so much the pleasantest. How keen are those 
 little disappointments which stand, as it were, midway 
 between the miseries of childhood and the real sorrows 
 of life. Lord Carsdown was on the box, and he could 
 hardly help smiling when he overheard Mrs. Harper 
 seizing the opportunity, before they were out of the 
 park, of saying to her opposite neighbour in an in- 
 sinuating voice — 
 
 " I wonder, Miss Flower, if you are related to dear 
 old Mr. Flower, whom I knew at Naples some years 
 ago?" 
 
 " No, I am not," Ita answered. 
 
 " Oh, I thought it likely you were, as you have 
 lived so mueh abroad. It was not then at Naples 
 that you were brought up ? " 
 
 " No ; I have never been there.' 
 
 " But you were born in Italy ? " 
 
 " No, not exactly," Ita answered, blushing very 
 deeply ; she thought Mrs. Harper one of the most dis- 
 agreeable women she had ever met with. 
 
 V I remember, some years ago, when I was travel- 
 ling along the Corniche, that Lady Emily Hendon's 
 villa was pointed out to me on a height, a little above 
 the road, near a little chapel, before arriving at Men- 
 tone. But, somehow, I fancied she must have been at 
 Naples also, and that you were the daughter or niece 
 of my old friend. Flower is not a common name ; I 
 never knew any one called so except him, and now 
 you. Is Ita your Christian name ? " 
 
 M My name is Margaret." 
 
 " Ah, Margarita ! " Mr. Lorton cried ; " Ita is a 
 pretty diminutive. I suppose you speak Italian 
 fluently? " 
 
 "Yes, I know Italian." 
 
 Mrs. Harper was not satisfied. " What was the 
 name of the villa you lived in near Mentone ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 119 
 
 " The Villa Sant' Anna ; but it was oftener called 
 the Villa Hendon." 
 
 "I suppose your earliest recollections are of that 
 place?" 
 
 No answer was made to this remark. 
 
 " There is nothing about which people are more 
 different," Lady Emma said, " than in the power of 
 recollecting their own childhood. I can call to mind 
 all sorts of things that happened when I was in the 
 nursery." 
 
 " Do you look back to childhood as a golden age ? " 
 Mr. Lorton asked. 
 
 " Far from it. I have always been sceptical about 
 the happiness of children. How can the subjects of 
 the most irresponsible power in the world be happy ? 
 I know of no more absolute tyranny than that of the 
 school-room." 
 
 " Is not the despotism of a woman who knows her 
 own power and uses it without mercy, still more 
 tyrannical? " Mr. Lorton asked, folding his arms and 
 trying to look sentimental. 
 
 Lady Emma laughed, and Ita felt provoked with 
 them both. 
 
 " Has Lady Emily 'given up her villa abroad?" 
 Mrs. Harper iuquired. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then I suppose you will return to the South next 
 winter ? " 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 What self-control the world teaches ; how like virtue 
 are its requirements at times. Ita could not help feel- 
 ing angry at Mrs. Harper's pertinacious curiosity ; but 
 necessity compelled her to show her impatience only 
 by the brevity of her answers and a troubled look, 
 which none of her companions noticed. She was left 
 to the mercy of her opposite neighbour's inquisitiveness, 
 
120 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 for Lady Emma and Mr. Lorton kept up an animated 
 conversation between themselves. Ita could not at all 
 understand the pleasure Lady Emma seemed to take in 
 that gentleman's society ; for though she was not very 
 much charmed with what she had seen of her, it struck 
 her, nevertheless, that she was too good to take an 
 interest in the vapid talk of a person who seemed 
 to care for nothing but the emptiest worldly gossip. 
 She thought of the schools, the essays, the parish 
 reforms, and wondered what points of sympathy could 
 exist between them. There are enigmas of this kind 
 which often puzzle us ; it requires some knowledge 
 of character to solve them. Lady Emma had a crav- 
 ing for admiration, joined to a pride which would 
 not suffer her to appear to court it. She was not hand- 
 some, and felt early that she must seek distinction 
 more by her merits than her attractions. She took 
 therefore a line of her own, and became a person 
 looked up to by a certain number of friends and 
 acquaintances, who made much of her, as the centre of 
 a small philanthropic and literary circle. Her position, 
 her activity, her not inconsiderable amount of talent, 
 which, though it did not amount to genius, rose above 
 mediocrity, enabled her to play a part amongst those 
 who were exactly of the same way of thinking as her- 
 self. She had not the gift of winning others, or of 
 moulding them; they must be made to her hand, and, 
 in that case, she ruled them absolutely. What Lady 
 Emma said, or Lady Emma wrote, formed the opinions 
 of her own particular set of associates and readers, al- 
 most as much as the leading articles of the " Times" 
 guide those of the English public. This acknowledg- 
 ment of her power and homage to her superiority grati- 
 fied, but did not quite satisfy, her restless desire for 
 admiration. Nobody had ever fallen in love with her, 
 and when Mr. Lorton did, or at any rate professed to 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 121 
 
 do so, the film which so often forms itself over a wo- 
 man's eyes concealed from her all his imperfections 
 and his entire want of sympathy with all she had 
 hitherto cared about. It seemed to open to her a dif- 
 ferent view of life, it was quite a new excitement. It 
 is said that Madame de Stael declared she would rather 
 have been a beautiful woman than have possessed all 
 the genius she was gifted with. If this is true, it would 
 go far to show how little genius without religion can 
 exalt the soul. We cannot imagine Madame Swetchine, 
 or even Eugenie de Guerin in the humble obscurity of 
 her decayed old manoir, uttering such a sentiment. 
 Neither of these enjoyed in life the prestige of a lite- 
 rary reputation ; they never knew the good they would 
 do to thousands and thousands of readers, but they 
 would never have compared for a moment the grati- 
 fication of conscious beauty with the intellectual gifts 
 which gave to their goodness so great a charm, and to 
 their lives so deep an interest. There is but one thing 
 greater on earth than genius — and that is holiness ; 
 united they work miracles. And genius lies hid in 
 strange corners, it lurks where it never has had, and 
 perhaps never will have, opportunities of expanding. 
 In our days it does not remain buried in obscurity as 
 frequently as heretofore, but circumstances, idleness, or 
 humility still conceal in many instances its existence. 
 Is it not suppressed genius that makes some people so 
 charming, and others so disagreeable ? In the former 
 it finds an outlet in happy ways of amusing, cheering, 
 and helping people ; or in a gaiety and originality, 
 which gives to their conversation an indescribable fas- 
 cination. It betrays itself in their talent for embellish- 
 ing a home, planning a garden, and even arranging 
 flowers. It explains the unaccountable influence they 
 exercise ; it is a fire which warms and brightens all 
 within its reach. In the latter case it acts like a sup- 
 
122 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 pressed moral gout, and makes life almost unendurable. 
 If these kind of geniuses wrote books, their families 
 would be happier ; but, in the former case, let those 
 who rejoice in their sunshine pray that they may never 
 set pen to paper. 
 
 Ita had perhaps a little touch of genius in her 
 composition, unused except for loving and social pur- 
 poses. One of the characteristics of this hidden fire is 
 enjoyment of beauty in nature and art, and quick sym- 
 pathy with everything that works on the imagination. 
 When the carriage stopped on the brow of the hill 
 where the remains stand of what had once been a 
 Roman camp, her heart [swelled with delight at the 
 glorious view before her, and at that thought which to 
 some people is full of strange emotion, that the very 
 scenery before her was gazed upon in the days of yore 
 by men with whom we have at once so little and so 
 much in common. The day was perfectly beautiful — 
 a true lovely English day — the sweet short grass of the 
 downs scented with wild thyme ; the woods below the 
 height which they had reached already displaying their 
 bright autumnal tints ; the heather and the gorse in 
 gold and purple radiance adorning the waste patches 
 of lands between the masses of forest trees. " I won- 
 der if the Romans admired all this as much as we do ! ' 
 she exclaimed ; " did they write much about scenery 
 in their books ? " 
 
 " There, Emmy," Lord Carsdown exclaimed, " let 
 that be the subject of your next essays. The compara- 
 tive appreciation of .... of scenery shall it be, Miss 
 Flower or of the beauties of nature, by the Ancients 
 and the Moderns? " 
 
 "You are coming out quite in a new line,brother,' ' Lady 
 Emma said ; " you will soon write an essay yourself." 
 
 "Did not Virgil write some very beautiful things? '* 
 Ita asked. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 123 
 
 " I should think he did," Lady Emma answered with 
 rather a scornful smile. 
 
 " But what I want to know is, whether those old 
 poets admired wild scenery. Do not they talk of rocks, 
 and mountains, and precipices as of something horrid, 
 and only of cornfields and orchards as something 
 beautiful ? I wonder what makes the difference between 
 their idea of beauty and ours." 
 
 " As to precipices," Mr. Lorton exlaimed, " I rather 
 agree with them ; but for goodness' sake let us see 
 what is to be seen, and leave the Romans alone." 
 
 What was to be seen happened to be some pieces 
 of tessellated pavement in very good preservation, and 
 mounds of grass which had once been fortifications. 
 These remains were glanced at; and "how queer!" 
 " how pretty ! " and " is that all ? " were the exclama- 
 tions of those of the party who had never been there 
 before. Lady Emma and Lord Carsdown treated the 
 Roman enaampment like an old friend that was not 
 to be too much depreciated, nor yet too much made of. 
 It was one of the chief sights in the neighbourhood, 
 and all their guests ought to see it. 
 
 " Wonderful people, certainly, the Romans were ! " 
 Mr. Lorton exclaimed, as they sat down again in the 
 carriage, in the tone of a person who thinks it neces- 
 sary to say something civil. The drive home was 
 very dull to one half of the party. Mrs. Harper had 
 no more questions to ask. Mr. Lorton endeavoured to 
 ascertain Lady Emma's opinions on every possible 
 subject, religious, political, and social — in order to 
 agree with her entirely and to make some foolish re- 
 mark on each in turn ; and she practised that weary 
 labour, which she was preparing to assume for life, of 
 making that appear sensible or at least plausible by 
 her answers and interpretations, which in itself was 
 vapid and foolish. Sometimes they were at cross pur 
 
124 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 poses. She had once to pull him up very suddenly, 
 when he had mistaken her strong sense of the necessity 
 of securing for women employment in various lines for 
 a desire they should take degrees and become doctors 
 and lawyers ; and because she did not see why they 
 should not have votes, he jumped to the conclusion 
 that she hoped one day to sit in Parliament. " What 
 admirable speeches you would make, Lady Emma," 
 he enthusiastically exclaimed. " I thought so the other 
 day when you were addressing the Sunday-school 
 children." 
 
 " My ambition does not extend so far," she said 
 quickly. " Public speaking and preaching are not 
 within a woman's province. Our duty is to influence, 
 to urge, to stir up men to the fulfilment of their 
 obligations." 
 
 11 Exactly so. That is just how I understand it. 
 I have always felt that if I was stirred up and urged, 
 I could do anything." 
 
 " The evils that surround us are so rampant that, 
 unless desperate efforts are made by every class of the 
 community to stem the progress of infidelity and vice, 
 we must fall into the abyss." 
 
 " Of course we must — like that Roman who plunged 
 into it. The encampment makes me think of him." 
 
 Lady Emma reddened. Some women would have 
 passed over an admirer's blunder, but that was not in 
 Lady Emma's nature : she must set him right at all 
 costs. " It was to save his country that Curtius 
 sprang into the abyss, and we are all hurrying on to 
 destruction." 
 
 " Of course we are. It is a melancholy fact," Mr. 
 Lorton sighed. 
 
 " But we may yet be saved," she resumed, " if the 
 Church and the nation join together to resist the 
 torrent." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 125 
 
 " Oh, of course, the Church and the nation are 
 everything." 
 
 44 But we have to fight on one side against the 
 inroads of Popery, and on the other against dissent 
 and infidelity — and now unfortunately against infi- 
 delity within the Church as well as without it." 
 
 " That is the worst of it," ejaculated Mr. Lorton. 
 44 Traitors in the camp." 
 
 " And deserters also," Lady Emma added. "Men 
 who pervert their talents in the cause of error, and 
 abandon the Church of England out of wanton im- 
 patience and confidence in their own judgment." 
 
 44 Ah, indeed, clever men are very mischievous. I 
 never trust a clever man," exclaimed Mr. Lorton, with 
 an energy which reminded Ita of one of Mr. Hendon's 
 stories, the colloquy between the witty Madame de 
 Coigny and an old French emigre. 
 
 44 Ah, Madame ! Ce sont les gens d'esprit qui ont 
 perdu la France." 44 Et pourquoi done, Monsieur," she 
 exclaimed ; 44 ne l'avez vous pas sauvee ? " 
 
 On arriving at home, Ita went immediately in search 
 of Annie, whom she had seen very little of that day. 
 She found her just returned from her expedition, but 
 looking very thoughtful. 44 Have you had a pleasant 
 drive, Annie ? " she said, sitting down by her side, and 
 putting her arm round her waist. 
 
 44 Yes ; Grantley Manor is a pretty place." 
 
 44 1 hope you like Mrs. Sydney ? " 
 
 44 1 don't see anything wonderful about her. I like 
 Mr. Sydney, but I wish they had not become Roman 
 Catholics." 
 
 44 Do not let us talk about that, Annie. We do not 
 feel alike about it." 
 
 44 No, and that is why I am vexed. I know that 
 woman was getting round you last night. I could see 
 it all the time you were talking to her. I saw in your 
 
126 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 face you were speaking about something that interested 
 you, and I am sure it was that — you cannot deny it." | 
 
 " No ; I do not want to deny it. But, Annie, if she 
 thinks her religion is the true one, ought she not to 
 wish everybody to belong to it ? " 
 
 " Wish is all very well, but she has no business to 
 meddle with people." 
 
 " She did not begin talking about it. I did ; but if 
 she had, I cannot see where would be the harm." 
 
 " I do; it is wrong to unsettle people's minds." 
 
 " As to that, people's minds are so unsettled just 
 now, they hear such different things from their own 
 clergymen, that I cannot see that there is much danger 
 of what you call unsettling them. Why should it un- 
 settle me more to hear what Mrs. Sydney and the 
 Roman Catholics believe, than what that clergyman I 
 went to hear in London at Wells Street believes, or, 
 when I come down here, what your own Mr. Pratt 
 teaches. I am sure there is much more difference 
 between that * High Church ' preacher's doctrines and 
 Mr. Pratt's, than between what the Puseyites say and 
 what the Roman Catholics believe." 
 
 " We all, belong to one Church, and that is all I 
 care about. I hate controversy. People ought to be 
 left alone and not tampered with. Mrs. Sydney was 
 talking with Aunt Gerald of the proselytizers in Ire- 
 land, and complaining of their meddling with the poor 
 Roman Catholics. Why should Roman Catholics 
 meddle with Protestants ? " 
 
 " In the first place, in Ireland the peasants are 
 bribed to leave the religion they believe in, and their 
 poverty is taken advantage of in an unfair manner. 
 So I have heard Mr. Hendon say. In the next place, 
 Annie, I do not think that any one has a right to urge 
 another person to adopt his religion unless he is per- 
 fectly certain, entirely sure, that it is the true one, and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 127 
 
 that he believes the Church he belongs to is infallible. 
 That seems to me to make the whole difference between 
 a Catholic and a Protestant seeking to convert others. 
 Now you, Annie, I do not speak of myself, because I 
 know I am quite puzzled, and really do not know what 
 to think on the subject ; but can you, for instance, say 
 positively that you are convinced that Mr. Pratt's teach- 
 ing is the true one, and that what Mr. Derwent believes 
 is false ? " 
 
 " I have already told you that I do not want to make 
 up my mind about it. I hope both are right enough 
 to be saved." 
 
 " Very well ; but then how could you go and try to 
 make Roman Catholics join a Church which teaches 
 in one of its churches one thing, and exactly the con- 
 trary in another. You say you hope enough truth is 
 taught in both to save a person's soul, and you think 
 the same about Roman Catholics, don't you ? " 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 " Then of course you must leave them alone." 
 
 " I am sure they are wrong in all sorts of ways, but 
 I don't want to meddle with them. Why, then, should 
 they meddle with us." 
 
 "Why, Annie, if you saw a person losing his way 
 when it was most important for him to reach quickly 
 a place of safety, would it be right and kind not to 
 meddle with him, not to tell him at least which you 
 were certain was the right road, though you might 
 think that possibly by scrambling through briars and 
 getting over dangerous fences he might perhaps arrive 
 at the place of shelter." 
 
 " I might be mistaken as to the road." 
 
 " If you had a doubt on the subject then, I suppose 
 you would be right not to advise him which way 
 to go. But if you were sure . . . . " 
 
 " I'll tell you what, Ita, I will not talk to you any 
 
128 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 more about these subjects. You are cleverer than I 
 am, you have read much more than I have, and talked 
 with Mr. Hendon, who seems a strange kind of 
 Protestant, who says everything in favour of Roman 
 Catholics, though he is not one himself. When Edgar 
 comes here, or at all events at Holmwood, you can 
 argue with him — he will be able to answer you." 
 
 " But then it will be by an entirely different set of 
 arguments, because you and Mr. Derwent, who thinks, 
 I suppose like Miss Conway, differ almost as much as 
 you and Mrs. Sydney." 
 
 " That is nonsense. People who belong to the 
 same Church cannot really differ very much." 
 
 " Oh, Annie, I must get some of the numbers of the 
 ' Church Times ' and the ' Union ' out of Lady Emma's 
 room, that you may see what they say about Protestants 
 and Protestantism." 
 
 " I do not want to see them. Lady Emma hates 
 Popery as much as anybody. She says Mr. and Mrs. 
 Sydney have committed a great sin by becoming Roman 
 Catholics ; she will hardly speak to them." 
 
 " Oh, that is too absurd, too inconsistent," Ita ex- 
 claimed ; " if she goes abroad, she thinks it right to go 
 to the Roman Catholic churches, where the priests all 
 teach that the Anglicans do not belong at all to the 
 Catholic Church, and are living in schism and heresy. 
 If the Holy Ghost guides the Church and teaches in 
 it, how can it teach one thing in one place and 
 another in another ? " 
 
 " You only puzzle and teaze me, Ita, by going on 
 in this way. I will not have any more conversations 
 of this sort with you." 
 
 " Dearest Annie, I did not begin on this subject. 
 You started by attacking Mrs. Sydney because she 
 talked to me about religion. I only wished to defend 
 her. As to whether she is right or wrong, or her 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 129 
 
 religion the true one or not, I really do not know. I 
 wish with all my heart I could make up my mind, for 
 even this little bit of the world and society which we 
 are seeing here, makes me feel that it is necessary to 
 have some settled ideas about religion. I am terribly 
 inclined to care more for amusement than anything 
 else. Do you like being here ? " 
 
 " Pretty well," Annie replied ; " not so much as being 
 at home. I fancy Edgar may come to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, really. I long so much to see him." 
 
 Annie blushed, and said, " I think you will like 
 him. Everybody does." 
 
 " Do you think him more agreeable and pleasing 
 than any of the gentlemen here ? " 
 
 " Without any comparison," Annie said, quite af- 
 fronted. " I should be very angry with you for asking 
 that question if you had seen Edgar." 
 
 " Sir John Leislip is very agreeable." 
 
 Annie shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " And Lord Carsdown and Mr. Bayham are very 
 handsome." 
 
 " I don't see that." 
 
 " Don't you think they are good-looking ? " 
 
 " Not in comparison with my cousin Edgar." 
 
 " I hope," said Ita laughing, " that I shall not take 
 a dislike to Mr. Derwent, just because I have heard 
 him so much praised. There is a perversity of that 
 sort in human nature you know. Oh ! if that is not 
 the dressing-bell. Will you knock at my door as you 
 go down to the drawing-room ? How is Mrs. Gerald's 
 head to-day ? " 
 
 " Better, much ; but she is not in good spirits. I 
 cannot make out what is the matter with her." 
 
 " I am afraid I did something last night, which must 
 have displeased your aunt. I said I was so fond of her. 
 I do not know why she should have been offended ; 
 
 J 
 
130 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 and she had been so kind to me just before ; but ever 
 since her manner has become cold to me." 
 
 " Aunt Gerald is very changeable about some things, 
 and I have observed that she is particularly so about 
 you. I never feel sure whether you are a favourite 
 with her or not." 
 
 " I want her so much to like me." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " I hardly know." 
 
 " Well, you must try and be satisfied with my liking 
 you, which I do, though you are very tiresome about 
 some things." 
 
 Ita laughed and ran away to dress. The ball was 
 to take place the following evening. In the morning 
 there came a note of excuse from Edgar Derwent to 
 Lady Carsdale, and a letter from him to Mrs. Gerald, 
 in which he said that he could not bring himself to 
 leave London at that moment for the sake of any plea- 
 sure, however great, and that in any case, such a scene 
 of gaiety as that at Carsdale would not harmonize with 
 his feelings at a time when he was looking forward to 
 the solemn act he was so soon to accomplish ; but that 
 he hoped to pay another visit to Holmwood in October; 
 and again he alluded in a delicate manner to the hopes 
 which he cherished, and which he was now aware she 
 allowed him to entertain, at least as far as her own 
 wishes were concerned. Mrs. Gerald in her answer to 
 his last letter had spoken in a manner which warranted 
 him fully in thus expressing himself. 
 
 Annie was disappointed at finding that she should 
 not see Edgar till October, but on the whole was not 
 sorry that he did not come to Carsdale. Her sense of 
 what was right made her see the propriety of his feel- 
 ing on the subject, and then, just in the state of things 
 between them, it was not in the midst of a large party 
 that she would have liked to meet him again. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 131 
 
 In the course of the day arrived Lady Octavia and 
 Miss Berwick, Mrs. Hurst and her daughters, Mr. Har- 
 man, and several young men, whose chief merit was 
 supposed to be their love of dancing. 
 
 Mrs. Hurst was Lady Carsdale's greatest friend. It 
 was to her she confided her few little grievances. The 
 fuss Lord Carsdale made because one of his horses 
 had broken its knee ; the fuss Lady Emma made be- 
 cause those poor dear Sydneys had changed their re- 
 ligion ; the fuss the housekeeper made because the new 
 set of china had not arrived from London : these draw- 
 backs to her peace of mind were dwelt on with a 
 serenity and unconquerable cheerfulness which con- 
 trasted with Mrs. Hurst's melancholy sympathy. She 
 did not know how to be sorry enough for the broken 
 knee, the strange conduct of the Sydneys, or the care- 
 lessness of the tradesman who did not send the china ; 
 but she was still more sorry that dear Lord Carsdale, 
 and dear Lady Emma, and poor Mrs. Price, took these 
 misfortunes so much to heart, and it was so sad for 
 dearest Lady Carsdale to be so worried in the midst 
 of her party, and when she must have so much on her 
 mind. One glance at her friend's beaming countenance 
 ought to have reassured her, but Mrs. Hurst revelled 
 in soothing imaginary sufferings. Her daughters were 
 as healthy, as merry, and as light-hearted girls as 
 could be seen, but she never spoke of them but as 
 " poor dear Fanny," and " my poor Theresa ; " and the 
 happiest events drew from her expressive sighs and 
 pitiful ejaculations. 
 
 " Mamma," Lord Carsdown had once disrespectfully 
 said to his mother, " you and Mrs. Hurst are ' Jean qui 
 rit ' and ' Jean qui pleure.' I like the first Jean much 
 the best." 
 
 " Do not say anything against Mrs. Hurst, my poor dear 
 boy. She is the greatest comfort in the world to me." 
 
i 3 2 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 "I do not breathe a syllable against her, only I 
 had rather be your son than hers. She has a way of 
 sighing over me on every occasion which depresses my 
 spirits." 
 
 Ita found it extremely agreeable to make so many 
 new acquaintances. When the dancing began that 
 evening, all the gentlemen seemed anxious to engage 
 her. Before any of the neighbours arrived, she had 
 partners enough in prospect for the whole evening. 
 The Miss Hursts were amiable, good-humoured girls, 
 and, though they did not say much that was worth 
 hearing, it was all very pleasant as far as it went. As 
 to Miss Berwick, she changed her mind about her 
 three times at least in the course of as many hours. 
 The first impression was very unfavourable ; she was 
 dressed in the extreme of the fashion, and there was 
 something bold and free in her manner which w T ent 
 against Ita's ideas of good taste. She could not help 
 thinking she painted, and her hair was of a colour that 
 hardly could be natural. Perhaps Ita would have 
 been too inexperienced to observe this, if Lord 
 Carsdown, who had again sat next to her at dinner, 
 had not pointed it out. When the ladies were in the 
 drawing-room afterwards, Miss Berwick gave a glance 
 at the younger ones, and instantly fixed upon Ita as 
 the one most likely to enable her to pass the next 
 half-hour without being too much bored. They had 
 been introduced to each other previously, and she 
 came and sat by her. Though rather disposed to draw 
 back from any approach to intimacy, Ita, whose foible 
 it was to like to please, could not help being flattered 
 at being thus singled out. It is seldom that a girl of 
 her age is not gratified by the notice of one older and 
 more used to society than herself. She could not help 
 being very much amused by Miss Berwick's talk ; it 
 could hardly be called conversation. She was droll, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 133 
 
 she was daring, she was unscrupulous in the things 
 she said ; they were not, perhaps, quite in keeping 
 with good taste and good feeling, and yet it would 
 have been difficult to define how, and when, and to 
 what degree they were objectionable. Later in the 
 evening, and when the dancing began, Ita was still 
 an object of attention to her new acquaintance, who 
 evidently wished it to be understood that she was the 
 only woman of the party whom she cared to associate 
 with. 
 
 There is always some excitement in anything like 
 danger, and this is unfortunately the case even in a 
 moral point of view. From what is decidedly bad 
 those who are good shrink ; but from what is question- 
 able they do not always recoil, and even find a sort of 
 charm in the society of those who venture to say, out 
 of honesty they declare, what sounds startling — this 
 sort of affectation of candour, this recklessness, a 
 tolerably well-studied recklessness however, is one of 
 the most dangerous snares with which people delude 
 themselves and others. The semblance of humility — 
 notwithstanding Professor Porson's famous adage — and 
 the assumption of sensibility, which was the prevalent 
 affectation in the society of the last century, were more 
 creditable than the cynical truthfulness which some 
 people now display. It is better to pretend to be ami- 
 able than to be brutal. But the very novelty of this 
 sort of freedom of manner and style of language to a 
 girl educated in different habits of mind, excites a sort 
 of interest such as is felt on a first acquaintance with 
 a foreign country. People who say without reserve 
 anything that comes into their heads must be rather 
 amusing if they are not very tiresome. Ita was rather 
 amused by Miss Berwick's funny ways, as she called 
 them. She found her a more amusing companion than 
 Lady Emma, and consequently lost ground very 
 
134 MRS - GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 rapidly in the latter's good opinion, who took an op- 
 portunity of saying to Annie, that she was sorry to see 
 Miss Flower had taken a fancy to that very objection- 
 able girl. She should not have thought that she was 
 the sort of person to be captivated by anybody so man- 
 vais genre, but that she began to see what was her 
 character. 
 
 " One evening she was engrossed by Mrs. Sydney's 
 exciting talk about religion, and making her believe 
 she was ready to become a Roman Catholic ; and the 
 next as amused as possible with the slang and give- 
 and-take style of that Miss Berwick's conversation. 
 Depend upon it," she added, " she is a person who will 
 always go into extremes, and I feel convinced now, 
 that in a year's time your little friend will be either a 
 Papist or as fast as Miss Berwick herself." 
 
 " L'un n'empeche pas l'autre," ejaculated Mrs. Har- 
 per, who was following them ; " for the Berwicks are 
 Catholics." 
 
 " Really ? Mamma never told me so ! " Lady Emma 
 exclaimed, half displeased at not having been previously 
 informed of the fact, but glad that the fast young lady 
 should turn out to be a Papist. She felt, and per- 
 haps justly, that Miss Berwick's dress and manners 
 might do away with much of the favourable impression 
 Mrs. Sydney might have created in favour of her creed. 
 For the first time since the latter's conversion Lady 
 Emma volunteered to go and sit by the latter, with no 
 other purpose apparently than to put a question relative 
 to her coreligionist, which implied surprise at her 
 worldly ideas and questionable manners. Mrs. Sydney 
 felt inwardly pained, but said quietly, " Dear Lady 
 Emma, I am quite as sorry as you could wish about 
 it, but I have one consolation : I feel more hope that 
 the paint and the false hair, which shock you so much, 
 may be one day discarded, and the whole tone of that 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 135 
 
 poor girl's mind changed, than you perhaps would 
 have, if you saw a Protestant give way to those follies. 
 There is a power of recovery in our religion, which 
 does not, I think, exist in yours. Protestants often 
 keep on a height ; but if they fall seldom regain their 
 footing." 
 
 " I assure you, Mrs. Sydney, you are mistaken. 
 Numbers of girls who once led worldly, or sometimes 
 worse than worldly lives, enter our sisterhoods." 
 
 " Perhaps so. But it is not the Protestant religion 
 which forms sisterhoods ; you imitate us — you borrow 
 from us without, indeed, paying interest or giving 
 security, and time will show whether the profits are 
 real and lasting. But whatever the results may be, 
 you must own that the religious life is not the offspring 
 of Protestantism." 
 
 " Certainly not. We dislike Protestantism quite as 
 much as you do." 
 
 With something made up of a smile and a sigh, 
 Mrs. Sydney heard that assertion. 
 
 " This is not the moment to discuss that point," she 
 said ; " but I should very much like to talk it over 
 quietly with you some other time." 
 
 "Oh, I always avoid controversy!" Lady Emma 
 replied, and, crossing the room, joined Lady Rock- 
 castle, and said in an aggrieved voice, " The worst of 
 Roman Catholics is that they always want to get one 
 into an argument and throw things in one's teeth ! " 
 
 Meanwhile the dancing was actively going on. Ita, 
 even in the midst of her enjoyment of what was quite 
 a new pleasure, rather longed to be sitting by Mrs. 
 Sydney. Amused as she was with Miss Berwick, and 
 pleased at the consciousness of being a general fa- 
 vourite, and more asked to dance than any one else, 
 she felt there was as much difference between the sort 
 of liking she had for her new acquaintance, and that 
 
136 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 she felt for Mrs. Sydney, as between the admiration 
 one might have for a comic song or an exquisite poem. 
 She resolved to try and see more of the latter the 
 next day ; she wanted to get her to tell her all the 
 history of her sister, and she did hope before they 
 parted that she would ask her to Grantley Manor. 
 
 Annie had been making friends with the Miss Hursts, 
 and Mr. Harman had devoted himself to Mrs. Gerald. 
 He had travelled a great deal, and most people thought 
 him agreeable ; but he did possess the peculiarity 
 Lady Emma had mentioned, he was too full of his own 
 thoughts to attend much to those of others. Perhaps 
 there was a likeness between him and Mrs. Gerald in 
 this respect — only the difference was, that he poured 
 out his thoughts, and that she kept hers to herself. He 
 spoke of the East, and of Egypt, and of languages, 
 and of tribes, while she watched every look and motion 
 of the two young girls under her care. Once Ita came 
 and stood quite close to her. She was flushed with 
 exercise and excitement, her hair falling down on her 
 shoulders, and her lovely face looking really beautiful. 
 Mr. Harman had not taken notice of her before, he 
 then asked who she was. When Mrs. Gerald had 
 answered his question, he exclaimed, " You don't say 
 so ! Then that is the very little girl I saw at Lady 
 Emily's some sixteen years ago. She had just adopted 
 her — a formal proceeding abroad, which both parties 
 are obliged to abide by. To be sure, what a pretty 
 creature she is ! Miss Flower, you say she is called. 
 I remember there was a great debate as to the name 
 they would give her. f Fior del Mare ' was proposed, 
 and then Margarita — Pearl of the Sea. She was a 
 wonderfully engaging child. Lady Emily, after her 
 husband's death, sank into a sort of melancholy which 
 nothing could rouse her from. Mr. Hendon bethought 
 himself of borrowing this little girl to amuse her, -and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 137 
 
 she took such a fancy to the young lady that it ended 
 by her adopting her. We were great friends at that 
 time — Margarita and I. We must renew acquaintance. 
 Jta she used to call herself." 
 
 " Who was she? " 
 
 " She came from a village between San Remo and 
 Mentone. Very poor people, I believe, had brought 
 her up. Some difficulty was made about her religion, 
 I remember . They said she was to be a buona Chris- 
 tiana. Lady Emily said, « Yes, of course she would be 
 educated a good Christian,' and there the matter 
 ended. Will you introduce me to Miss Flower?" 
 
 " Ita ! " Mrs. Gerald said, in a low voice. Immedi- 
 ately the young girl turned round with a pleased, eager 
 look, as if the very sound of Mrs. Gerald's voice gave 
 her pleasure. " Here is a gentleman who knew you 
 years ago, and wishes to be introduced to you." 
 
 Ita looked at Mr. Harman with her ingenuous bright 
 expression. She did not, of course, recollect him at 
 first ; but suddenly it flashed upon her that he was the 
 kind, good-natured man who used to play with her in 
 those early days at Mentone when she first lived with 
 Lady Emily. She was delighted at this reminiscence, 
 and felt quite sorry to be hurried away by her partner. 
 
 As he sat down again he said, " She is charming, 
 that little lady, but not at all like an Italian. What 
 a pretty way she has of speaking, with just the slightest 
 possible foreign accent." 
 
 "Did you ever see her before she came to Lady 
 Emily ? " 
 
 "No; I did not." 
 
 " Used she ever to go and see her family ? " 
 
 " I think not. It was made, I believe, one of the 
 conditions of the adoption." 
 
 " There is something very unnatural in that arbitrary 
 severance of natural ties." 
 
i 3 8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " I remember hearing something about her being a 
 child picked up at sea. Somebody, speaking of her, 
 said she had been picked up in the street by Lady 
 Emily, and the answer was * No, not in the street.' I 
 think the story was that she had been found, like a 
 little Moses, floating in her cradle, by some fishermen, 
 who had taken her home. I wonder if she knows her- 
 self anything about it." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald made no answer ; but when Mr. Har- 
 man, an instant afterwards, began speaking to her 
 about the sources of the Nile, she could not even pre- 
 tend to attend to him. Her abstraction was so great, 
 that it forced itself even on his notice, and he was 
 obliged, as soon as possible, to look out for another 
 listener. 
 
 Ita had seen a great deal of Mrs. Sydney on the 
 last day of their visit ; they had walked round the 
 grounds together, and had some further conversation 
 about religion. She had been invited, as she wished, 
 to Grantley Manor, but was afraid that Lady Emily 
 would not be able to spare her again for a long time. 
 She heard all the story of Mrs. Neville's sufferings, her 
 secret marriage, her fidelity to her faith under the most 
 trying circumstances, her reconciliation with her hus- 
 band, and her death which soon followed. It was a 
 romantic story, and one calculated to make an im- 
 pression on the mind of an enthusiastic young girl. All 
 her predilection at that time for the Catholic religion 
 was founded on romance — on the beauty of its worship, 
 and the picturesque associations connected with it. 
 She longed to see the chapel of Grantley Manor, 
 because it would remind her of her favourite churches 
 abroad, and because there is something poetical in the 
 historical traditions of English Catholicism. She had, 
 at the same time, met with a person, whose character, 
 looks, and manners had singularly attracted her, and, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 139 
 
 for the first days after her return to Marchbanks, she 
 thought much more of Mrs. Sydney than of any other 
 person she had made acquaintance with that week ; 
 even than of Sir John Leislip, whom she had liked 
 very much, and who had seemed to like her in a way 
 which might have made a deeper impression upon her, 
 if there had been more time on both sides for better 
 acquaintance. Her return to Marchbanks was gloomy 
 enough. It seemed very flat and uninteresting to 
 spend the evenings alone with Lady Emily and Mr. 
 Hendon : for, though the latter was a clever man, he 
 did not think it worth while to make himself agreeable 
 in domestic life ; and Lady Emily's feeble health, and 
 want of interest in everything a young person would 
 naturally care for, was painfully distressing to her 
 adopted child. In a different and inferior sense, Ita 
 experienced the feeling thus described by St. Teresa, 
 " I seemed as one who had a great treasure, and who 
 was desirous that all should share in it, and yet my 
 hands seemed tied as if to prevent me from distributing 
 it." Thoughts came to her which she longed to impart 
 to others ; there was in her heart a deep power of 
 loving, which as yet had found no object ; a super- 
 abundance of activity, mental and bodily, perpetually 
 seeking for exercise. She seemed, morally speaking, 
 to wander through desert places and to find no rest. 
 
 To Annie, on the contrary, it was an unmitigated 
 delight to be at home again, and the weeks which inter- 
 vened between her return from Carsdale, and Edgar's 
 visit in October, were full of sweetness. She had had 
 a glimpse of the world, and had convinced herself 
 how little she cared for it. She had seen other young 
 men, and had been able to judge of what she had never 
 doubted, and that was, that Edgar was superior even 
 to those who were generally acknowledged to be pleas- 
 ing and agreeable. His letters to Mrs. Gerald, parts of 
 
140 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 which her aunt read aloud to her, showed more and 
 more with what true religious feelings he was entering 
 on his new career, and though there was much in his 
 enthusiasm and his devotion she could not entirely 
 sympathize with, her admiration for his goodness daily 
 increased. Her mind dwelt continually on the thought 
 that he was soon coming — coming, she hoped, to pro- 
 pose to her — and that she had it in her power to make 
 him happy — happy in every way; to make her home 
 his home ; to give him the means of carrying out his 
 dearest wishes ; to please him ; to see him smile, that 
 smile which since her earliest childhood she had never 
 seen on his face without delight. Annie really loved 
 nobody in the world very much but him, and it was a 
 quiet, great deep happiness that they would spend their 
 lives together in that place which she was about to 
 make him master of. It was well that she had so many 
 pleasant thoughts to dwell upon, and that she enjoyed 
 solitary rambles and evenings by herself in the drawing- 
 room, for Mrs. Gerald was very much out of spirits, 
 and, which she had never known her before, strangely 
 irritable. She stayed for hours together locked up in 
 her room, and Annie found it hard to please her, 
 especially with regard to anything that had to do with 
 Marchbanks. If she proposed to go there, or to ask 
 Ita to come to them, Mrs Gerald generally looked an- 
 noyed, and said, " She really could not see any reason 
 for this violent intimacy." If, on the contrary, Annie 
 said nothing about it, she sometimes hinted at her 
 being changeable, and neglecting those she at moments 
 made such a fuss with. When Ita came, her manner 
 to her was more than ever uncertain. Annie thought 
 this rather provoking ; but she was too happy to care 
 much about it. They had, however, one scene which, 
 for a moment, disturbed and annoyed her very much, 
 especially as it led to her uttering a hasty expression 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 141 
 
 which she deeply regretted, and which offended hej 
 aunt more than anything she had ever said or done 
 in her life. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald had gone to pay a visit at some dis- 
 tance, and Ita came unexpectedly to spend the after- 
 noon with Annie. They had talked for some time, 
 drank tea in the conservatory, and then Ita happened 
 to say she had never seen the whole of the house. 
 
 "Oh, I will take you all over it," Annie exclaimed. 
 " Come upstairs, I will show you my bed-room and 
 dressing-room, and the visitors' rooms, and Aunt 
 Gerald's room too, for she is out." 
 
 And so she did ; they wandered through the house 
 to their hearts' content, and looked into every nook 
 and corner. As they passed through Mrs. Gerald's 
 room, Annie said, " I must show you my mother's 
 picture." 
 
 She drew the curtain aside, and Ita exclaimed, " Oh, 
 what a charming face ! and is that you, Annie, when 
 you were a baby ? " 
 
 " Yes," Annie answered, and then she suddenly 
 exclaimed, " Now I see who you are like ! It has 
 always bothered me. You are so like that picture of my 
 mother." 
 
 " Am I ? Well, I can fancy it from what I have 
 seen of my own face in the glass." 
 
 14 Let me put a scarf round your head to look like 
 that turban, and arrange your hair in the same way, 
 and then you shall look in the glass and see if the 
 likeness is not striking." 
 
 She ran into her room and brought back a blue 
 scarf of the same colour as the turban, which she 
 twisted and arranged on Ita's head, and put on her 
 shoulders a black lace shawl similar to the one in the 
 picture. Then she led her before the pier-glass, and 
 said : " Don't you look exactly like it ? f \ 
 
i 4 2 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Just at this moment the door opened, and Mrs. 
 Gerald came into the room. The first thing she saw 
 was Ita's form and face in the glass opposite to her. 
 She gave a scream, and, when the two girls turned 
 round and moved towards her, she was looking deadly 
 pale. 
 
 " We have startled you," Annie exciaimed. " I am 
 so sorry. I thought you were out, and I was showing 
 Ita the house." 
 
 She kept, as she spoke, undoing the turban, and pull- 
 ing off the scarf from Ita's shoulders. Mrs. Gerald 
 glanced round the room and saw the curtain drawn 
 aside. Her lips quivered, and laying her hand on 
 Annie's shoulder with a pressure that was almost pain- 
 ful, said with violence : " I cannot forgive you for 
 daring to bring that girl into my room." 
 
 Annie was passionate — not easily roused, but capable 
 of being roused to anger, especially by anything like 
 injustice. She saw the burning flush on Ita's cheeks, 
 and her eyes filling with tears, and she said in a tone 
 of indignation, " This is rather hard in my own 
 house ! " 
 
 Mrs. Gerald fixed her eyes upon her with a strange 
 expression, a wistful, troubled look, in which there was 
 a mixture of tenderness and resentment. As the two 
 girls were leaving the room, she called back Ita, and 
 said in a trembling voice, " It was not your fault — 
 forgive me." 
 
 The young girl threw her arms round her neck. 
 Mrs. Gerald seemed as if she was trying to endure the 
 caress for a second, and then shook her off almost 
 roughly. When she was gone, and Mrs. Gerald and 
 Annie met again before dinner, both were very much 
 embarrassed. They had never had anything of a quarrel 
 before, and did not exactly know how to behave to 
 each other. As usual, the one whose affection was the 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 143 
 
 strongest, and who also felt perhaps that she had been 
 the most in the wrong, made the first advance, and 
 said: "Annie, if I did not love you so much . . . ." 
 there she paused. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Gerald, I ought not to have said those 
 odious words about this being my own house." 
 
 " It would have been better not," Mrs. Gerald an- 
 swered. "You do not know how thoughtless words 
 may wound. I wish you never to take anybody into 
 my room. When you are married I shall leave you, 
 and then you may do as you like. I shall carry away 
 with me the memorials of those who live only in my 
 recollection, and whose likenesses I cannot bear to see 
 you trifle with. God only knows what I have suffered 
 to-day ! " 
 
 All this seemed strange and exaggerated to Annie. 
 She could ill brook reproaches from one who had so 
 unceasingly worshipped her ; and longed more than 
 ever for Edgar's arrival since Mrs. Gerald had ventured 
 to be displeased with her. It would be very trying she 
 thought if her aunt took to being cross, and really she 
 did not know how to act about Ita. She almost wished 
 that November was come, and that she had left March- 
 banks. It was so awkward, and those caprices about 
 her so tiresome. 
 
 Edgar arrived, and about a week afterwards, just 
 as Annie had wished and planned it, they stood to- 
 gether on a blue and gold evening in October on 
 the terrace — the red and yellow leaves falling to the 
 ground in gentle showers — the robin red-breasts twit- 
 tering about them, the last roses of summer blossoming 
 on the walls of the old house, the sound of the running 
 water making music in their ears — he told her he 
 loved her, and asked her to marry him. She gave 
 him her hand, and said with a glistening eye and a 
 faltering voice : " It is what I have always wanted. I 
 
144 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 have always wished your happiness more than anything 
 else in the world." 
 
 " And you care for me, Annie ? You will be happy 
 with me ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; only too happy," she answered ; and they 
 returned to the house engaged to each other. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald was very much affected when she 
 heard it was all settled, and of course very glad. But 
 it was a restless sort of happiness. A heavy sense of 
 responsibility seemed to weigh upon her, and she was 
 nervous and almost ill when the arrangements about 
 the marriage came to be discussed. It was agreed that 
 the wedding should not take place till the spring. There 
 were circumstances connected with the property which 
 made it difficult for the settlements to be drawn up in 
 a hurry, and one of the principal trustees had gone 
 abroad for some months. In the meantime Edgar ac- 
 cepted Lord Carsdale's prospective offer of the small 
 living of Bramblemoor, which had hitherto been held 
 in conjunction with his own larger one by the Rector 
 of Carsdale. This gentleman had readily consented to 
 giveiup this small appendage to his parish in con- 
 sideration of an arrangement better suited to his con- 
 venience, which Lord Carsdale was able to make. He 
 also obligingly appointed Edgar as his curate until 
 such time as he should be in priest's orders, and could 
 take possession of the living. 
 
 The church stood in the centre of a straggling 
 hamlet, the cottages of which were scattered over a 
 wide common, inhabited by a wild set of people, al- 
 most all Dissenters, whom Edgar told Annie it would 
 take care and labour to bring over to the Church. 
 He intended to reside there till after their marriage, 
 and even then, though Holmwood would of course be 
 their home, he should still devote much of his time to 
 Bramblemoor. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 145 
 
 Annie did not object to anything — she was quite 
 contented, quite happy ; and she thought, though she 
 said nothing about it, that it would be much better he 
 should pursue all his own plans at Bramblemoor than 
 interfere with Mr. Pratt, whom, above all things, she 
 wished to be left undisturbed during the remainder of 
 his life. She could not judge of doctrines, and, as to 
 practices, what suited one person might not suit an- 
 other ; and she did not, for her part, mind if she said 
 her prayers in a church with flowers and candlesticks 
 on the altar, or in one with a table, with two chairs 
 on each side of it. It was nothing to her if clergymen 
 liked to put on vestments, or to wear a plain black 
 gown. She wished everybody to be good, and, as Mr. 
 Pratt and Edgar were her two ideals of goodness and 
 thought as differently as possible about religion, she 
 could not believe it signified much — the old point she 
 had so often discussed with Eliza Conway — what 
 people did believe. Only on one subject Annie was 
 prejudiced, she could not endure Roman Catholicism. 
 There was a mixture of feelings in this antipathy. 
 First, the strong English idea that the Church of Eng- 
 land, the Establishment, whatever it might teach or not 
 teach, do or not do, was the English form of religion 
 which all English people should adhere to. Then, one 
 of Edgar's ideas was that an English clergyman was a 
 priest, and the Roman Catholic Church forbade priests 
 to marry. This fact made his marriage a sort of re- 
 flection upon him on the part of that Church, which, 
 with feminine susceptibility, she resented. Her love 
 for Edgar was a peculiar and very deep feeling — that 
 kind of affection which undemonstrative people some- 
 times have for the one person they really care for — an 
 intense engrossing devotion capable of every sacrifice, 
 but seldom expressed by word or by look, except when 
 any strong emotion calls forth a vehement outburst of 
 
 K 
 
146 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 the hidden fire. One of its effects in Annie's case was 
 her growing hatred of the Church of Rome. It had 
 always been the object of Mr. Pratt's aversion, and it 
 was, though in a different way, dreaded and disliked 
 by Edgar. These two reasons arrayed her strongest 
 feelings against it. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ita was spending a melancholy autumn 
 at Marchbanks. Lady Emily's strength had so rapidly 
 diminished after a cold she had caught in October, 
 that it was thought impossible for her to travel. When 
 she got a little better, the season was too far advanced 
 to make a journey safe, and the doctors recommended 
 that she should spend the winter in two rooms kept 
 at an even temperature. This arrangement suited 
 Mr. Hendon. He was glad to have his sister-in-law 
 in his house: neither she nor Ita interfered with his 
 comfort, or took up his time. Ita was the only one to 
 whom this change of plans proved to be a great 
 disappointment. She longed for the south, for sunny 
 Mentone, its blue bays, its lovely valleys, and its 
 orange and olive woods, with a strong yearning ; she 
 pined for the churches, and chapels, and crosses, and 
 all the outward symbols of religion, which she had 
 been accustomed to all her life, and which she loved 
 with an ignorant, unreasoning fondness. For she 
 knew nothing of the truths symbolized by these 
 objects: she did not understand why she felt a peculiar 
 feeling of awe and consolation when she knelt in a 
 Catholic Church, or why certain words and certain 
 blessings seemed to have a mysterious effect upon her. 
 She had no conscious faith in the Real Presence, and 
 yet at the elevation during Mass and when Benediction 
 was given, it had always seemed to her as if a hea- 
 venly dew refreshed her soul. And she yearned to feel 
 all this again. She longed for the beauty of earth, sea 
 and sky; for her morning walks, in the early dawn, to 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 147 
 
 the Aniiunziata, the beautiful little sanctuary of the 
 hills, in the midst of a smiling desert. For Lagheto, 
 the monastery where thousands and thousands of 
 peasants flock every year from every point of the 
 Riviera, to ask for favours or to bring their simple 
 ex votos. She longed to hear again the litanies and 
 hymns of the poor women in the cathedral of San Mi- 
 chele — untutored strains which have proceeded from 
 the hearts and lips of generation after generation of 
 simple pious souls, whose lives were as pure as their own 
 skies, till the inroads of civilization, falsely called pro- 
 gress, made its way among them with its accursed train 
 of luxury and vice. Yes, Ita longed to get away from 
 the clouds, the cold, the dulness of an English winter. 
 Everything in and about Marchbanks appeared to her 
 at that moment uninteresting and unprofitable. She 
 had nothing to do, no cares and no occupations. 
 Mrs. Gerald's capricious conduct spoilt the pleasure of 
 her visits to Holmwood, nor was Annie, though she 
 liked- her very much, quite a congenial companion. 
 She did not see the least prospect of going to 
 Grantley Manor ; Lady Emily required just enough 
 of her attention to prevent her being able to leave 
 home, and yet took up very little of her time, which 
 consequently often hung heavy on her hands. For 
 even reading does not suffice to fill up the hours of 
 a long day, or to satisfy the impetuous cravings of 
 an ardent spirit. And as to religion, what was there 
 in Protestantism to compare with the beauty of the 
 glimpses she had had from without of the inward love- 
 liness of the Catholic Church abroad, the crumbs 
 which she had gathered here and there from its rich 
 stores of love, faith, and hope ? The one Sunday 
 service, in the dreariest little ugly parish church ima- 
 ginable — the prayers read in a pompous tone, and 
 responded to by a clerk with a nasal twang — psalm- 
 
i 4 8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 singing of the most depressing and monotonous sort 
 — a dull sermon read by a dull preacher ! 
 
 She felt saddened and depressed beyond description 
 by this pure Protestant form of worship, and her only 
 comfort was the idea that began to dawn in her mind 
 that one days — when, how soon, where, how, she knew 
 not — she must be a Catholic. It was an idea that 
 enabled her to endure the present, it was something to 
 hold on to. She clung to this thought like a person 
 in a dangerous position grasps a rope which, if the 
 case becomes more desperate, may afford a hope of 
 safety. Many hold this spiritual rope in their hand 
 for years, so long that their grasp of it grows feeble, 
 and at last the hand becomes paralyzed, and loses its 
 power over it. Then the crisis comes — one of those 
 turning-points when there can be no standing still, 
 when an advance must be made or a retrograde step 
 taken. God help, in that hour, those who have let go 
 the resolution they had made, who have allowed the 
 rope to slacken till it has escaped from their hold ! 
 It will be a signal mercy if, in the decisive hour, they 
 do not sever themselves for ever from the haven they 
 had once hoped to make. 
 
 Edgar was obliged to absent himself from Holm- 
 w T ood almost the whole of November, but early in 
 December he was to take possession of the cottage he 
 meant to make his home at Bramblemoor. Annie had 
 quite neglected Ita during the days he had been at 
 Holmwood after their marriage was settled, but after 
 his departure, they met oftener again, and she told her 
 of her engagement. The tidings had already reached 
 Marchbanks, and also the news that Edgar was to be 
 curate at Bramblemoor, and eventually have the living. 
 Ita knew the place very well. The little village, the 
 picturesque common, the clusters of cottages belonging 
 to the parish, but widely separated from one another, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 149 
 
 had often attracted her notice. The inhabitants of 
 these sheds, or cabins, for they were hardly anything 
 better, had originally been squatters on the common, 
 and had gradually taken possession of these tenements, 
 which Lord Carsdale permitted them to occupy at a 
 merely nominal rent. Some of them were of gipsy 
 extraction, others had once been poachers, many of 
 them were only the poorest of the poor, — neglected, 
 wild, uncared-for beings, who lead|the nearest approach 
 to a savage life possible in a civilized, old world coun- 
 try. It was strange how long and how entirely they 
 had been unnoticed. A small Independent Methodist 
 chapel existed on one side of the common, the furthest 
 from the village of Bramblemoor ; some of the squatters 
 frequented it, others did not go to any place of wor- 
 ship. There was a small church in the village, but 
 no resident clergyman ; the service had only been occa- 
 sionally performed by the Rector of Marchbanks. But 
 Lady Emma Cars had entreated her father to repair 
 the church, and had superintended these reparations 
 herself. She gave herself up with ardour to this em- 
 ployment, going over there several times a week, to 
 watch and direct the progress of the work. The plans 
 had been drawn up in strict accordance with proper 
 ecclesiastical architecture ; beautiful glass windows de- 
 signed — the altar, with a cross upon it, placed duly in 
 the eastern direction, an elaborately carved font, given 
 by Lady Emma herself, near the entrance, and every 
 detail carefully studied, so as to exhibit as near an 
 approach as possible to the appearance of a Catholic 
 church, and yet not to infringe the letter of the law or 
 the direct prohibitions of the bishop of the diocese : for 
 some years ago these dignitaries of the Church of 
 England were not quite so openly defied, disobeyed, 
 and scouted by the self-termed Catholic portion of 
 their flocks, as is now the case. 
 
150 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 This church was really a very pretty one ; and, 
 when it was nearly completed, Lady Emma's next 
 object was to get her father to induce the Rector of 
 Marchbanks to give up this small living, and to bestow 
 it upon a churchman of the highest and, she added, 
 the soundest Church principles. Lord Carsdale, who 
 was himself rather broad church than anything else — 
 at least in so much that he carried the good-nature 
 which belonged to his character into religious questions, 
 and would have gladly included in the pale of the 
 Establishment Mohammedans and Pagans, if they had 
 desired — was quite willing to agree to what his daugh- 
 ter wished. She urged that those scattered wild people 
 on the common ought to be Christianized, and that a 
 resident clergyman alone could undertake that work, 
 and that, as it was most important the services should 
 be attractive, it was necessary to appoint one who 
 would promote chanting, and carry out church prin- 
 ciples. 
 
 " Very well, Em, look out for one," her father duti- 
 fully replied, in a tone befitting an age when children 
 often think it their business to be spiritual directors to 
 their parents. And so Lady Emma turned the subject 
 over in her mind with no little anxiety, and corre- 
 sponded about it with Eliza Conway, who immediately 
 suggested Mr. Derwent. She thought nothing could 
 be better than his beginning at Bramblemoor what he 
 would carry on at Holmwood whenever Mr. Pratt 
 departed this life. Lady Emma objected that when 
 Mr. Derwent was married to his cousin he would not 
 reside at Bramblemoor, and to have a resident clergy- 
 man was the chief object in view. Miss Conway 
 replied that he was not going to be married for some 
 months, that he would subsequently, no doubt, appoint 
 a curate, who would, when he left, act under his direc- 
 tions and in his spirit — that the poverty of the people 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 151 
 
 among whom the work had to be carried on made it 
 desirable that their clergyman should have some means 
 of assisting them ; all sorts of charities would have to 
 be founded, and if once Edgar Derwent took charge 
 of the parish, he and Annie would always take an 
 interest in it. There arguments were rather cogent. 
 Lady Emma hesitated, however, a little about ap- 
 pointing or making her papa appoint, which came to 
 the same thing, a married, or to be married, clergyman. 
 There were floating ideas in her mind as to the higher 
 perfection of the single state ; but then there was this 
 important consideration, unmarried High Church 
 clergymen were more easily susceptible of being per- 
 verted to Rome. A wife was a great safeguard, though 
 unfortunately not an absolute preservative, from 
 Popery. This consideration decided her, the living 
 was offered to and accepted by Edgar. 
 
 Such an opening for active, zealous work was most 
 acceptable to him at that moment. He was preparing 
 to take upon himself sacred duties — to devote himself 
 to what he thought the highest calling. He was also 
 preparing to enter a state of life which some persons, 
 even in his own communion, deemed not perfectly in 
 accordance with that high calling, and he wished to 
 prove to himself, far more than to others, that there 
 was nothing in those bright prospects of human hap- 
 piness and prosperity which militated against his in- 
 tention of devoting himself most ardently to apostolic 
 labour. He rejoiced in the thought of taking up his 
 abode, for a while at least, in this poor little village, 
 among those ignorant people, and of leading Annie 
 to share with him all the interests and the occupa- 
 tions which were to be for ever interwoven with their 
 married life. Those months would be a sort of 
 preparation for future usefulness. Visions of future 
 self-renouncement, of wealth devoted to the spiritual 
 
152 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 and temporal welfare of others, of a holy simplicity 
 which would be all the more meritorious because it 
 would be voluntary, floated in his mind and deepened 
 his enthusiasm. 
 
 Whether Annie perfectly understood, or perfectly 
 shared, these aspirations might seem a little doubtful. 
 She did so certainly so far as this, that she would 
 never object to anything he wished or which would 
 make him happy ; the pleased look with which she 
 listened to his plans, and the delight she took in his 
 enjoyment of these schemes, made him imagine that 
 she was as eager about them as himself. To Ita she 
 used to say exactly the truth : "If Edgar were to like 
 me to go and live at Bramblemoor, in that ugly little 
 cottage he has taken, I would. But I hope he never 
 will wish it." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 It was a few days before Christmas, the season 
 was a particularly mild one. There were roses in the 
 gardens, and actually primroses in the woods. The 
 air had a strange softness ; the pale northern sun was 
 shining through the painted glass windows, on the tes- 
 selated pavement of the little church of Bramblemoor, 
 and shedding its faint light on the green graves of the 
 churchyard, on the vast expanse of the neighbouring 
 common, and the clumps of fir-trees and holly bushes 
 which dotted its surface. 
 
 Edgar Derwent had lately taken possession of his 
 small house. It was scarcely better than a labourer's 
 cottage ; the furniture was poor ; one old woman he 
 had engaged as cook and housekeeper, and a young 
 savage under her orders was being trained into an 
 errand boy, or rather a boy-of-all-work. There was 
 scarcely a mark of distinction about the place except 
 a tolerably large number of books, almost more than 
 the place would hold, on the shelves of the sitting-room 
 and his own bed-room, and several beautiful religious 
 engravings and prints, which hung on the walls. He 
 was standing before a table covered with flowers, which 
 had been brought in by the children he had already 
 gathered together under the care of a dame competent 
 to teach them the alphabet, and not to fight, at least 
 within the walls of the awful edifice, dignified by the 
 name of school, a sort of outhouse of his own abode. 
 It was a Saturday, and he wanted to have a cross of 
 
154 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 flowers and wreaths prepared for the decoration of his 
 church the next day, St. Thomas's Feast. He was 
 hesitating whether to ask his cook or his schoolmistress 
 to undertake the task, when Annie drove up to the 
 door in her pony-chaise, and Ita with her. He came 
 to the door with a bright smile on his pale, thin, but 
 very handsome face, and exclaimed : " Why, Annie, 
 you are come just in time to help me." Then, as she 
 said, " Miss Flower, Edgar," he bowed to the other 
 young lady, and helped them both out of the carriage. 
 When they came into his little sitting-room, Annie 
 exclaimed, " What a number of flowers ! What ar& 
 you going to do with them ? " 
 
 " I want wreaths for the church. I want it to look 
 very pretty to-morrow. I have gone round to a great 
 many of the cabins on the common, and made people 
 promise to come to church, who have not been into 
 one for years." 
 
 " Do you think they will care about flowers ? " 
 Annie asked. 
 
 " Oh, I am sure they will," Ita exclaimed. 
 
 Edgar smiled : " I suppose then that you are fond 
 of them yourself: I mean, that you like to see them 
 in a church." 
 
 '• Oh, yes. I was glad to hear that even in March- 
 banks Church there will be holly at Christmas. I do so 
 long to see something there besides the pews, the read- 
 ing-desk, and the green baize on the communion table." 
 
 " It is as ugly a church as can be seen," Annie said, 
 " but I wonder if we could help Edgar about these 
 wreaths ? " 
 
 " The worst of it is that I wanted to go to the other 
 side of the common this afternoon to look up some 
 more people, and I thought you would like to walk 
 with me. You could have your pony put up in the 
 farm stable for a couple of hours." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 155 
 
 " I should like it very much, but then your 
 wreaths ? " 
 
 " Annie," Ita said, in a low voice, " could not I 
 make the wreaths while you walk with Mr. Derwent? 
 I should like it so much. I made very pretty ones at 
 Mentone." 
 
 " I know you arrange them beautifully. May she 
 stay here, Edgar, and I will go with you." 
 
 11 It is very kind of you, Miss Flower," Edgar said ; 
 " but are you quite sure it will not bore you ? " 
 
 "Not in the least. 1 shall like it so much. And 
 if I have not enough, may I get some more flowers 
 out of your garden. I see a few left." 
 
 "Yes," he said, laughingly. " Take them all if you 
 like. We cannot expect they will last long now, and 
 on Christmas Day we shall fall back on our traditional 
 holly." 
 
 The pony-chaise was put up, and Annie and Edgar 
 went off to the common, looking very happy. Ita 
 began her work. She drew the table nearer to the 
 window that she might see the moor, and one particu- 
 lar holly-bush which she had taken a fancy to from the 
 moment she had looked out of that window. The sky 
 was particularly pretty, too, that afternoon. She had 
 not felt, since she had been in England, so pleased 
 with any scenety, not even the beauties of Holmwood 
 or Carsdale, as with that bit of wild landscape, or set 
 about anything with so much pleasure as making 
 these wreaths. She finished them in about an hour and 
 a half, and then strolled into the village, and on to the 
 little church, the door of which was open. She was 
 surprised at the beauty of the inside. The painted 
 glass was exceedingly pretty, and the tesselated pave- 
 ment also. The communion table really looked like an 
 altar ; there was a picture of the Crucifixion above it, 
 and the whole aspect and arrangement of the building 
 
156 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 was altogether different from the cold bare churches 
 she had hitherto seen in English villages. She sat 
 down on one of the front benches, and-took up a book 
 which was lying there. It was a manual of prayers 
 and devotions, extracted from Catholic authors, and 
 adapted to the use of the English Church. A smaller 
 volume contained a preparation for Confession and 
 Communion, modelled on those she had seen abroad. 
 She was absorbed in examining these books when a 
 slight touch on the shoulder startled her. Annie whis- 
 pered, " We must be going home." She followed her 
 to the door, and there they met Edgar, who had seen 
 the wreaths and was delighted with them. He ex- 
 pressed his gratitude and pleasure very warmly. She 
 told him she had been looking at some of his books, 
 and he offered to lend them to her. Annie had been 
 talking to him, during their walk, of Ita's Catholic 
 tendencies, and her conversation with Mrs. Sydney. 
 He had eagerly promised to use his best efforts to keep 
 her in the Anglican Church, and felt convinced he 
 should succeed. The minute he had seen her he per- 
 ceived that she was no ordinary person ; that she was 
 worth taking pains with. 
 
 11 We must not lose her," he said to Annie. 
 
 She smiled and said, " It will be a struggle between 
 you and Mrs. Sydney." 
 
 " No, dear Annie," he answered. "No — it will be 
 a struggle between the power of fascination in the Ro- 
 man Church, so dangerous to warm hearts and imagin- 
 ative minds, and the holy, quiet influences of our own 
 Church, which, if religiously accepted, gently mould 
 the character and discipline the soul. From what you 
 tell me of your friend, Protestantism could never gain 
 or retain any hold on her mind ; but when she under- 
 stands that our Church is thoroughly Catholic, though 
 not Roman, I hope it will be quite a new light to her." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 157 
 
 Though Annie had said they were to go home, 
 none of the party were in a hurry to separate. The 
 two girls sat down on the stile at one end of the little 
 churchyard listening to Edgar's plans and hopes. It 
 was a new thing to Ita to hear anyone speak as 
 Edgar did — he was so earnest, so deeply earnest. As 
 he dwelt on what he had already been able to do 
 amongst the poor people, and of the feelings with 
 which he was striving and praying for their conversion, 
 her heart burnt within her. She longed to help him 
 in more important ways than by making wreaths ; and, 
 for the first time, there rose in her mind thoughts of 
 what life might be with a great aim and a great work. 
 She admired him very much. In the prime of youth, 
 and engaged to be married to one who evidently 
 idolized him, as Annie did — his whole heart and soul 
 seemed engrossed by the intense desire of winning to 
 God some of these poor, sinful, ignorant souls. When 
 they passed the little makeshift for a school, some 
 twenty children came running out and clustered round 
 Edgar, clinging to his coat or catching hold of his 
 hands and knees. He shook them off good-naturedly, 
 and showed his visitors the narrow low room which 
 served for the present as a school. Some pretty 
 Scripture prints hung round it, and there was a large 
 mattress in one corner for babies to sleep upon when 
 tired of learning the alphabet. 
 
 " I have a night school here," Edgar said, " and I 
 read aloud amusing books to the young men. I have 
 got seven or eight to come regularly, and I hope to 
 make them into valuable assistants in time. I want to 
 be like that bishop who found seventeen Catholics in 
 his diocese, when he first came to it, and all the 
 rest were heretics ; but before he died, all his 
 people were Catholics, save seventeen who remained 
 heretics." 
 
i58 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 u You want to make these people Catholics ? " Ita 
 timidly asked. 
 
 " Yes — good, thorough English Catholics. I mean 
 to make them love their Church — delight in her services, 
 and value her sacraments. I have got two or three 
 of the best disposed persons amongst them to come to 
 daily prayers ; it is but a small beginning, but I hope 
 in time that, at break of day and at sunset, the whole 
 of my little flock will offer up together the sacrifice of 
 praise and prayer. I have been reading an account of 
 what the Cure of Ars, a small place in France, accom- 
 plished in his parish. I mean to make him my 
 model." 
 
 Ita coloured deeply. " Do you mean that you take 
 &. Catholic priest for your model ? " 
 
 " Yes, as far as his virtues and his holiness go. I 
 only wish I might hope to emulate them ever so dis- 
 tantly, but I am grateful that my own Church is a 
 purer one than his. It is in her, by her, for her, and 
 /through her that I have to work ; I thank God for it, 
 .and take for my motto that beautiful sentence — the 
 watchword of the Catholic party in England : ' In 
 quietness and confidence shall be thy strength.' " 
 
 "Yes, those are beautiful words !" Ita ejaculated, 
 looking very thoughtful. 
 
 " They ought to be the motto of those who labour 
 to convince others of the truth." 
 
 "I like your church, I mean that little church there, 
 very much. I should like to come and pray there 
 .every day." 
 
 " Well, at eight in the morning and seven at night 
 we have prayers, and in the evening I give a short in- 
 struction. Annie and Mrs. Gerald are coming on 
 ■Christmas Eve, perhaps you will also ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ? " Annie exclaimed. " You must come 
 .and hear Edgar preach. I should have liked much to 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 ■59 
 
 come here to-morrow, but I cannot take the carriage 
 ■out on Sunday." 
 
 " Could not you walk ? " Ita quickly asked. 
 
 "Oh dear no; Aunt Gerald would not hear of it. 
 We must really be going now, she will wonder what 
 has become of us." 
 
 They got into the pony-chaise, and Edgar gave 
 into Ita's hand a little parcel of books. " I think," 
 she said to Annie as they drove off "that you are 
 likely to be very happy. Mr. Derwent looks so good, 
 so clever, and he is so handsome too." 
 
 " I almost wish sometimes he was not so much better 
 and nicer than other people, as he is. I am afraid I 
 am not half good enough for him." 
 
 " But you can grow more and more good. He will 
 show you the way, and lead you on." 
 
 Annie shook her head. " I admire him more than 
 I can say, but I do not feel as if I could keep up with 
 him. I am afraid I shall lag behind." 
 
 " How you must have enjoyed walking with him, 
 and hearing him talk to the poor people." 
 
 " It was very interesting. They seemed at first to 
 listen only out of civility, but, after he had said a few 
 words, they paid more attention, and I could see that 
 some of them were touched. Most of them promised 
 to come to church." 
 
 " Going to church at Bramblemoor must be a very 
 different thing from going to church at Holmwood or 
 Marchbanks." 
 
 " Very different indeed. What a number of things 
 Edgar has put up which are not seen elsewhere." 
 
 " There is something very nice about it. I never 
 saw a church I liked so much before, that was not a 
 Catholic one." 
 
 "But Edgar says ours is the Catholic Church, or, 
 at any rate, a branch of it." 
 
160 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " And do you believe it, Annie ? " 
 
 " In a sort of way I do ; but you know I think he 
 goes a great deal too far ? " 
 
 ''But what is going too far?" Ita exclaimed. 
 " What does it mean ? I wish you would not always 
 use those sort of vague expressions. Who shall decide 
 what is far enough and not too far ? " 
 
 " I have gone too far this way," said Annie, laugh- 
 ing ; " and must turn round in this narrow lane. Now, 
 do not talk to me just now. There, have not I done 
 it beautifully ? How fond the school children seem of 
 Edgar." 
 
 "You must not let him get too fond of Bramble- 
 moor. He would make you forsake Holmwood." 
 
 " There is no fear of that ; he is so passionately 
 fond of it, and he has been telling me of a plan I like 
 so much. Eliza Conway is engaged, he says, to a 
 clergyman, a Mr. Roland, and when we are married, 
 and he lives at Holmwood, he will make him his curate 
 at Bramblemoor, and then they can marry also and 
 live there. In the meantime she and a friend of hers, 
 are coming to live in a cottage and work among the 
 poor and nurse the sick." 
 
 " I shall ask to help them. What a different thing 
 life must be with real interests and objects." 
 
 " Yes, of course, it must be very nice to do a great 
 deal of good, but I have not any talent for it ; I am 
 glad Edgar will manage all our charities. My aunt 
 has done so till now, I always ask her about everything." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald had been paying Lady Emily a visit, 
 and waiting for Annie to call and take her home. She 
 came down as soon as Ita told her that she had ar- 
 rived. She was looking very ill ; so much so, that both, 
 the girls were struck with her paleness ; and she hardly 
 spoke at all during the drive home, though Annie was. 
 longing to talk about Edgar and Bramblemoor. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 161 
 
 " Would you like to live there ? " her aunt asked at 
 last in an absent manner. 
 
 " Oh dear no : how could I live there ? he has only 
 got a little tiny cottage." 
 
 " Poets talk of love in a cottage." 
 
 " I do not care about poets. Love in a nice country 
 house is much better. How is Lady Emily ? " 
 
 " Very feeble, and her mind wanders a little, I 
 think, at times." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald became absent again. Poor woman ! 
 She was beginning to know what it is to suffer silently, 
 secretly, increasingly ; to have an unwelcome, strange, 
 wretched, fanciful fear, haunting the waking hour and 
 the sleepless night, mixing itself with every pleasant 
 image, thrusting itself into each thought of the future, 
 and mingling with it doubt and perplexity. 
 
 Ita had carried up to her room the little parcel of 
 books Edgar had given her ; and, after dinner, when 
 Lady Emily had fallen asleep and Mr. Hen don had 
 gone to his library, she too went to her study, a little 
 recess in the corner of her room, lighted the candles, 
 and began to examine those books. There must be 
 many amongst us, of those that are now far advanced 
 in age, who remember what an epoch it was in their 
 lives when the various publications of the Oxford 
 school began to be placed in their hands ; how, after 
 years of meagre, cold, lifeless, shallow religious ob- 
 servances, diversified perhaps by periodical fits of 
 evangelical fervour or Calvinistic enthusiasm, alternat- 
 ing with vague yearnings and instinctive predilections 
 for the Church of Rome struggled against and re- 
 pressed indeed, but forcing their way into minds which 
 had come into contact with it ; how, after this seeking 
 for rest and finding none, a vision rose before them, a 
 fair fabric, a seemly building, on the gates of which 
 seemed inscribed, "Ye that enter in," not as in Dante's 
 
 L 
 
162 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 line, M leave all hope behind," but rather M find the ful- 
 filment of every hope and sacred wish." It was like a 
 dream of beauty and of joy to admit into our souls, 
 our minds, and our prayers, the long-forbidden names 
 and words, which had since childhood rung in our ears 
 like a far distant music, the Catholic Church, the 
 Blessed Virgin, the Festivals, the Fasts, All Saints 
 and All Souls, Matins and Evensong, Confession and 
 Absolution. All that we had heard of and gazed on 
 with a sigh as lovely but dangerous visions, what 
 every teacher of our youth and every clergyman of the 
 Protestant Church of England had warned us against 
 as Popish delusions, was placed before us as the truth, 
 was offered to our acceptance in the most attractive 
 and congenial form. The cathedrals and the old 
 parish churches of our native land seemed to assume 
 a new aspect, and the prayers we had so long used, to 
 have a new meaning. There was a tranquillity, a 
 dignity, an earnestness about the writers of that period 
 and that school which took a great hold on the mind. 
 The religious depth and literary merit of Dr. Newman's 
 sermons, the exquisite poetry of the " Christian Year," 
 the stories which, in various ways, illustrated church 
 principles, the lessons of self-training contained in 
 Father Faber's and Archdeacon, now Archbishop 
 Manning's writings — all did their work and prepared 
 the soul for the reception of Catholic truth and dis- 
 cipline. It was very delightful to think that, without 
 offending relatives or losing friends, we might become 
 what many of us had longed to be, Catholics to all 
 intents and purposes, Catholics after a fashion of our 
 own indeed, but still a genuine and real fashion. A 
 void was, as it were, filled up, a craving satisfied, a 
 hope realized. 
 
 All this Ita felt as she examined the books she had 
 brought home with her. They made a great impression 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 163 
 
 on her mind ; a new kind of existence seemed to open 
 before her. There is a turning-point in many lives, a 
 moment in which we perceive that there is a great in- 
 ward work to be done, and the means by which to do 
 it ; when we see that religion, if it is anything, must 
 be everything, that we must not give to our Creator 
 less than all. The mere perception of this is an event 
 in our spiritual history, and, if we do not turn back, 
 it will lead us very far. This insight into a new world 
 is sometimes indistinct and dim like the first hazy light 
 of morning, sometimes sudden like a burst of sunshine. 
 We begin to understand how a monotonous and 
 obscure existence may be interesting, and life become 
 more beautiful as it advances, instead of losing its 
 charm and its value as we once feared it would when 
 youth was at an end. In one shape or another this 
 revelation is vouchsafed to all those whom God calls 
 to a more than ordinary amount of devotedness to His 
 service ; and it was probably on that night that Ita 
 sat in her little study, lighting one candle after another 
 while she pored over Edgar's books, that the first ideas 
 rose in her mind which were eventually to have the 
 greatest influence over her fate. The calm, strong, 
 simple tone of what she then read struck her wonder- 
 fully. There was something authoritative in it which 
 she felt to be what she needed. It was a relief, like 
 finding a wall to lean against when pushed about by a 
 moving crowd. She repeated over and over again the 
 words, " In quietness and in confidence shall be thy 
 strength ; " and they seemed to impart to her peace 
 and energy. She could hardly read a whole page 
 through of any of those books which were revealing a 
 new world to her, without shutting up the volume in 
 her hand and musing in silence, as she walked up and 
 down the room, or stood at the window gazing on the 
 starlit sky, which had never seemed so wonderful to 
 
164 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 her before. Then taking pen in hand she made plans, 
 drew up for herself rules, formed resolutions, and 
 longed for the morning to begin putting them into 
 practice. " In quietness and confidence shall be thy 
 strength." The sentence rang in her ears, it seemed 
 to have a magical power over her ; not that she felt 
 at that moment quiet, far from it, nor could she well 
 have defined in whom or in what she had confidence ; 
 but there was light and strength in the distance, she 
 foresaw, she felt it ; an inward hidden life had quick- 
 ened in her soul. 
 
 After a short sleep she woke with a consciousness 
 of a change in her existence. She said her prayers 
 more attentively, more fervently than was her wont. 
 Even the service at the church at Marchbanks on the 
 following Sunday seemed to her less tedious than usual. 
 Some of the things she had read in Edgar's books gave 
 more interest to certain portions of the service ; the 
 idea which ran through them all that the Church of 
 England was, after all, Catholic, though its catholicity 
 had been so long disfigured and concealed, was trace- 
 able she felt in many of the prayers. She repeated the 
 Creed with a new feeling — " I believe in the Holy 
 Catholic Church," was not then perhaps an empty 
 phrase without any meaning in it ! The absolution 
 had some connection with those awful words of Scrip- 
 ture about binding and loosing which had so often 
 puzzled her. It was difficult to look at Mr. Power 
 and think of him as a priest, he was so utterly different 
 from any of the persons she had been in the habit of 
 considering as such ; but the very activity of the debate 
 which was going on in her own mind made the dulness 
 of his sermon endurable. The rest of the day she 
 spent in reading and musing over the various works 
 which, with judicious care, Edgar had selected as 
 most likely to give her a favourable bias towards High 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 165 
 
 Church principles. She found in them much of what 
 had so powerfully attracted her to Catholicism abroad 
 — a reverence for antiquity — the use of time-honoured 
 words and names — a poetry thrown over devotional 
 duties and observances, which she did not fancy could 
 ever have been met with out of the Church of Rome. 
 Besides all this, she was struck with the moral and 
 religious training which this system seemed to promise 
 — that education of the soul, the development of which 
 she had had very little opportunity of witnessing any- 
 where else, for she had gazed from without on the 
 Catholic Church she knew nothing of its inward 
 treasures. Mrs. Sydney, indeed, had indicated that 
 it possessed gifts of unspeakable power and virtue in 
 those respects, but she had not had time to describe or 
 analyze them ; and neither experience nor memory at 
 that time enabled Ita to fall back on anything superior 
 to the teaching which the new views, set before her, 
 seemed to promise. 
 
 The days which intervened between St. Thomas's 
 Day and Christmas Eve were spent in this interesting 
 study, and passed very quickly. Annie had promised 
 that she and Mrs. Gerald would call for Ita at half-past 
 eight on the Wednesday evening on their way to 
 Bramblemoor. The night was clear, cold, and starry 
 — a beautiful night for the time of year. It was freez- 
 ing, but the air so still that it did not feel very cold. 
 The trees, bushes, hedges, and grass looked lovely, 
 glittering with hoar frost in the bright moonlight. As 
 they approached the village, the tinkling of the church 
 bells was heard, joyously sounding a welcome to the 
 worshippers that were crossing the common in various 
 directions, attracted by the novelty of a service on that 
 night and at that hour. 
 
 " What odd dreams one sometimes has ! " Ita said, 
 as they drove past a clump of elms, which stood on 
 
166 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 one side of the small churchyard, i I dreamt last night 
 that I had been drowned, and had come to life again." 
 
 "I never dreamt that," Annie answered, "but it 
 really happened to me. Did not it, Aunt Gerald ? " 
 
 " You were not actually drowned, but you were in 
 danger of it." 
 
 " But did not I remain in the water long enough to 
 be quite insensible ? " 
 
 " Yes, my love. What are you looking at so ear- 
 nestly, Ita?" 
 
 " I have such a strange dislike to moonlight. It 
 always gives me a nervous feeling of faintness. It 
 makes me quite ill." 
 
 The young girl had turned very pale. Mrs. Gerald 
 took her hands in hers and found them cold. She 
 drew her close to herself, and there was a wistful look 
 in her face as she bent over her. As they drove up 
 to the gate of the churchyard, and the carriage 
 stopped, Ita said, " It is over now — I am well again." 
 The colour had returned to her cheeks, and, when 
 they entered the church, Mrs. Gerald was the palest 
 of the two. 
 
 Never had any of the rural congregation, which 
 met in the little church on that Christmas Eve, seen 
 so pretty a sight before in a place of worship. The 
 walls were hung with wreaths of holly, glowing with 
 their coral berries. A large cross composed of flowers 
 stood over the communion table, which was made to 
 look as much like an altar as possible. Two lighted 
 candles were on each side of it, and the whole of the 
 building brightly illuminated. These decorations had 
 a joyful effect on the hearts of all present. Even 
 Annie, the staunchest Protestant of the lot, could not 
 help feeling pleased. The old-fashioned hymn — 
 
 " Hark ! the herald angels sing, 
 Glory to the new-born King " — 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 167 
 
 was sung before the service ; and, though the school 
 children's voices were not particularly melodious, 
 Edgar's deep bass notes and Ita's sweet voice made 
 the simple chant seem full of beauty. After the 
 prayers, the •« Adeste Fideles," with English words, 
 delighted Ita's ears — that air she had so often heard 
 in Catholic Churches, and which had such a familiar 
 sound to her, seemed to establish a link between the 
 worship she had secretly loved and the one she was 
 beginning to feel attracted to. After the service was 
 over, Edgar gave a short familiar instruction to his 
 parishioners. He did not read it, but spoke words 
 that seemed to come from his heart. Entirely new 
 were the substance and style of this address to his 
 listeners. He described in a familiar manner, even 
 like one who might have seen it, the place where the 
 Virgin Mother had taken refuge. He told his hearers 
 to fancy themselves there — to watch what went on — 
 to picture to themselves the scene. He spoke of the 
 Blessed Virgin gently, reverently, lovingly ; and of the 
 divine Infant in a fervent, earnest way which made 
 their hearts burn within them. Edgar had drunk 
 deeply from the wells of Catholic piety, and his was a 
 heart and a mind which could wonderfully exert in- 
 fluence, and captivate other hearts and minds. All 
 who heard him that night were astonished at his 
 simple eloquence ; it certainly was eloquence, for 
 whatever touches, moves, and persuades others must 
 be so. One old man, as he left the church, said he 
 had never known before what Christmas meant, and 
 should think much more of it than he had hitherto 
 done. 
 
 Ita was much impressed by the whole scene, and 
 coming, as it did, upon the thoughts of the last few 
 days, no wonder that it should affect her. She had no 
 idea that an Anglican service could have moved her 
 
168 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 so much, and it must be true, she thought, that the 
 Church of England was quite different from what she 
 had supposed it to be. It must have hidden merits 
 which only required to be brought to light. The new 
 resolutions she had made grew stronger ; she resolved 
 to be good, very good, more than commonly good. 
 Edgar had spoken of the joyful tidings which the 
 angels had announced to the shepherds, and then he 
 had said that there was a day and an hour in many 
 persons' lives, in which tidings of great joy were 
 brought to them. An angel's voice seemed to whisper 
 for the first time, secrets concerning God and their 
 souls. It was a strange joy, he said, that that voice 
 sometimes promised, one from which the cowardly 
 shrink, for it often presages suffering. Perhaps the 
 shepherds who heard the angels' tidings on the green 
 hills of Bethlehem were doomed soon afterwards to 
 listen, in their desolate homes, to the loud cry of 
 Rachel's anguish. God's special graces, he said, 
 were the harbingers of special griefs, and the joys of 
 Christians most fully felt by those on whom the shadow 
 of the cross had rested since infancy. 
 
 Ita went home with these words in her ears and 
 in her heart. As they left the church she leant on 
 Annie, and said, " Oh, dear, darling Annie, how good 
 you must always be, you who are to be Mr. Derwent's. 
 wife." 
 
 Annie looked unusually grave, and answered nothing. 
 There was very little conversation in the carriage in 
 which they all drove home. Before Ita was deposited 
 at the back door of Marchbanks house, Mrs. Gerald 
 asked her if she thought Lady Emily would be well 
 enough to see her, if she called in a day or two. Ita 
 thought she would, unless she happened to have had 
 a bad night ; and thereupon they parted. 
 
 A new era had begun in Ita's life. The glimpse she 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 169 
 
 had had of the gaieties of the world at Carsdale, had 
 made little impression upon her. She would never 
 have been in danger of becoming worldly and frivolous ; 
 other dangers and other snares she might have found 
 on her way through life. She might have gone into 
 extremes of various kinds ; she might have indulged 
 in hero-worship of a false and perilous nature. She 
 was just at the age when the character is apt to take 
 a new direction. If she had seen more of Mrs. Sydney, 
 her influence would, perhaps, have induced her to 
 enter at once on the question of the claims and merits 
 of the Church of Rome ; and she would then, probably, 
 have joined it, and her own fate and that of others 
 been different from what it eventually proved. But 
 Edgar's arrival at Bramblemoor — the opening of the 
 church there — the services she attended — the sermons 
 she heard, and the books she read, took an entire hold 
 of her mind. What religious writers called first fer- 
 vours were kindled in her soul. Those are wonderful 
 days in which nothing seems hard or difficult, when 
 there is a joy in every opportunity for exertion or 
 sacrifice — when the will seems to rush forward to the 
 accomplishment of everything which the mind lays 
 hold of in the way of duty — when doctrines hitherto 
 unknown or misunderstood assume a mastery over us 
 which results in new practices, new thoughts, a new 
 and cheering sense of what we are living, hoping, and 
 striving for. Divine consolations, in mercy given to 
 lead the soul onward, mingle with human feelings, 
 which in those early days of the spiritual life prevail 
 largely, though unconsciously, in much of what seems 
 to ourselves to be piety, and to others excitement. 
 Ita felt as if she had never been happy before. Every- 
 thing connected with religion had become pleasant. 
 She took delight in getting up at daybreak, whatever 
 the weather might be — rain, sleet, snow, wind, or mist 
 
170 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 — and with her waterproof cloak and umbrella, walk- 
 ing swiftly across the park and the common, a good 
 three miles, to the morning service. The tinkling of 
 the bell used to sound pleasantly in her ears as she 
 faced the cold north wind, and there was a conscious- 
 ness of making a great exertion, of despising luxury 
 and comfort, of doing something out of the common 
 way, which produced a particularly agreeable sensa- 
 tion of self- approval ; not blamable, good as a beginning, 
 but perhaps a little tainted with self-complacency. 
 She, the school children, and three or four other per- 
 sons, made up the congregation on week-days. She 
 wondered Annie did not come, forgetting that she lived 
 seven miles off and must have had the coachman and 
 servants up at a most inconveniently early hour ; and 
 when she was reminded of this, her wonder changed 
 into pity. One day that she was expressing this feeling, 
 Annie, exclaimed, " I think it is just as well to say one's 
 prayers at home ; so, if I went, it would not be for the 
 sake of the prayers, but to hear Edgar's voice and see 
 him, which is to me the greatest happiness in the 
 world. It is on that account I don't go to Bramble- 
 moor even on Sundays. I might be thinking more of 
 him than of my prayers." 
 
 " I should have thought," Ita replied, " that such a 
 feeling as yours for Mr. Derwent would have helped 
 you to pray more fervently. I think that to admire 
 and love any one on earth very much makes one love 
 God so much more. I remember once reading that 
 somebody said of St. Francis of Sales, the Holy 
 Bishop of Geneva, who wrote that book Mr. Derwent 
 likes so much, * Tha Introduction to a Devout Life,' 
 • If Monsieur de Geneve is so good, how good must 
 God, Who made him, be.' When I feel an enthusiasm 
 about good people, I always have had that idea in 
 my mind. But, Annie, when you are married, and if 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 171 
 
 Mr. Derwent is Vicar of Holmwood, you will be 
 obliged to go to church there." 
 
 " Of course I shall, it will be my duty to do so. 
 On the whole I am not sure that I am glad Edgar is 
 a clergyman." 
 
 " Oh, Annie, it is such a beautiful useful life ! " 
 
 " But it is a very engrossing one. I really see 
 very little of him." 
 
 " But cannot you be yourself engrossed in it ? Can- 
 not you make every one of his interests yours, and 
 work for him, both in his absence and in his presence. 
 He should be the sun and you the moon of his parish ; 
 whilst he shines by his virtues and his eloquence, you 
 should win hearts by your gentleness and sweetness. 
 If all wives ought to be helpmates, clergymen's wives 
 should be so more especially." 
 
 " Your flights are too high for me. I cannot 
 make myself into a moon. I have no talent for 
 winning hearts." 
 
 " Yet how much loved you are." 
 
 " I have not won anybody's heart that I know of. 
 Those who care for me have done so without my 
 having anything to do with it. Have you heard that 
 Eliza Conway is coming next week to Bramblemoor ? " 
 
 " Yes. The schoolmistress told me so. She is to 
 live with her and nurse the sick, and I am to spend 
 three days in the week working with her, when Lady 
 Emily can spare me ; and she is often now quite 
 willing I should be away for the whole day. She 
 dozes over her knitting, and does not want anybody 
 but her maid." 
 
 "Is it true that you go twice a day sometimes for 
 the service at Bramblemoor ? " 
 
 " Yes, but it tires me very much ; and now, if I can 
 stay between whiles with Eliza and be of use there, it 
 will be a great relief." 
 
172 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " I hear you do not eat meat now on Fridays." 
 Ita coloured ; for she had begun with a kind of 
 eager excitement to act upon Edgar's advice in that 
 respect. Nothing could exceed her zeal in complying 
 with his instructions ; whatever he intimated in his 
 sermons that it would be well to do, she instantly 
 practised, but she had not as yet had any private 
 conversation with him, or been much in his society. 
 Her admiration of him was unbounded ; but there was 
 one point alone about which she did not feel as if 
 she should ever be able to practise what he told her he 
 hoped his parishioners would many of them do when 
 he was ordained priest. She could never, she thought, 
 go to confession to him. She could not analyze her 
 feeling on that subject. She could imagine that it 
 would be a great help, a great consolation, to kneel at 
 the feet of some grey-headed, venerable, old man, and 
 accuse herself of all the sins and miseries of her life ; 
 and that to hear words of absolution addressed indi- 
 vidually to herself would be the greatest of comforts ; 
 but it must be under peculiar circumstances — her 
 secrets spoken to an unknown ear, and the message 
 of God conveyed to her soul by an unknown voice. 
 
 Edgar worked very hard, and it was true that he 
 had not much time to give to Holmwood and Annie. 
 She was very patient with him, though somewhat 
 exacting with others. There is nothing more touching 
 than the gentleness of a self-willed person under the 
 influence of a strong affection. Without taking any 
 very keen interest in his plans, she listened with un- 
 wearied attention to all he said, because it was he who 
 said it. She helped him to the best of her ability — 
 not that she could see the use of many of the things 
 which he wished to do and establish in his church and 
 parish — but still in deference to what she considered 
 his better judgment, she assisted him with money to 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 173 
 
 effect these changes whenever he wished it. She read 
 the books he recommended assiduously, attentively, but 
 without result as far as conviction went. Some of the 
 moral lessons and religious ideas in the " Plain 
 Sermons," and other works of the Oxford school, she 
 admired, but her practical, positive, unimaginative 
 mind could neither see consistency nor reason in the 
 theory on which Anglicanism is built, nor enable her 
 to do without seeing it. It seemed to her utterly 
 illogical in principle, and, as it did not accord with 
 her tastes and inclinations, she turned from it with 
 pain indeed, because she would very much have 
 desired to feel and think like Edgar, but with an 
 increasing dislike and suspicion. The only merit 
 she could see in Anglicanism was, that some people 
 were kept by it from Roman Catholicism, which she 
 hated still more. It certainly had that good result, 
 she thought, in Ita's case, and of that she was very 
 .glad. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Soon after Christmas, Mrs. Gerald had paid a long 
 visit to Lady Emily Hendon. She had found her 
 much altered in looks, and evidently very ill. They 
 had begun by talking of various indifferent subjects,, 
 and then Mrs. Gerald said, in an indifferent manner 
 also, " How well Miss Flower is looking? " 
 
 " She is very well, I think," Lady Emily languidly 
 replied." 
 
 " Annie and I like her so much." 
 
 " I am very glad you do. It is such a good thing 
 she should make friends, for I am sure I shall not live 
 long, and I cannot think what she is to do when I die* 
 Perhaps you could suggest something ? " 
 
 " I hope dear Lady Emily, that you are mistaken, 
 and that you will live a long time yet. But has not 
 Miss Flower any relatives ? " 
 
 " No ; not a soul that anybody knows of. I may 
 as well tell you about her. The people I took her from 
 had picked her up at sea, somewhere on the coast* 
 They were fishermen going to Corsica. They took the 
 baby into their boat, and brought her home with them 
 some months afterwards. They used sometimes to beg 
 from travellers on the plea of having adopted this baby. 
 She was very pretty ; and when, two or three years 
 afterwards, some of my friends thought it would amuse 
 me to have a child in the house, they told me of this 
 little thing, and I adopted her and brought her up. 
 We called her { Margarita,' the Pearl of the Sea, it 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 175 
 
 seemed so appropriate, and she called herself • Ita.' 
 She has always been a good, dear little thing. I wish 
 now I had married her to somebody abroad ; you 
 cannot weil arrange that sort of thing here, and really 
 I do not know what she is to do when I die. I shall 
 leave her something of course, but I have not much 
 besides my jointure. You cannot think, I suppose, of 
 any one who would like to marry her. She will have 
 four thousand pounds." 
 
 There was something husky in Mrs. Gerald's voice 
 as she answered, " No, I cannot say I do. I suppose 
 she was given up to you altogether ? " 
 
 " Yes. Those people signed a paper to that effect. 
 I dare say Mr. Hendon would be kind to her if I died ; 
 but it would not suit him, I am sure, to have a girl to 
 take care of." 
 
 "You will get better soon, and return to Mentone," 
 Mrs. Gerald answered, as if trying to say something. 
 
 " Oh, no ! I am more ill than you suppose. I ought 
 never to have come to England." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald inwardly re-echoed the words, but not 
 on Lady Emily's account. It was for her own sake 
 that she felt it. What was the importance of a few 
 more or less years of existence to a languishing in- 
 valid, compared with the doubt which had arisen in 
 her own mind, and which had begun to embitter her 
 existence. 
 
 To understand this it is necessary to go back some 
 years, and describe what happened at the time of her 
 eldest brother's death. It has already been said that 
 her affection for him was the strongest feeling of her 
 heart, and that her dislike to her younger brother, 
 Edgar's father, had dated equally from childhood. 
 Herbert Derwent had never shared hers and her 
 brother Robert's attachment to Holmwood, or any of 
 those family feelings which were so marked a feature 
 
176 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 in their characters. He was a selfish, careless, ex- 
 travagant young man, who professed to hate living in 
 the country, and had been known to say that, if the 
 old place ever came into his hands, he would sell it as 
 soon as he could. Mrs. Gerald had brooded over those 
 words with profound resentment and indignation. He 
 married in a way which did not particularly tend to 
 please his relatives, and they became still more 
 estranged from him, and in consequence he from them 
 and from Holmwood. It was, therefore, with an 
 intense joy that Mrs. Gerald, soon after her widow- 
 hood, heard of her eldest brother's marriage, and some 
 months afterwards welcomed him and his young wife 
 at Nice, where she had remained since her husband's 
 death. They spent the winter there, and Mrs. Der- 
 went, towards the end of February, gave birth to a 
 little girl. As soon as she was recovered from her 
 confinement, she travelled on with her husband and 
 child to Florence and Rome. Mrs. Gerald was to 
 meet them at Genoa, on their way back, and thither 
 she went on one of those evenings in May, which in 
 Italy fulfils everything that poets of every age have 
 sung or said of that smiling month. She travelled 
 along the Corniche road, lately opened, revelling in 
 the matchless beauty of scenes which pass before the 
 eye like visions which it would fain retain and dwell 
 on in protracted admiration, but which too quickly 
 succeed each other, like dreams of a fairer world than 
 our own. What will it be when we are carried at 
 railroad speed through that dazzling magnificence of 
 earth, sea, and sky. Will beauty penetrate the mind 
 henceforward as deeply, will it mould the fancy and 
 saturate the soul as in days of yore, now that one 
 glance only is allowed at objects which a poet would 
 once have gazed on for hours with the silent worship 
 of passion or of prayer ? 
 
MRS. GERALDS NIECE. 177 
 
 A delightful anticipation of approaching enjoyment 
 mingled in Mrs. Gerald's heart with the emotions of 
 that journey. She fondly loved her young sister-in- 
 law ; and the little baby who had been born in her 
 riouse had become the dearest object of interest to her. 
 She was cold in manner, but when she loved it was 
 very intensely. This little child, though a girl, was to 
 Inherit Holmwood if she had no brother. It was only 
 to pass to Herbert or his children if Robert had none. 
 This new treasure of their lives was to be carried back 
 that summer to the old home, was to grow up in the 
 love of it, and, as she looked at the little brown crea- 
 tures playing in the olive woods or on the sandy shores 
 of the Riviera, the thought of " our baby," " our little 
 Annie," "our child," was ever in her mind. Robert 
 Derwent had married rather late in life, and, therefore, 
 all the joy of his wedded life and the sweetness of 
 loving his child had come as a new happiness to his 
 sister. When she approached Genoa her heart beat 
 with glad impatience ; when the proud and beautiful 
 city, Genova la Superba, burst on her delighted sight, 
 her eyes still turned towards the sea and to the count- 
 less sails on the bosom of the broad bay, and of the 
 wide realm of blue sunny waters beyond, with a bound 
 of eager hope and exulting delight. "To-night," she 
 thought, "to-night perhaps, at latest to-morrow, I 
 shall see my own dear ones, the only ones on earth 
 whom I love and who love me : his kind dear face ; 
 her smile when she shows me the baby in her short 
 clothes ; his quiet delight ; Maud's ' Oh, Aunt Gerald ! ' 
 for so she always called her." She pictured it all, she 
 lived through it many times in thought, never again 
 in reality. 
 
 That night there was a storm, fearful and sudden, 
 and a great darkness, and, near the entrance of the 
 bay, two steamers came in collision ; one went down, 
 
 M 
 
i 7 8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 the other was shattered to pieces. From the former 
 only two human beings escaped — a cabin-boy was 
 picked up with a child in his arms. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald had received the night before a letter 
 which said her brother with his wife and baby had 
 sailed from Leghorn in the steamer " Acquilea/' and 
 the news was brought her in the morning that the vessel 
 had gone down and all on board of her were lost. A 
 few hours afterwards^ when she was sitting in the dull 
 hopeless stupor that a sudden and extraordinary 
 calamity brings on, the English Consul asked to speak 
 to her. He said a little girl, apparently three or four 
 months old, had been saved by a sailor, who was the 
 only survivor besides that child of the passengers in 
 the " Acquilea ; " that the night-gown this baby had on 
 was marked with the initials A. D., and that the boy 
 said he thought it was the child of an English gentle- 
 man and lady who had a cabin to themselves. The 
 rush of something between renewed anguish and an 
 awakened hope, with its whole future of consolation, 
 roused at once Mrs. Gerald ; and, though the instant 
 before she would have been incapable of stirring, she 
 sprang now to her feet and insisted on immediately 
 going to see the child. She felt at once that any 
 question of recognizing a baby only four months old 
 and whom she had not seen for three months was out 
 of the question ; that as far as that went she could not 
 trust her own impressions ; but the night-gown she 
 would of course be able to identify, as she had herself 
 helped her sister-in-law to prepare, and, in particular, 
 to get marked, the clothes for little Annie. The letters 
 A. D. seemed to float before her eyes as she walked to 
 the Spedale, and the intense excitement of her mind 
 seemed for a while to overcome the terrible suffering 
 she endured. It was a strange moment for her when 
 she was led up to the woman who was nursing the 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 179 
 
 baby. Kneeling down she looked at it with inexpres- 
 sible eagerness. The eyes seemed to her like those of 
 her infant niece, and there was nothing in the small 
 features dissimilar to the little face she remembered. 
 But when the night-gown was produced, every doubt 
 vanished. It was certainly Annie's. Not only did the 
 initials prove it, but Mrs. Gerald recognized the pattern 
 of the lace trimming which she had herself chosen. 
 
 The cabin-boy was summoned and cross-examined. 
 " Was there more than one infant on board ? " 
 
 Three he believed, but he could not tell if they were 
 boys or girls ; the English Signora's child was a girl 
 he knew. 
 
 How did he get hold of this little child ? 
 
 Somebody gave it to him to hold just as the crash 
 took place. Everybody was running about in confusion. 
 
 " For the love of the Madonna* take the creature," 
 some one said. 
 
 That could not have been Robert or Maud, Mrs. 
 Gerald thought, but she did not say a word. 
 
 " Had this English lady and gentleman Italian 
 servants ? " the Consul asked. 
 
 " Sicuro," the boy replied ; " the baby had an Italian 
 nurse." 
 
 In an agitated voice Mrs. Gerald declared that the 
 night-gown was sufficient evidence that this was her 
 little niece, and appealed to the Consul, who agreed 
 with her, that the evidence appeared conclusive, but 
 suggested at the same time that some one should come 
 from Florence who had lately seen the child, and 
 could testify to her identity. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald took the baby home with her, and from 
 that moment was absorbed in the care of this little 
 being, who, in consequence of the exposure and fatigue 
 she had undergone, was for a long time in a precarious 
 condition. In a short time, the master of the hotel 
 
180 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 where Mr. and Mrs. Derwent had been staying at 
 Florence, and one of the servants there, arrived for the 
 purpose of declaring whether the little girl so wonder- 
 fully preserved on the night of the accident was their 
 child. They no doubt perceived with Italian acuteness 
 that there was a passionate desire on the rich English 
 lady's part that their evidence might corroborate the 
 fact ; and, not having, probably, any distinct impres- 
 sion to the contrary, they did not hesitate to assure 
 her and other witnesses, in the presence of the Consul, 
 that the Bambina was the little Signorina Anna, the 
 daughter of that poor lady and gentleman whose fate 
 had made so great a sensation at Florence, as well as 
 at Genoa. 
 
 There the matter rested — no cne called in doubt, 
 and nobody did doubt, that Annie Derwent had been 
 rescued from a watery grave, and she lived to be the 
 idol of her aunt. Herbert Derwent did not question it, 
 nor did he long survive his brother. Strange to say, 
 the only person on whose mind the faintest shadow of 
 a doubt remained was Mrs. Gerald herself. She be- 
 lieved what she had asserted, her reason was satisfied 
 by the evidence, and every feeling enlisted on the side 
 of that belief. It would have been despair to her to 
 have doubted it, for her whole soul, from the first days 
 of that dreadful grief, was wrapped up in the rescued 
 child, but with the nervous self-tormenting which be- 
 longs to some natures — that proneness to a secret 
 harrowing, analyzing of transient thoughts and 
 unacknowledged misgivings which exist in some re- 
 served characters, she had sometimes inward argu- 
 ments with herself in which, what seemed to her the 
 devil's advocate, was perpetually suggesting every 
 sort of possible supposition which might affect the 
 evidence which, to indifferent persons, seemed con- 
 clusive. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 As little Annie advanced in age, she watched for 
 a family likeness to her parents, or to any members of 
 her family, with a feverish anxiety. It so happened 
 that no such resemblance did appear. Of course this 
 was no real evidence against her identity, but still it 
 tormented Mrs. Gerald, and she had a nervous fear 
 that others, also, might notice this. It was partly for 
 this reason that she collected all the family pictures in 
 her own room, and even there screened them from 
 sight. If anybody remarked that Annie was not like 
 her parents, it caused her a paroxysm of pain. If she 
 could have seen a gesture, a look, a habit of any kind, 
 which bore in it an hereditary stamp, the relief would 
 have been great. Sometimes she held her head with 
 both hands, and tried to crush this ever-recurring 
 mental strife. She told herself that even if she had 
 the least suspicion that Annie was not Annie (and she 
 would writhe at the bare thought of such a supposi- 
 tion), she would not be justified in harbouring it. 
 Since others had accepted the evidence as sufficient, 
 even those interested to disprove it, she had no busi- 
 ness to question it even for an instant ; it seemed like 
 treachery towards that idolized child, and it was this 
 secret, involuntary misgiving which made her par- 
 ticularly anxious that Annie should marry her cousin 
 Edgar. In no possible case, then, would any one be 
 wronged, and she felt she would be a happier person 
 when that matter was settled. A new nervousness, 
 however, had now taken possession of her mind — a 
 new fear, doubt, presentiment, delusion, fancy, what- 
 ever it was, had begun to haunt her. It began on the 
 day when she had called for the first time at March- 
 banks — the very moment she set her eyes on Ita 
 Flower. What for twenty years she had looked for 
 in vain — what for twenty years she had been pining 
 to see in Annie's face, that girl had, she saw it at once 
 
1 82 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 — a, striking likeness to her late sister-in-law. The 
 brown eyes, the long dark lashes, the dimples in her 
 cheeks, the full lips, the small mouth, the very picture 
 her memory was for ever drawing, seemed to stand 
 before her eyes. It did not at first suggest any idea 
 beyond an accidental resemblance ; but even that 
 awoke in her a sort of jealousy. It seemed so hard 
 that a stranger could be so like what Maud Derwent 
 had been, and her own child bear no resemblance to 
 her. She felt at once attracted by Ita, and yet indis- 
 posed towards her. Annie was handsome and good, and 
 some people admired very much her fine countenance 
 and bright glance ; but Mrs. Gerald had never been 
 herself so painfully conscious of a want of grace and 
 charm in her manner as after making acquaintance 
 with Ita. She wished not to see this grace and charm, 
 she tried not, but it so happened that they were 
 exactly what naturally most captivated her. This 
 struggle went on till the time of the visit to Carsdale, 
 and there she heard that Ita was not the daughter of 
 any of Lady Emily's friends, but a child adopted 
 abroad — "picked up at sea." 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the tumult which 
 these words raised in Mrs. Gerald's mind — the sicken- 
 ing terror of mental suffering which seized upon her. 
 It was as if the faint misgiving, which had so long 
 haunted her, had suddenly assumed a real tangible 
 form. It was, however, too painful a possibility to 
 contemplate when anything of reality became con- 
 nected with it. She had not repulsed the shadowy 
 doubt of past days, with the vehemence with which 
 she thrust back the grave question which the present 
 was forcing upon her. She fought against it with a 
 desperate resolution. She argued, with herself, that 
 it would be wrong even to give the subject a thought ; 
 to re-open the case, as it were, which no ore tut 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 183 
 
 herself would ever dream of reconsidering. But when- 
 ever, from that moment, she heard Ita's voice, or 
 laugh, whenever — which she avoided as much as she 
 could — she looked at her, the feeling returned ; the 
 likeness haunted her. She could not bear to turn her 
 eyes on the picture in her room, nor could she contain 
 herself sometimes when Ita said or did something, 
 which seemed quite insignificant to others, but had 
 some peculiar effect upon herself. The way she had 
 of throwing up her hands when surprised or pleased ; 
 or of sitting clasping her knee and bending forward, 
 when listening to something which particularly inter- 
 ested her, brought her young sister-in-law so vividly 
 before Mrs. Gerald, that she felt as if she should go 
 out of her mind. And yet it might all be fancy, she 
 might be giving the most ridiculous importance to an 
 accidental resemblance. Sometimes she thought of 
 showing the picture in her room to Mr. Pratt, and 
 asking him if he saw the likeness — even of telling him 
 of her misery on the subject ; but when she set about 
 acting on that thought, she recoiled from it with terror. 
 It was an absurd, nervous fancy, which it was her 
 duty to keep under and suppress. In the meantime, 
 her feeling towards Ita was a strange one. At times 
 it would almost have seemed as if she hated her, and 
 yet at others an irrepressible tenderness stole into her 
 heart and manner. All this was taking place in the 
 soul of a person who had all the sufferings of an im- 
 petuous nature, without the relief of an expansive 
 disposition. Storms passed over her face ; but they 
 never burst forth in words, and seldom in tears. It was 
 like fire in a vase, which would not break. 
 
 It was on a day when as usual this inward strife 
 had been raging, that she felt impelled to go and see 
 Lady Emily Hendon. . The present state of her mind 
 seemed to her — as is always the case when we are 
 
1 84 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 suffering — the most intolerable she could conceive. A 
 little more or a little less reason to think of that ex- 
 traordinary possibility would be a relief; for now and 
 then she could not help feeling, " Oh ! if that was 
 Robert's child — if she was, after all, the little infant 
 Annie I received into my arms at Nice, and made him 
 kiss for the first time." She wept over this recollec- 
 tion, and then her own darling, her beloved, real Annie 
 came smiling into the room, and she was frightened 
 at having, even for a minute, dwelt on the doubt. The 
 visit to Marchbanks was paid a day or two afterwards. 
 A pause in the conversation, which has been already 
 related, ensued after Lady Emily had expressed the wish 
 that she had never come to England. Mrs. Gerald at 
 last said, " If it should be God's will, Lady Emily, that 
 you should die before Miss Flower is married, I promise 
 you that I will do all I can for her. But will you allow 
 me to say that it would be a great object in such a 
 case to place that paper you spoke of — I mean the 
 document that was drawn up and signed by the people 
 who gave her up to you — in safe hands. I suppose it 
 contains the date of the day when she was found." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I suppose so ; but I have not got it here. 
 I think I must have left it in my bureau at Mentone ; 
 but it is so long since I have seen it, that I am not 
 quite sure." 
 
 " That is very unfortunate. One would think that 
 it must have been extremely important to preserve 
 every particular connected with Miss Flower's history. 
 Do you remember what it said about the date, and 
 the part of the coast where she was found ? " 
 
 11 It was somewhere on the coast of the Riviera ; 
 but rather far out at sea, I think. We always keep 
 her birthday on St. Margaret's day — her j 'est 'a, as they 
 say at Mentone — but, you know, the day she was 
 found of course was not her birthday." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 185 
 
 " But when was it ? " 
 
 " I really do not remember." 
 
 " Do you remember which year it was ? " 
 
 " I think it was twenty-one years ago." 
 
 " As much as that ? " 
 
 " Well, it might be twenty ; I am not sure. By 
 the way, I think it was only eighteen. No, no — 
 twenty." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald threw herself back in her chair with 
 a feeling of despair. " Do you recollect hearing if 
 there were any initials on her clothes when she was 
 found ? " 
 
 " No, I don't think there were ; but by this time it 
 cannot signify, you know." 
 
 " Have you any servants who lived with you at the 
 time you adopted Miss Flower ? " 
 
 " Not here. My maid, who was with me then, died 
 two years ago. Her husband lives at Mentone." 
 
 " Would Mr. Hendon remember about that paper 
 and its contents ? " 
 
 " I dare say he would. No, by the way, he would 
 not ; for he was asking me about it the other day." 
 
 " I must say that it appears to me inconceivable 
 that you should have allowed so important a circum- 
 stance to escape your memory, as whether or not there 
 were any initials on the child's clothes." 
 
 " I never heard whether she had any clothes at all. 
 I wanted a child to adopt, and was told it would be a 
 great charity to take this one, as she belonged to 
 nobody. That is all I recollect. You are a very for- 
 tunate person, Mrs. Gerald, if your own experience 
 has not shown you that people cannot always remem- 
 ber things, but you have not been like me, an invalid 
 for thirty years." 
 
 " But that paper ought to have been kept," Mrs. 
 Gerald answered, with a heightened colour. 
 
1 86 MBS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " I have no doubt I have it safe at Mentone," 
 Lady Emily replied, with a look of weariness, which 
 implied what was indeed passing through her mind. 
 " Really, when I asked you to be kind to that girl I 
 did not mean to be bored in this way." 
 
 " Will you write for that paper ? " Mrs. Gerald per- 
 sisted. 
 
 " Nobody could find it but myself. What makes 
 you so anxious about it ? " 
 
 If Lady Emily had not been short-sighted, and the 
 room darkened on account of the weakness of her 
 eyes, she must have observed the agitation which her 
 pettish question caused. With a tremulous voice 
 Mrs. Gerald answered : " I think it very unfair to 
 Miss Flower that this record of the only fact which 
 could throw any light on her birth should not be 
 forthcoming." 
 
 " I think, dear Mrs. Gerald, that I am likely to be 
 more anxious about her interests than you can be. It 
 is only a question of time. The paper is either at the 
 bottom of one of my trunks here, or in my bureau at 
 Mentone ; it cannot be anywhere else. If I die, my 
 executors will find it. I do not see why, weak and ill 
 as I am, I should worry and fatigue myself with a use- 
 less search for it. And, after all, I really cannot 
 imagine that, whether those initials were A. B. or D. C, 
 it can make an atom of difference to Ita. Have you 
 heard," she continued in the tone of a person deter- 
 mined to change the subject of conversation, "have 
 you heard that Lord Carsdown is going to stand for 
 the county at the next election instead of Mr. Bay- 
 ham ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I heard it mentioned the other day. I cannot 
 help sometimes regretting that my nephew Edgar 
 has gone into the Church. I think he would have 
 made an admirable speaker. He might have played 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 187 
 
 a part in political life, and been a very distinguished 
 man." 
 
 " He has very odd ideas, has he not ? " 
 
 " He is very High Church." 
 
 11 But, dear Mrs. Gerald, surely when I left England, 
 to be High Church meant to be everything most 
 sensible and quiet. It was what almost all the Arch- 
 bishops and Bishops were. The Evangelical party 
 was the one that did strange things then — not going 
 to the play or to balls, and eating cold meat on 
 Sundays, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " Great changes have happened since then," Mrs. 
 Gerald answered. " It is very curious to observe the 
 phases through which the mind of a nation passes." 
 
 M Since Ita has heard Mr. Derwent preach, she does 
 not eat meat on Fridays. I do not think that can be 
 good for her. I asked my doctor, and he says it will 
 not do her any harm. But I do think she takes too 
 long walks in the morning, and now I hear she is 
 going to nurse sick people with a Miss Conway. I 
 hope she will not go anywhere where there is fever. 
 But her life is so dull here that I am really glad of 
 anything that amuses her, poor child ! There is no 
 accounting for tastes. I find much talking tires me 
 very much, and so I cannot be a very agreeable com- 
 panion for her." 
 
 This hint about much talking induced Mrs. Gerald 
 soon to take her leave. The visit had not tended to 
 throw a feather's weight into the scale which she was 
 continually weighing in her own mind without daring 
 to ask herself what she would do if one of the two 
 should ever happen to kick the beam. Two strange 
 fears — two strange doubts — two strange loves it might 
 almost be said, were perpetually contending with each 
 other in her weary soul. The old deep love of bygone 
 years, and the actual passionate affection of half a life- 
 
1 88 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 time, rushed against each other in contending eddies of 
 self-reproach, whether she harboured or repulsed the 
 thoughts which forced themselves upon her with a 
 relentless pertinacity. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The 13th of January was a happy day for Ita. Eliza 
 Conway had arrived at Bramblemoor on the preceding 
 afternoon, and taken possession of two little rooms 
 above the grocer's shop, for which he had been only 
 too pleased to find so good a tenant. Eliza was 
 engaged to be married to a clergyman. Her ideas on 
 the subject of the celibacy of Anglican priests had 
 been modified, in the first place, in favour of Edgar's 
 peculiar case, and since then in favour of the above- 
 mentioned excellent, hard-working curate, in whose 
 parish she had been labouring for more than a year in 
 London, and who had recently proposed to her. 
 Eliza's ideas were seldom, if ever, changed by the 
 influence of other people ; but, in some instances, they 
 underwent a spontaneous change, and she was as 
 earnest and confident in her own opinions for the time 
 being, as if they had always remained the same. She 
 had a peculiar talent for drawing fine distinctions, 
 and it was fortunate she possessed that power ; for, 
 with her great anxiety always to act in the most 
 perfect manner possible, it might have often been 
 difficult without it to reconcile even in her own mind 
 her former opinions with present views and intentions. 
 From the time she had determined to marry Mr. 
 Roland, she had been full of the project of a sort of 
 confraternity of clergymen's wives w r ith a preparatory 
 noviciate for young women disposed to enter that state 
 of life. She thought clergymen might be bound, or at 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 any rate advised, to choose their wives from amongst 
 this class of ladies. She did not, indeed, adopt Dr. 
 Hook's memorable suggestion that the wives of the 
 clergy should act as confessors to the women of their 
 parishes ; for she understood too well the Catholic 
 doctrine on the subject of the Sacrament of Penance 
 to advocate this extraordinary innovation, but she 
 thought, and so far perhaps rightly enough, that the 
 kind of duties generally performed by the wives of 
 English clergymen would be all the more efficiently 
 executed, if a special training and appropriate teaching 
 had prepared them for the exercise of active charity, 
 and semi-ministerial functions. It was, therefore, 
 with all her heart, mind, soul, and strength — with that 
 honesty of purpose and fervent zeal which are the re- 
 deeming points of our times, and the element through 
 which modern society, with all its vices and errors, may 
 yet be saved, even as ten righteous men, could they 
 have been found, would have averted a fiery deluge from 
 the cities of the plain — that she resolved to devote the 
 time that was to elapse before her marriage could take 
 place, to a life of poverty and labour in a place where 
 she could hear from the pulpit what she believed to be 
 true, where she would not have mentally to protest 
 against almost every word her clergyman uttered, or 
 be obliged when she taught poor children, or spoke to 
 sick people, to express herself in ambiguous language, 
 which might afford them a chance of imbibing Catholic 
 doctrines or consolations, and yet not expose her to 
 the censures of her spiritual pastors. 
 
 In the great majority of parishes in England this 
 would have been her position, and she was right to 
 avoid the harassing dilemma. But it is impossible not 
 to be struck with the thought of the number of persons 
 in the Established Church who have no option as to 
 the teaching they shall receive, and of the anomaly that 
 
i go MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 lies in the very words that imply that this is or ought 
 to be a matter of choice on the part of individuals. 
 For how are the poor and ignorant to recognize the 
 boundary line which divides the orthodox from the 
 heretic, the Catholic priest (sic) from the Protestant 
 minister, who both call themselves clergymen of the 
 Church of England ? — how settle for themselves when 
 they ought to accept or to reject the teaching of their 
 spiritual pastors and masters, and laying their finger 
 on the spot in the graduating scale, at the foot of 
 which, for instance, the present Dean of Ripon takes 
 his stand, and at the top of which the ritualistic incum- 
 bent of St. Alban's, Holborn, holds his position — 
 decide when a humble and docile soul is or is not to 
 "hear the Church," and accept its doctrines on trust. 
 It is said that there is but one single moment when 
 a pear is ripe enough and not too ripe — the chances 
 are greatly against its being picked at that moment. 
 It would be an equally delicate point to fix on the 
 shade of opinion in the Church of England that would 
 be pronounced orthodox by even a small number of 
 those who call themselves its members. 
 
 Edgar's parishioners, poor, neglected, and unlettered 
 men and women, were neither competent nor disposed 
 to offer any opposition to him, or to take umbrage at 
 the High Church teaching and practices he at once 
 proceeded to induce amongst them. They became 
 associated in their minds with the charity and kindness 
 of their new clergyman, with many comforts bestowed 
 upon them in sickness, with visits on the one hand 
 from Lady Emma Cars, and on the other from Miss 
 Derwent, which ended in warm gowns, waistcoats, and 
 flannel petticoats for the aged — shoes for the children 
 — situations in good families for the young girls — and 
 school feasts connected, more or less, with the Church 
 services. This was better, they thought, than anything 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 191 
 
 the Methodist chapel on the other side of the common 
 had ever done for them ; and, as one old man expressed 
 it, the new clergyman's religion would serve his pur- 
 pose as well as anything else. But there was some- 
 thing beyond this after a while, especially when Eliza 
 Conway had settled in the village, and Ita came most 
 days to help her in her work. It would not have been 
 possible that three young ardent souls, two of which 
 were carrying out long-cherished hopes and desires, and 
 the third, in the full fervour of a recent change from 
 indifference and listlessness to strong religious impres- 
 sions, should have failed to win the hearts and influence 
 the lives of those amongst whom they laboured. For 
 they were bringing to long neglected but, generally 
 speaking, not hardened or vicious persons, tidings of 
 great joy, they were teaching them some of the prin- 
 cipal truths of Christianity, and in good faith what 
 they themselves believed to be true — they were raising 
 them by prayer and worship to new conceptions of 
 what is good and beautiful. 
 
 At a time when Anglicanism did not pretend to an 
 unreal identity of doctrine and similarity of ceremonial 
 with the Catholic Church, but directed its efforts to the 
 maintenance of some important Christian truths, to the 
 cultivation of a piety more fervent and more sober 
 than that which had hitherto prevailed in the Church 
 of England, and a more reverential and attractive 
 mode of worship, a real improvement was often seen 
 in congregations under the influence of clergymen of 
 the new school. They were advancing themselves and 
 leading on others towards Catholic truth, and with the 
 heart and spirit of apostles devoting themselves to the 
 work before them. 
 
 In Edgar Derwent's case there was at once a great 
 zeal for the spiritual welfare of his parishioners, and 
 also an eager interest in the success of a system, the 
 
192 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 merits of which he felt he was now himself putting to 
 the test. He was not a vain man, perhaps not even a 
 proud one, but self-reliant to no ordinary degree. He 
 could not see anything except from one point of view ; 
 he would have died sooner than do anything he did not 
 think right, but then what he was determined to do he 
 always did manage to think right. There was, in this 
 respect, a likeness between him and Eliza Conway, but 
 with this difference — she had not his abilities, his gifts, 
 his charm of mind and manners, but she had a more 
 devout mind, and greater personal humility. His 
 character would have seemed at first sight one very 
 independent of the sympathy of others, nevertheless 
 he prized it more than could have been supposed. To 
 feel that he was admired, excited him to excel — to 
 know he was appreciated, helped him to persevere. 
 
 For instance, Ita's constant attendance at the daily 
 service in his church stimulated his fervour. The pro- 
 found attention with which she listened to his sermons 
 made him more eloquent. Her eager adoption of his 
 opinions gave him the most intense satisfaction. He 
 had been the means of counteracting the fatal bias, for 
 so he considered it, which had inclined her towards the 
 Church of Rome — he had seen her adopt one by one 
 all his views, and put in practice whatever he recom- 
 mended. He expected her to furnish a glorious proof 
 of what the Catholic teaching of the Church of England 
 can effect in training an impulsive character, leading 
 forward a generous soul, and disciplining a superior in- 
 tellect. Like a fine instrument which responds to the 
 player's touch, her whole disposition seemed to be 
 undergoing a transformation under his influence. His 
 example, his advice, his books, and his sermons were 
 gradually forming her into his ideal of a Christian 
 woman. She was finding new elements of strength, of 
 peace, and of happiness in the life of prayer and of 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 193 
 
 labour she was beginning to lead. Her gratitude to 
 him was real, and he deserved it at her hands ; for 
 never can anything cancel the debt we owe to those 
 who at any time, or in any measure, and however im- 
 perfectly, have been the means of bringing us to know 
 and love our Creator and Saviour : and it was in the 
 litle church where Edgar ministered that Ita had taken 
 the first step in that direction ; for up to that time 
 nothing but transient emotions or occasional desires 
 to be good and to serve God had crossed her soul. 
 He had taught her to pray by rule, not by mere 
 impulse ; to examine her conscience ; to love the poor 
 in a Christian manner. She owed him much, and on 
 the other hand she helped him a great deal in his 
 parish work. There was a charm in Ita which told on 
 everybody she approached. It was felt by the rough 
 peasantry of the moorlands as much as by persons of 
 refinement and education. She had a gift which, when 
 it is joined with quick tender feelings and earnestness 
 of spirit, exercises a wonderful influence on all sorts 
 of persons. It is not wit — not even humour ; it is 
 what the French call, le mot pour rire. It is like the 
 ripple of the stream ; it gladdens everything, and 
 gladness is so much wanted by weary hearts. A smile 
 on the face of a poor man has a countless value. " She 
 is a bit of sunshine ; " " she is a good sight for sore 
 eyes;" "she is a terrible one for cheering one up," 
 were common sayings in the mouths of the poor, as 
 Ita went in and out of their cottages. 
 
 As to herself, this kind of life was like the begin- 
 ning of a new existence. Her natural activity had, 
 for the first time, found an object, her conscience was 
 at rest, her devotional instincts satisfied. The evenings, 
 between Mr. Hendon, who read, and Lady Emily, who 
 slept, she found no longer dull. She read volume after 
 volume of religious and controversial writings with 
 
194 M RS- GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 unflagging interest, and watched eagerly in the news- 
 papers for everything relating to the Oxford movement. 
 The Church principles she heard so much of were con- 
 nected in her mind with the new interests, the new 
 feelings, the new happiness which filled her soul. 
 
 The winter passed pleasantly and quickly by. The 
 only person who did not look well or happy at Holm- 
 wood was Mrs. Gerald. She sometimes seemed anxious 
 to fix an early day after Easter for Annie's marriage, 
 and at other moments to delay it. She announced 
 that, as soon as it was over, she should settle in a 
 little cottage of her own by the sea-side ; and, one day 
 that Ita was alone with her, she said, abruptly, " What 
 do you mean to do when Lady Emily dies ? " This 
 question took the poor girl by surprise. She had 
 often enough put it to herself, but to be asked it in 
 this sudden manner was painful. Her eyes filled with 
 tears, and she remained silent. Then Mrs. Gerald 
 said, in a faltering voice, " Would you come and live 
 with me ? " 
 
 Ita looked up very much surprised. She had fancied 
 Mrs. Gerald disliked her, and this proposal was per- 
 fectly unexpected. Some time before it would have 
 given her pleasure ; now she was touched and grateful ; 
 but a change had lately taken place in her wishes and 
 feelings. Thoughts had been running in her mind 
 about joining one of the sisterhoods that Edgar Der- 
 wcnt's friends had begun to establish. There was a 
 question of founding a small community of that kind 
 at Bramblemoor, and she had almost made up her mind 
 to ask to be admitted. She made, therefore, a grateful 
 but evasive answer to Mrs. Gerald's inquiry, and the 
 subject dropped, perhaps to the relief of both, for they- 
 never felt at their ease with one another. 
 
 Time went on. Lent was nearly over. One morn- 
 ing, in April, Annie was sitting in the flower-garden 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 195 
 
 with Eliza, who was spending a few days with her to 
 rest after a short attack of illness, and Ita, who had 
 come over from Marchbanks for the day. Eliza was 
 reading a letter ; she looked up, and said, " Ita, Miss 
 Dorrell and Miss Mainwright, Sister Mary and Sister 
 Anna, you know, are very much inclined to take the 
 red house on the common, the largest of the two, and 
 to begin at once, if you make up your mind to join 
 them when poor Lady Emily no longer requires your 
 care." 
 
 There was a dead silence. Eliza had let a terrible 
 cat out of the bag. If there was one thing Annie dis- 
 liked more than another, it was convents, and the imita- 
 tion of monastic life amongst Anglicans she especially 
 could not endure. Edgar was to have broken to her 
 the scheme about the contemplated sisterhood at Bram- 
 blemoor, but he had put off doing so, and this was the 
 first time she had heard of it. She fixed her eyes on 
 Ita with a look of inquiry and of displeasure. There 
 was as much of a sneer in that look as was possible in 
 a countenance the characteristic expression of which 
 was openness. Annie could look angry, but not easily 
 scornful. As to Ita, she blushed deeply — she really 
 did not know why — but the disagreeable consciousness 
 that she was doing so increased her confusion, and, at 
 last, from mere nervousness, she burst into tears. 
 
 Both Eliza and Annie looked distressed. The 
 former supposed that she must have changed her mind 
 with regard to the plan she had been so eager about 
 till then, and was afraid of being taken at her word. 
 So she quickly said, " Do not be alarmed, my dear Ita; 
 you need not give any answer about it just now. I 
 thought you were longing to know what they said 
 about the house. I must write some letters before 
 post-time ; so if you will excuse me, Annie, I will go 
 in for a little while." 
 
ig6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECF. 
 
 Anr.ie made a rather ungracious nod, and, when 
 she was gone, said to Ita, " What made you cry just 
 now ? " 
 
 " I can hardly tell. It sometimes happens to me 
 all of a sudden to fancy that I shall be supposed to 
 think or feel something I do not a bit think or feel. 
 Then I get red — then I am vexed with myself — then 
 I am afraid of crying — and then, like a fool, I cry." 
 
 " Are you thinking of becoming a sister ? " 
 
 11 Well, I have thought of it." 
 
 "Really, truly?" 
 
 " Yes — if those sisters settle at Bramblemoor." 
 
 A dark flash— if the two words can go together — 
 passed over Annie's face. " Oh, you mean, then, to 
 live here — I mean at Bramblemoor ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so ; I have every reason to wish it." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " I should like to be near you and Miss Conway, 
 and then I should like to go on working for Mr. 
 Derwent. He has taught me more than any one else 
 has done, and, if I am ever good, I shall owe it to 
 him." 
 
 Annie seemed touched. " Well, it is a great thing 
 for any one to have done that for another." 
 
 " Yes ! Is it not a great thing to help others to be 
 good and happy ? Is it not worth any amount of 
 suffering? It is so beautiful to think of what some 
 persons have done in that way, of the sacrifices they 
 have made, of all they have surrendered without 
 counting the cost." 
 
 " The Bible says we are to count the cost," Annie 
 answered in a tremulous voice. Perhaps she was even 
 then in the silent depths of her heart counting the cost 
 of a great sacrifice. 
 
 A few days afterwards Eliza went to Marchbanks 
 and asked to see Ita. She w r anted to know if she had 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 197 
 
 made up her mind about the work among the poor, 
 and the sisterhood at Bramblemoor. She was very 
 much disappointed at her indecision on the subject ; 
 it had fitted in so beautifully with all her plans that 
 the little community should settle in the parish where 
 her future husband was to be curate, and eventually 
 incumbent, when Edgar became Vicar of Holmwood, 
 for so it had been arranged between them and Lord 
 Carsdale. The little income which Lady Emily had 
 settled on Ita would have helped to support the house. 
 Everybody knew that she could not live at most more 
 than a few months, and what could be more desirable 
 than that Ita should find a home near her greatest 
 friends, and one in which she could devote herself to 
 the mode of life she had so ardently embraced. What 
 was most to be drdaded was her going abroad and 
 falling again in the way of Romish influences. It was, 
 therefore, with the fullest intention of exerting to the 
 uttermost her powers of reasoning and persuasion on 
 the subject, that Eliza walked up the stairs leading to 
 Miss- Flower's little room. She was welcomed with 
 the usual sweet smile, which was one of the great 
 charms of Ita's face, but it quickly passed away, and 
 the dove-like eyes had an unwonted expression of sad- 
 ness. Eliza began by talking of the poor people and 
 the school, but nothing seemed to interest her com- 
 panion. " You are out of spirits," she said at last. 
 
 " I do not feel very well." 
 
 " What is the matter with you, dear ? " 
 
 " Nothing particular. People cannot be always in 
 spirits, you know. Mamma is much worse, 1 think." 
 
 " I am so sorry. It must be a great grief to you ; 
 but it is a consolation to think that when you lose her, 
 you will have friends around you to comfort and love 
 you." 
 
 11 1 shall be quite alone in the world then. I have 
 
198 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 never thought that poor mamma cared very much for 
 me ; it is wrong perhaps to say so, for she has always 
 been very kind to me ; but, when she is gone, nobody 
 will care for me." 
 
 " How can you say so, dear Ita ? Mrs. Gerald, Annie, 
 Mr. Hendon, Mr. Derwent, and I all care for you." 
 
 11 1 hope not, for then it will make you sorry to part 
 with me." 
 
 " But we shall not part with you. Tell me, why 
 have you given up that plan which you used to take 
 so much delight in ? Do not you mean to try to be a 
 Sister of Charity, and remain amongst us and the poor 
 people who love you so much ? " 
 
 11 No, I cannot stay here after mamma's death." 
 
 " What do you mean to do ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 Eliza looked annoyed. Suddenly an idea struck her. 
 " Have you seen Mrs. Sydney lately ? " 
 
 " No," Ita answered with surprise. 
 
 " Oh, I thought she had been trying perhaps to 
 unsettle you, and disturb the peace of mind you have 
 found in your own Church." 
 
 " She would be quite right to do so, if she thought 
 it was not a real peace." 
 
 " But it was real." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so. I never had been so happy as 
 during the last few months." 
 
 " Why then have you made up your mind to leave 
 this place ? " 
 
 There was no answer to this question, so Eliza 
 asked again, " Where do you mean to go ? " 
 
 Ita sighed and said, " To Mentone, I think, to some 
 of my old friends there. I want to see the mountains, 
 and the blue sky, and the sea again. Oh, if I could 
 go and pray at San Michele as I used to do when my 
 heart was sore, in old days ! " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 199 
 
 " You know very well that you have told me your- 
 self that it is our books and our services that have 
 done you good. It must be a temptation this hankering 
 after a foreign Church." 
 
 " Perhaps it is ; I do delight — I mean I have taken 
 delight in the services at Bramblemoor, and learnt, 
 oh, so many good things there ; but I do not know 
 how it is, when sorrow or difficulty come, I think of 
 Catholic, Roman Catholic churches, I mean, and feel 
 as I used to do when I was a child, and had a longing 
 to lay my head on a real mother's breast." 
 
 " I am so sorry to hear you speak so," Eliza said, 
 sadly ; " I hoped you had learnt to love our Church." 
 
 " Oh, I do in a sort of way ; I do love Bramblemoor 
 Church ; but when I go into the one here or at Holm- 
 wood it gives me a cold chill." 
 
 " But I am speaking of the Church of England." 
 
 " It is very well, Eliza, to speak of the Church of 
 England, but the religion at Bramblemoor is not a bit 
 like the religion here ; and then I think it is all very 
 inconsistent and wrong, all the talk about priests, and 
 calling clergymen priests, and then that they should 
 marry. They have no business to marry." 
 
 Eliza blushed deeply, and Ita immediately perceived 
 that she had vexed her ; her gentle little heart could 
 not endure to give pain, and she said, " Dear Lizzie, 
 I am cross to-day with everything and everybody. I 
 cannot judge of those things. I daresay it is all right. 
 Must you go? Will you not stay for luncheon ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, I must walk home as fast as I can. 
 There are several families I must see this afternoon." 
 
 " Then will you take this parcel with you ? " 
 
 " To Mr. Derwent ? You do not mean to say you 
 have copied those two long articles and written out 
 that sermon sincelast night ? " 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " But you must have sat up all night ? " 
 
 " Not all night, Eliza ; you know he must not write 
 at night ; his eyes are very weak." 
 
 " I am afraid they are ; they do not look so, they 
 are such beautiful eyes, but Annie told me the doctor 
 says he must not overwork them. But you are over- 
 working yours. I think I can guess now why you are 
 a little out of sorts to-day. It is all fatigue." 
 
 " It does not tire me." 
 
 When Eliza was gone, Ita sank back in her chair, 
 her eyes fixed on the ground. She repeated to herself 
 the words, " It does not tire me ; " adding, " but oh ! I 
 am so tired since yesterday." 
 
 This was what had happened the night before : she 
 was writing in the library, and having occasion to look 
 for a quotation which Edgar had asked her to insert 
 in an article in the "British Critic" which she was 
 copying for him, she asked Mr. Hendon where she 
 could find the book. He went to get it for her, and 
 as he was bringing it back said with a smile, " Do you 
 know what I heard this morning, Miss Ita ? " 
 
 "No," she said, holding out her hand for the 
 volume. 
 
 " That Miss Derwent had better look sharp, for that 
 you are running away with the parson's heart." 
 
 Ita did not blush, but turned as pale as a sheet. 
 Was this said in earnest, or was it only a silly joke ? 
 Did people think it, and was it true ? She did not 
 know what to answer. Everything she could say 
 seemed too grave or too light. She could not repel 
 such a charge with a jest. At last she got out the 
 words, " People say many foolish things." 
 
 "Yes," Mr. Hendon answered in a good-natured 
 manner ; " no doubt they do ; but there is sometimes 
 a grain of truth in a pound of folly, and if you do 
 not mean, my dear little lady, to get yourself and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 others into trouble, I would have you be on your 
 guard." 
 
 It was right to warn her ; and, great as the pain 
 was, she could feel and see that it was so. She had 
 been living in a state of delusion — had begun by ad- 
 miring Edgar Derwent's goodness and his cleverness, 
 and then gradually allowed her whole thoughts, and at 
 last her whole heart, to be engrossed by an unselfish, 
 humble devotion to him which neither expected nor 
 wished for the least return or acknowledgment. Long 
 before she knew him she was aware of his engagement 
 to his cousin, and she could dwell with satisfaction on 
 the thought of Annie's affection for him, and the pro- 
 spect of his future happiness at Holmwood. There are 
 women with tender and unambitious hearts who would 
 willingly accept very scanty crumbs of happiness for 
 themselves ; who, if they could see (so at least they 
 fancy) the object of their affections now and then, 
 hear a kind word from him, and above all labour and 
 toil in his service, would be quite content to leave to 
 another the higher treasures of mutual affection which 
 they have never ventured to covet. While Ita was 
 working for Edgar, and learning from him, while she 
 paid him the homage of an enthusiastic adoption of 
 his views and opinions, and saw him perfectly satisfied 
 both with Annie and herself, no clouds obscured her 
 secret and innocent devotion to him. They began to 
 arise, though she was hardly conscious of them, when 
 she saw that he began to find in her the sort of sym- 
 pathy Annie could not give him. This he never, of 
 course, expressed in words, but he could not always 
 conceal that he felt it. The fact was that Ita was the 
 very woman to captivate him. Everything about her 
 was feminine, winning, and soft, but there was a mar- 
 vellous power of loving in that gentle heart, and an 
 energy of will, which, like the tendrils of a delicate 
 
202 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 plant, could force its way through every obstacle. 
 When she saw he wished a thing done, it seemed as 
 if nothing could stop her — she went straight at it with 
 a resistless impetuosity, which a word or a look from 
 him, however, would instantaneously check and direct. 
 It was her delight to execute difficult things when he 
 had suggested them. There was in her character 
 naturally a strong desire to please, and with one whom 
 she looked up to and loved, it easily became a passion. 
 The slightest shade of displeasure or disappointment 
 on his face she could not endure ; and it did surprise 
 her to see that Annie could thwart him, and could say 
 before, him things he did not like. She did not know, 
 however, that sometimes afterwards Annie cried bitterly 
 in secret because they did not and could not agree, 
 and often felt a pang which no one knew or guessed 
 at, when she watched Ita listening to him like an 
 oracle, and flushing with excitement when his favourite 
 subjects were discussed. 
 
 Annie did not think herself capable of helping her 
 cousin as Ita did. She was profoundly diffident of 
 her own capabilities, and sensitively afraid of putting 
 herself forward. She longed, for instance, to copy 
 for him when she found another did so, but half 
 through pride, half through shyness, she could not 
 bring herself to offer it. Ita wrote such a good hand, 
 and she knew always where to find the books he 
 wanted. She could not bear to propose to do what 
 she might fail in. It was the same about the poor 
 people, she seemed always to give them more or less 
 than he would have advised. She was not at her ease 
 with them, and sick persons used to ask anxiously, 
 within her hearing, if Miss Flower would soon come 
 to see them. 
 
 This had all tacitly been going on for some time, 
 but to not one of the three had any defined discontent, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 203 
 
 hope, wish, or regret occurred till a few days before 
 the one when Eliza Conway paid the above-mentioned 
 morning visit to Ita. Perhaps Annie was the first 
 who had seen clearly what was the real state of the 
 case. She had looked it in the face, and owned to 
 herself with an aching heart, that she did not suit 
 Edgar, that she was not the wife fitted for him. But 
 there was Holmwood. It must be his. She would 
 have given up all her own happiness, but she could 
 not deprive him of Holmwood, for he was getting to 
 love it every day more. Mr. Pratt had been getting 
 gradually weaker during the winter, and Edgar had 
 often been called upon to assist his curate. By Mrs. 
 Gerald's express desire he had also begun to manage 
 Annie's property. The interest he took in this occu- 
 pation gave her the greatest delight. They rode to- 
 gether over the estate, looking at the farms, examining 
 the state of the crops, settling what trees were to be 
 planted or cut down, and what new cottages built. 
 This, at least, was an enjoyment nobody but herself 
 could give him, and on that thought she rested with 
 satisfaction, and also on the hope that when once they 
 were married, and Ita had left the neighbourhood, she 
 would learn to be more useful to Edgar. She should 
 not feel so shy about it when the contrast was no 
 longer before her eyes of her own awkwardness, and 
 another person's efficiency. On hearing, however, in 
 an unexpected manner that she intended to settle down 
 as a Sister of Charity at Bramblemoor, a jealous pang 
 seized her. For a moment she felt indignant. The 
 frank avowal which immediately followed of Ita's 
 gratitude to Edgar, and of her own wish on that ac- 
 count to remain in the neighbourhood, dispelled her 
 resentment, but not her uneasiness. Both she and Ita 
 were humble each in their way. It was a singular in- 
 stance in two such different persons of an equally un- 
 
204 MRS- GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 selfish attachment for the same person. Sometimes, 
 perhaps, it crossed Ita's mind that she could have 
 made Edgar happier than Annie did or ever would 
 do ; but she not only recoiled from the idea as from a 
 sin, but felt it would be a misfortune, a terrible mis- 
 fortune, if he should like her better than his cousin. 
 She could not brook the idea — Holmwood, beautiful 
 Holmwood, before her eyes as before Annie's, ever 
 stood coupled with the thought that it must be his. 
 Till Mr. Hendon made that passing remark to her, 
 she had allowed herself to think that she might live 
 at Bramblemoor, working among Edgar's poor, looking 
 after his school, hearing him preach, sharing his in- 
 terests, copying his manuscripts, though there would 
 be no more intercourse between him and her than be- 
 tween him and Miss Conway, or any Sunday-school 
 teacher in the parish. She liked the idea of belonging 
 to a sisterhood, because it would cut her off from all 
 opportunities of meeting him in society. She did not 
 see even the shadow of anything wrong in making him 
 the object of a secret worship, provided neither he, 
 nor Annie, nor any one in the world knew of it. She 
 had not yet learnt the fallacy and the danger of these 
 secret indulgences of unavowed feelings, however pure 
 and unselfish they may be. 
 
 But Mr. Hendon's words dispelled the whole fabric 
 of her hopes and her illusions, and threw her into a 
 strange disturbance. Others had seen that Edgar 
 cared for her — perhaps that she cared for him. She 
 felt guilty, miserable, almost as angry as it was in her 
 nature to be ; and then an involuntary joy flashed 
 across the gloom. So then, perhaps, he did love her; 
 but if so, there w r as certain misery in store for him. It 
 could never be a right or a happy love ; for he was 
 bound to marry Annie, and she must go away. There 
 was the sting — there the terrible pang — the blank 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 205 
 
 future. A separation for a given time from any one 
 we love is to be borne ; but to go where no natural 
 ties give a prescriptive right to hope we shall meet 
 again — to cast future existence in a new mould which 
 will sever it for ever from the past — this is very like 
 death. And as Lady Emily Hendon grew worse, and 
 the shadows of the grave gathered visibly around her 
 declining form, the young heart that watched that slow 
 decay — the close of which was to be the end of the 
 new life it had lately known — seemed invaded also 
 with the chill heavy gloom of approaching dissolution. 
 It was a melancholy deathbed. There was in it 
 little regret for anything on earth ; but little care or 
 thought of anything beyond it. The flame slowly ex- 
 pired with many a flicker. The man of the world, the 
 man of letters on the one hand, and, on the other, the 
 young girl who scarcely knew how to suggest to a 
 dying person any of the new ideas and principles she 
 had herself recently acquired, watched side by side. 
 No one sent for the clergyman ; it was not much the 
 custom to do so when Mr. Hendon and Lady Emily 
 were young. " To keep her quiet," was the doctor's 
 injunction ; and quietly as she had lived, so quietly 
 she died. Mr. Hendon, when she had breathed her 
 last, said, " Requiescat in pace." He w r as one of those 
 men who have had glimpses of Catholic truth, theoretic 
 perceptions of the beauty of the Church, poetical sym- 
 pathies with some of her tenets, and who suppose that 
 if there is any true religion it must be Catholicism. 
 And so he breathed that prayer by the remains of 
 poor Lady Emily, and comforted, as well as he could, 
 the weeping girl who had lost her only friend. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Lady Emily's death was followed within a few days 
 by Mr. Pratt's. She had breathed her last on Holy 
 Saturday, and on Low Sunday he expired. Annie 
 was with him during the greater part of the last day 
 of his life. He retained his full consciouness to the 
 end, and made her read to him verses of the Bible 
 and the hymns he had taught her when she was a 
 little child. Once he laid his hand on her head as 
 she was sorrowfully kneeling by his bed-side, and said, 
 " Miss Annie, do not give up the Bible whatever you 
 do. When I am dead, take my Bible home with you. 
 It has been my comfort for seventy years. Stick to 
 it, my dear child, and do not listen to human inven- 
 tions. Never mind about the Church, the Bible is all 
 we want." 
 
 As Annie looked at his peaceful face she thought 
 it seemed, indeed, to have been enough for his spiritual 
 wants. Was she right ? God only knows ! To some 
 gentle, pious souls He conveys graces through the 
 scanty channels of an imperfect faith, when it is sin- 
 cere and humble. But was it all she would ever want ? 
 Is the silent page, the voiceless teaching, the sacred 
 but mysterious text, enough to carry a human soul 
 through doubts, and fears, and temptations, along the 
 difficult paths of life ? Annie thought so then ; but 
 she was only on the threshold of life ; and, as she 
 walked back across the park on the day of her old 
 friend's death and clasped his last bequest to her heart 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 207 
 
 and looked up at the clear expanse of the moonlit sky, 
 Cowper's lines, which she had been reading a few 
 days before, recurred to her memory : 
 
 " Oh how unlike the complex work of man, 
 Heaven's own artless, unencumbered plan ; 
 No meretricious graces to beguile, 
 No clustering ornaments to clog the pile ; 
 Like the cerulean arch we see, 
 Majestic in its own simplicity." 
 
 She had a vague feeling that they applied to the 
 present subject of her thoughts, that they expressed 
 her sympathy with the simple Protestantism of poor 
 Mr. Pratt's creed over what seemed to her the elaborate 
 details and complicated doctrines of Edgar's favourite 
 system. Whatever might be the merits or the defects 
 of the latter, the simplicity of the former might, 
 perhaps, have been justly compared to the mist which 
 hangs over a glorious view, or the haze which conceals 
 from sight the multitudinous beauties of the starry 
 sky. Do not the admirers of what is called a simple 
 form of religion make the mistake which Madame de 
 Stael speaks of when she says, " lis prennent le neant 
 pour la profondeur." * 
 
 On her return, she found Edgar in the drawing- 
 room at Holmwood. He looked pale and tired ; and, 
 after inquiring after her health, and saying kind words 
 about Mr. Pratt and the grief she must feel at the loss 
 of so old a friend, he sank back into an arm-chair with 
 a weary look of fatigue and suffering. He looked still 
 more tired in mind than in body. 
 
 " Have you been to Marchbanks to-day ? " Annie 
 asked, as she poured out some tea for him and Mrs. 
 Gerald, for they had dined early. 
 
 "Yes, I went there this afternoon. The funeral, 
 you know, took place yesterday." 
 
 They mhta!:e nothingness for dept'i. 
 
2 oS MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Yes ; it is so sad these two deaths coming so close 
 one upon another. Poor Lady Emily ! she is not a 
 person who will be much missed by anybody, except, 
 of course, by dear Ita. How did you find her ? " 
 
 " She does not say much, but I am sure she suffers. 
 Have you been to her, Annie ? " 
 
 " Only once this week. All my time has been taken 
 up with Mr. Pratt. Edgar, he died so calmly, so 
 happily ; surely any one might be glad to be as good 
 as he was." 
 
 " We might any of us be glad to be as good as your 
 poor friend, but this does not imply that we can be 
 content to ignore great truths which he did not 
 discern." 
 
 Annie looked up, and said, "Yes, I suppose the 
 knowledge of truth should be our aim. We ought at 
 any price to wish to know the truth. Do not you 
 think so, Aunt Gerald ? " 
 
 " What are you alluding to, my love ? Religious 
 truths?" 
 
 " Not those alone. I think we ought to care for 
 truth in everything." 
 
 11 Of course," Mrs. Gerald replied quickly, but with 
 a vague uneasiness. She thought Annie's manner 
 strange, and did not know what to make of it. She 
 was still more surprised when, after the tea-things 
 were taken away, she got up, and said in a low 
 voice — 
 
 " Dearest Aunt, I want to speak with Edgar alone. 
 Shall I go into the library with him, or would you 
 rather go yourself upstairs ? " 
 
 " I will leave you here," Mrs. Gerald answered, and 
 the cousins remained alone together. 
 
 They began by speaking of the arrangements about 
 the funeral, and then Annie asked Edgar how soon he 
 wduld be able to take possession of the living. He 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 209 
 
 told her that the bishop had kindly offered to make an 
 exception in his favour, and admit him at once to 
 priest's orders. He should have to go for that purpose 
 early the following week to the bishop's palace, and 
 immediately afterwards he should settle at the Vicar- 
 age. He had also seen Lord Carsdale, who had 
 promised, in case he wished to resign the living of 
 Bramblemoor, to give it to Mr. Roland, who would 
 then marry Eliza. 
 
 In alluding to that circumstance, Edgar said, " If 
 they were married, Miss Flower could stay with them 
 for a while at least. I know they wish it. It is of the 
 utmost consequence she should not go abroad again 
 at present." 
 
 " What is she intending to do ? " 
 
 " I think she means to go to Mentone." 
 
 " I shall speak to her about it." 
 
 " Will you?" 
 
 " Yes. I shall go and see her to-morrow." 
 
 Annie, after she had said this, got up and went to 
 the writing-table, as if looking for something ; she then 
 came back, and with a great effort said, " I wish people 
 spoke the truth to one another. Edgar, I wish I knew 
 something." 
 
 Edgar looked at her earnestly, and said, " What ? " 
 
 " It would be so much better if I knew the truth. 
 Will you promise me, if I put to you a question, that 
 you will answer it plainly and truly ? " 
 
 Edgar looked agitated. " You do not suppose, 
 Annie," he said, that I should not always speak the 
 truth to you or anybody else." 
 
 11 But there are times when it is difficult to say what 
 is true." 
 
 Annie stopped short, and, resting her forehead on 
 her hand and her elbows on the table, did not speak 
 for some time. She felt that it was a most important 
 
 o 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 step she was going to take, unadvised, on her own 
 responsibility. It seemed doubtful whether, after the 
 words she was going to utter, their mutual happiness 
 could ever be what it might still be if she kept silent. 
 At last, in the same position, without raising her head, 
 she said, " which do you think would make a man 
 happiest — to marry somebody he loved very much, 
 whom he was in love with, and be poor ; or one he did 
 not care so much about, who was rich ? " 
 
 She was surprised at the firmness with which Edgar 
 answered : " It would depend on the man's character 
 and on the character of the women you are supposing 
 him to choose between." 
 
 She did not know how to proceed, but after another 
 pause she said : " Edgar, it is of no use beating about 
 the bush — you must not be angry with me — but tell 
 me really, truly, as honestly as I ask you the question, 
 Would it make you happier to marry Ita than to 
 marry me? " 
 
 Edgar turned as pale as death. Could he say no 
 with truth ? Yes he could say " no," for he should 
 never forgive himself if he said "yes;" and in that 
 case remorse would embitter the rest of his life. " No, 
 dear Annie," he quietly replied, whilst his heart was 
 beating quickly, and his lips quivering. 
 
 She suddenly raised her head and looked at him. 
 It was impossible to mistake the expression of misery 
 in his face ; and when his eyes met hers, and he tried 
 to smile, she saw the desperate effort it cost him, and 
 exclaimed : " Oh, be sincere with me, Edgar ! It is all 
 I ask, all I wish. You know I am not accusing you. 
 God knows, I do not wonder at it . . . ." 
 
 " At what, Annie, at what ? You are dreaming, you 
 are talking at random. Nothing is changed between 
 us, nothing is different. I love you as I have always 
 loved you." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 211 
 
 " Yes, I believe it," she answered sorrowfully. " I 
 believe it, dear Edgar. But you never have and you 
 never will — forgive me, be patient with me, do not 
 interrupt me — you never will love me as you would 
 love Ita, if you did not think it wrong to do so." 
 
 " Annie, Annie, how can you, how dare you speak 
 m that way ? How dare you have such a thought ? 
 What a foolish jealousy ! " 
 
 "I am not jealous. I wish I was, for then, per- 
 haps, the feeling would pass away, and all might re- 
 main between us as before. But you are too truthful, 
 too just to deceive me. Come, Edgar, can you tell 
 me . . . ." 
 
 " I can tell you that never has the thought of such 
 a marriage crossed my mind — that I have been true 
 and faithful in my affection for you — that I love you 
 with all my heart, my own dear cousin, my own 
 dearest Annie, my promised wife . . . ." 
 
 '* Yes ; every word you say is true. I have no doubt 
 of it. But is not this true also ? Have you not felt 
 that, had you met Ita before you were engaged to me, 
 she was the woman in all the world you would have 
 liked best ? Have you not thought that you would have 
 been very glad if I had been more like her ? Does not 
 she think with you, work for you, help you in a way 
 I can never do ? Have I not heard you say, Edgar, 
 that it is the greatest blessing in the world when a 
 husband and wife agree about religion, and do I not 
 every day feel more, perhaps never so much as to-day, 
 that we do not and never can agree on some important 
 subjects ? Have you not made Ita adopt every one of 
 your ideas whilst I differ from them more and more ? 
 Edgar, if you were free, would you not marry Ita ? " 
 
 " I have never thought of any one as a wife but 
 you, Annie. But if you wish to break off our engage- 
 ment I ought not to dissuade you from it. I have 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 always felt that it was hardly fair that you should 
 marry your all but penniless cousin when you might 
 have done so much better for yourself, as people say." 
 
 Annie looked pained. " It is not kind to put it in 
 that way," she answered, and after a few moments' 
 silence, said : " Edgar, I have perhaps been very 
 foolish. Will you forgive me and forget what I have 
 said to-night ? " 
 
 "Certainly, dear Annie, though I must own, I wish 
 you had spared me the pain it has given me." 
 
 " I do everything clumsily and ill," she thought, 
 when she had left the room. " I said too much and 
 too little. I have caused him suffering and myself 
 too. Nothing is better than it was, a great deal is 
 worse, and the worst of it is that I do not see my way 
 out of it." 
 
 A few days after the funeral, Edgar went to the 
 Episcopal Palace at , and Annie took the oppor- 
 tunity of his absence to drive over to Marchbanks. 
 She had been turning over in her [mind whether she 
 ought or not to invite Ita to Holmwood. It would 
 look very unkind not to do so, but after speaking to 
 Edgar in the way she had done, it had become, to say 
 the least of it, very awkward. She wished she had 
 put off saying anything to him till she had seen them 
 together at Holmwood. At breakfast, on the morning 
 he had left, Mrs. Gerald had proposed to fix a day 
 for their marriage. Neither of them made any answer, 
 and the subject had dropped. He went away, and she 
 avoided going into her aunt's room, or being] alone 
 with her lest she should renew it. However, on her 
 way to Marchbanks she came to the conclusion that 
 it would be, on the whole, well to invite Ita. Perhaps 
 more than anything else this would serve to do away 
 with the effect of what she had said to Edgar. 
 
 When Annie's pony-chaise drove up to the entrance 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 213 
 
 door at Marchbanks, she saw Ita sitting under the 
 same tree where they had met and conversed for the 
 first time the year before. It seemed so very long ago, 
 so much had happened since then. She was looking 
 pale and delicate in her deep mourning, and was 
 naturally very much out of spirits. When Annie 
 asked her if she had made any plans, she answered : 
 " Yes, Mr. Hendon is going abroad in about three 
 weeks, and he will take me as far as Mentone ; I shall 
 spend a few months there with some of my friends, 
 and then afterwards I shall settle my plans for the 
 future." 
 
 " Have you quite given up that scheme about Sisters 
 of Charity at Bramblemoor ? " 
 
 "Yes; quite." 
 
 " I am glad of it. Those sisterhoods are stupid 
 things." 
 
 " I think it is a very beautiful kind of life, but I 
 must go abroad." 
 
 " I hope, dear Ita, that you will spend a few days 
 with us before you go. It would give Mrs. Gerald and 
 me so much pleasure." 
 
 " Would it ? " Ita said, her eyes filling with tears. 
 " I should like it very much." 
 
 " Then will you come as soon as you can ? " 
 
 " Very well, I will. Mr. Hendon is going to London 
 in about ten days, and I was to have remained here 
 alone till I joined him, so I shall be glad to be with 
 you." 
 
 Then they talked of other things, and Annie returned 
 home, well satisfied that she had done what was right. 
 Edgar was soon established at the Vicarage. As her 
 old friend had bequeathed to Annie all his furniture 
 and books, there was but little change in the aspect 
 of the old house. The bee-hives remained as before 
 in sight of the windows, scarcely a chair or a table 
 
214 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 was moved out of its place, and yet within a very- 
 few days it would have been easy to tell that the little 
 abode had passed into other hands. Other prints, 
 other pictures, other books adorned the walls and 
 filled the shelves, displacing the old ones, or throwing 
 them into the shade. Mr. Pratt's old cook stood 
 aghast when she saw a crucifix in her new master's 
 room ; rumours of the Popish doings at Bramblemoor 
 had, indeed, reached Holmwood, but anything as bad 
 as that she had never thought to see in dear Mr. Pratt's 
 own bed-room. What a strange superstition it is which 
 has made the picture of our blessed Lord an object of 
 dread and horror to those who think they love Him ! 
 
 It was on the 15th of May that Ita was to come 
 to Holmwood for a week, on her way to London. 
 The spring was at that moment in all its glory — the 
 leaves quite out, and every tree and shrub, from the 
 horse-chesnut to the white lilac, in full bloom ; the 
 garden one blaze of brilliant blossoms ; the fields and 
 woods one mass of violets, blue hyacinths, and 
 cowslips ; everything gay, fresh, and sweet — the birds 
 singing their little throats out ; the insects like living 
 gems ; the butterflies like flying flowers hovering over 
 the gaudy beds, and haunting the sunny nooks of the 
 old-fashioned garden. 
 
 As Annie sat on the lawn in the midst of all that 
 fresh loveliness and fragrant beauty, there was a 
 strange, anxious sense in her heart of what that week 
 would bring forth. The last words of Montrose's love 
 song came into her mind : — 
 
 " I'll dare to put it to the touch, 
 To win or lose it all." 
 
 Yes ; to lose all herself— she was willing to accept that 
 issue — but was she to mar Edgar's destiny by visiting 
 upon him her jealous susceptibility of what, if it existed 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 215 
 
 at all, was probably only a transient fancy — no decided 
 preference — no real attachment ? She resolved to be 
 calm, to be silent, to watch. She prayed to see the 
 truth, and nothing but the truth. And by her side 
 was another anxious heart also questioning itself; also 
 holding one of those inward courts of justice, where 
 two sides of a difficult case are argued before the un- 
 happy judge, who is at the same time plaintiff, defen- 
 dant, and arbiter of a vexed question. Poor Mrs. 
 Gerald, she too was looking to that last visit of Ita's 
 with a nervous apprehension. The sound of carriage- 
 wheels made her start ; but the first to arrive, of the 
 little party expected that day, was Eliza Conway. 
 Annie had sent the pony-chaise for her, and she looked 
 as happy as well could be when, a few minutes after- 
 wards, a fly drove up to the door, and her future 
 husband, Mr. Roland, got out of it. They were to be 
 married in a few weeks in London, and then to settle 
 in the tiny parsonage at Bramblemoor. Both had 
 been working very hard in their respective spheres, 
 and living on hopes which were now about to be 
 realized. It was, indeed, one of those moments which 
 do not often occur in the course of a lifetime — to 
 spend several days of well-earned repose in the midst 
 of the beautiful works of God, at the loveliest season 
 of the year ; together resting from virtuous labours, 
 together looking forward to a future of usefulness, 
 peace, and happiness. There was not a cloud, ap- 
 parently, in that horizon — not one they were conscious 
 of themselves — one there was nevertheless, small as a 
 man's hand as yet, but big with dangers, trials, and 
 blessings they little dreamed of whilst strolling on that 
 green lawn, on which the declining sun was beginning 
 to throw its yellow light and long shadows. They had 
 never met before, except in London, and it seemed 
 strange to Eliza to see Mr. Roland anywhere but in 
 
216 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 an alley, or a school, or the dingy drawing-room in 
 Bryanston Square. It was pleasant to show him that 
 place she loved so well — to be looking at flowers, 
 running water, and a sunset sky with him whom she 
 knew to be like herself, thanking God, in his heart, 
 for every one of them. 
 
 There was nothing romantic in Mr. Roland's ap- 
 pearance. His face was plain, but had that kindliness 
 of expression, which Sir Walter Scott says is like sun- 
 shine on an ugly country — it beautifies with its light 
 what would be otherwise uninteresting. His manner, 
 from shyness, was a little awkward; but its perfect 
 simplicity made it almost engaging. 
 
 It was not till an hour after Eliza and Mr. Roland 
 had arrived that Mr. Hendon's carriage drove up the 
 avenue, and Ita appeared. There is a singular power 
 in youth to dismiss at times all thought of the future — 
 to think of a few days as of a whole lifetime to come 
 — to live in the present hour as if it was never to end. 
 This was the case that day with Ita. She had been 
 miserable at the thought of leaving England without 
 seeing Edgar again, which at one moment had seemed 
 likely. If Annie had not invited her, she would per- 
 haps have been obliged to go to London with Mr. 
 Hendon ; but now she had befofe her a week in which 
 she could enjoy, and enjoy without self-reproach, the 
 happiness of his society. Had she not been going 
 away for good, she should have thought it wrong to 
 feel this pleasure ; she would have questioned if it was 
 right to put herself in the way of seeing him ; but now 
 it could not signify, he was not Annie's husband yet. 
 It was not wrong to take this joy, as a dying man 
 tastes for the last time the food which is offered him. 
 It would not be wrong to listen to each of his words 
 and learn them by heart, so as to carry them away 
 with her to muse upon during a life-long separation. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 217 
 
 It was a pleasurable suffering, an acceptable anguish 
 to feel to the uttermost the happiness of seeing him — 
 of hearing his every word — and watching his every 
 look with the consciousness that it was all to be for the 
 last time ; that memory was henceforward to be her 
 world, and with a week before her she could accept 
 this prospect, and the dreary blank beyond it. 
 
 Edgar's emotions were far more complicated. Be- 
 fore Annie had spoken to him, he had kept down with 
 a strong hand the first symptoms of a more than friendly 
 interest in Ita. He had not allowed himself to think it 
 possible he could like her otherwise than was right in 
 his position with regard to Annie. But, ever since the 
 day when she had put to him that fatal question, the 
 whole state of his mind was changed. The thought 
 no longer seemed a sin — it could no longer be crushed 
 like a forbidden thought — it would make itself heard. 
 Her words were ever recurring to him, and with them 
 the doubt whether a woman who really loved him 
 would ever have put such a question — would have 
 placed before him all the reasons why another would 
 make him happier. His mind was in a turmoil of 
 doubt and anxiety ; he wished to do what was right ; 
 but his soul was sorely perplexed, and to some persons 
 there is no trial in life to be compared to perplexity. 
 They can do anything if they can feel confident they 
 are doing what is right, or enduring what is inevitable. 
 And this state of uncertainty was, moreover, peculiarly 
 trying to Edgar, at a moment when he felt himself 
 called upon to assume new responsibilities, and per- 
 form sacred duties, which more than any others 
 required, he could not but feel it, a calm and even 
 frame of mind. His resolutions to serve God and 
 the Church were perfectly sincere, and he was 
 determined to act rightly at any cost or self-sacrifice ; 
 but he had been driven, in some sense, into a posi- 
 
218 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 tion in which he did not see quite clearly the line of 
 duty. 
 
 Of all persons in the world, Edgar was the one 
 most to dread an interior conflict, and now uncon- 
 sciously on a question of morality, he found himself 
 involved in it. Over and over again, during the last 
 few days, had the question presented itself to him— a 
 question to which no general answer can be given — 
 one which, after all, must be judged by the circum- 
 stances of each separate case. " If a man has pledged 
 his faith to a woman, and then becomes aware that, in 
 spite of himself, he cares for another more than he 
 does for her, or at least that his more ardent and ten- 
 der feelings are all interested in that other person, is he 
 bound, is he right, to marry one who expects and 
 thinks he loves her wholly, solely, and entirely? Is it 
 fidelity or deceit, is it justice or injustice, in such a 
 case, to adhere to a plighted troth?" Edgar would 
 have had no doubt as to the answer in his own case, 
 if, as has already been said, Annie had not spoken to 
 him first. When, before that day, the thought had 
 crossed his mind that Ita would have been, of all 
 women in the the world, the one he could have most 
 passionately admired and loved — that she was his ideal 
 of what a clergyman's wife should be, with her deep 
 piety, her gentle submissiveness, her ardent love of the 
 poor, her sympathy with all that is beautiful, and holy, 
 and great in a life of poverty and self-sacrifice — he in- 
 dignantly drove such dreams away, even as he would 
 have done had they arisen after his marriage. But 
 Annie's question had broken down the barrier, had 
 changed their position. It had, in fact, transformed a 
 dream into a reality, a shadow into a substance. Now 
 he must more or less deceive, if he was to reassure 
 her — now he must be acting a part. Either he must 
 request her never again to allude to that subject, and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 219 
 
 then there would be something between their hearts, 
 something they did not speak of, something that would 
 be always to both a painful thought ; or else, if she 
 recurred to it again, he must actually deceive her : for, 
 since the day when he could really with truth have 
 told her that the idea of loving and marrying any 
 woman but her had never crossed his mind, the state 
 of the case was changed. The once unconscious in- 
 clination had made giant strides. The words, " Should 
 you be happier if you married Ita than if you married 
 me ? " were continually in his thoughts. The idea, 
 once suggested, kept rising before him as a possibility, 
 and the answer which his throbbing heart gave to it 
 was unmistakable. From the moment he allowed 
 himself to think of it, there could be no doubt on the 
 subject. On the one hand there was Annie, handsome, 
 good, devotedly attached to him ; and, together with 
 her, wealth, position, and the possession of the place 
 he had always been passionately fond of, and with 
 which all the day-dreams of his life were connected. 
 On the other, there was this nameless girl, with her 
 unknown parentage, her strange history, her friendless 
 position, her comparative poverty ; and he did not 
 hesitate, he did not doubt, he was certain that if he 
 could be sure he was not wronging Annie or acting 
 unworthily, he should accept with ecstasy the prospect 
 of foregoing every worldly advantage, and marrying 
 Ita. To have her as his wife in any little parsonage 
 in any obscure village — to see her going in and out 
 of the cottages in her grey gown and straw bonnet — 
 to have her by his side, writing for him, reading with 
 him, saving with him out of their poverty means to 
 build a school or to erect a new altar for their church 
 — was a vision he dared not dwell upon. 
 
 If he had not kept these thoughts at bay, the point 
 must have been decided — his and Annie's fate must 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 have been sealed — not that he felt at all sure that Ita 
 would marry him ; that was another thought that 
 sometimes troubled Edgar. It seemed to him mean to 
 adhere to his engagement to Annie just because the 
 result of breaking it off might not lead to his marrying 
 Ita. Sometimes he thought the most honourable 
 course would be to give up Annie and Holmwood and 
 Ita, and seek some employment in the Colonies. 
 Perhaps this was really what struck him as the most 
 proper thing to do under the circumstances, and the 
 prominent idea in his mind when he agreed to Annie's 
 wish that he should come and stay with them during 
 the week that Ita was to spend at Holmwood. It 
 was a bargain he made with his conscience. He 
 should give himself this chance, he should be able 
 now to test his own feelings. He had not seen 
 much of Ita in this kind of life. Perhaps he might 
 find that, after all, his imagination had exaggerated 
 the interest he took in her, and that, especially at 
 Holmwood, and in the position he occupied there, as 
 Annie's future husband, the illusion might vanish. He 
 should also be able to observe how far Annie was 
 suspicious or anxious on the subject, and whether 
 much importance should be attached to what she 
 had said. At all events, that week would make things 
 more clear ; he should see his way better at the end 
 of it than he did then. If the worst came to the 
 worst, he would go to Australia. In the meantime, he 
 went to Holmwood. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Nobody would have guessed, during the days which Ita 
 spent at Holmwood, what agitating, or, at any rate, 
 anxious thoughts were occupying the minds of three 
 at least out of the six persons staying there. The 
 elasticity of youth, and its strange power of forgetting 
 the future when the present is agreeable, enabled them, 
 in spite of recent sorrow, melancholy anticipations, 
 and inward struggles, not only to appear, but some- 
 times to be, in good spirits. 
 
 Annie had arranged a variety of drives and excur- 
 sions for almost every day of Ita's visit, and had par- 
 ticularly begged Edgar to consider this time as one of 
 rest, and made a point he should meet them at least 
 wherever they spent the noontide hours, whether in a 
 pretty farmhouse in a distant part of the estate, or in 
 a lovely spot in a secluded valley, or at the summit of 
 some hill commanding a fine view. If she had wished 
 to show Ita off to advantage, she could not have hit 
 upon a better expedient, for she was one of those 
 persons who throw a charm over the least little details 
 of life, and find amusement for themselves and others 
 in everything said and done in their presence. She 
 had an original way of looking at subjects, which was 
 as amusing almost as wit, and enjoyed so thoroughly 
 her own enjoyment and that of others, that her gaiety 
 was catching. Foreigners say that English] people 
 s'amusent tristement, now Ita amused herself gaiement, and 
 this makes all the difference on these sort of occasions. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 She looked particularly pretty, too, sitting amongst 
 the fern-leaves and the heather ; she ran so lightly up 
 and down the hills, and did everything so gracefully. 
 Whether she played with a child, patted a dog, or 
 caught up a kitten in her arms, there was always some- 
 thing to look at, to watch, to smile at, to be amused 
 or pleased with in Ita. Now and then a look of 
 sorrow passed over her bright face, like one of the 
 white clouds in the blue sunshiny sky ; but, like that 
 cloud, it soon disappeared, and she was full again of 
 her little jokes and innocent glee. Annie felt, and 
 even the engaged couple, who were staying with her, 
 felt that half their pleasure would have been lost on 
 these days of rest, sunshine, and flowers, if Ita had 
 not been with them. And what did Edgar feel ? He 
 did not allow himself to think of the future — whilst 
 she was there, whilst she was before him, he could not 
 fix his thoughts on what was to follow. " Sufficient 
 unto the day is the evil thereof," " and the joy there- 
 of," he said to himself; and he made no plans, formed 
 no resolutions, was kind and attentive to Annie, paid 
 no outward attentions to Ita, and often prayed that, 
 whatever he might have to suffer, neither of them 
 might suffer through him. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald was restless and sometimes irritable. 
 It annoyed her that, whenever she spoke to Annie of 
 fixing a day for her marriage, she changed the subject. 
 One morning of that week she came into her niece's 
 room, and said in a nervous hurried manner, " Annie, 
 will you be so good as to tell me what your inten- 
 tions are about your marriage, because, as my plans 
 depend upon it, I should like to know what you mean 
 to do." 
 
 11 But does it really signify to you," Annie answered, 
 " whether it is a fortnight or three weeks, or three 
 months, sooner or later ? " 
 
MRS- GERALD'S NIECE. 223 
 
 " It does signify to me. I shall go abroad as soon 
 as you are married, and I want to know when I can 
 get away." 
 
 "Get away! " Annie repeated. " You have never 
 spoken before, Aunt Gerald, of getting away from me." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald forced a smile and said, " You have 
 never been married yet, Annie." 
 
 " With whom shall you go abroad ? " 
 
 " I may perhaps join Mr. Hendon and Ita ; but I do 
 not want anybody to travel with me." 
 
 The blood rushed to Annie's cheeks and her heart 
 beat with violence. She had never been apparently 
 extremely fond of her aunt ; children who have been 
 very much spoilt, seldom do love in a tender manner 
 those who have made them idols ; but Mrs. Gerald had 
 been devoted to her from her infancy, she was so used 
 to be worshipped by her that the bare thought of her 
 caring for anybody but herself was new and insupport- 
 able. Even Edgar's admiration for Ita had not caused 
 her the jealous pang she felt when her aunt spoke of 
 getting away from her, and joining that girl abroad, 
 whom in a transport of anger she felt at that moment 
 as if she could have stabbed. Yes, Annie had those 
 violent impulses ; there was no vivacity, but a great 
 deal of violence in her nature. It had not been called 
 forth by anything that had to do with Edgar. She 
 had always thought herself unworthy of him, always 
 had misgivings whether she could make him happy. 
 Though an heiress, though a spoilt child, she had been 
 profoundly humble in her estimate of herself as far as 
 he was concerned. But her aunt, her slave she might 
 have truly said, though the ugly word did not suggest 
 itself, that she should think any one an object in life 
 but herself, that she should wish to go to a distance 
 from her, and not be content to stay within reach in 
 case she should have any occasion for her tenderness 
 
224 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 or her care : this seemed monstrous, unnatural ; and, 
 when Ita's name was uttered, it was like a spark fall- 
 ing on tinder. " I am not going to hurry on my 
 marriage to please any one," she exclaimed ; "and if 
 you wish to go abroad with Ita, you can go. I can 
 take care of myself. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald fixed her eyes upon her and sighed 
 deeply. " Annie, Annie," she said after a moment's 
 silence, " My Annie, do not speak in that way ; we can 
 none of us take care of ourselves. God help us ! He 
 only knows what may happen to any of us. Annie 
 darling, do not be captious, do not play with your own 
 happiness ; believe me long engagements are foolish 
 things. Fix the day of your marriage." 
 
 Annie was softened ; she laid her head on her aunt's 
 shoulder, and said, " Why will you leave me, Aunt 
 Gerald ? Nobody will ever love me as you do, and you 
 must not love anybody but me." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald burst into tears and threw her arms 
 round her niece, kissing her over and over again with 
 a vehement, passionate fondness ; and then, returning 
 to the charge, spoke again about her marriage. 
 
 " Well, Aunt Gerald, I cannot fix anything to-day ; 
 but I promise you — yes, it is to-day, Friday — this day 
 week I will settle all about it. But I will not let you 
 go abroad." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald said, " We shall see about that too on 
 Friday week." 
 
 Sunday came, and Edgar preached for the first time 
 in Holmwood Church. His sermon was on the words 
 of the Gospel, " If thy right eye offend thee pluck it 
 out." He spoke well, eloquently, powerfully on the 
 subject which those words suggested. Once or twice 
 his voice faltered a little, or at least Annie fancied it 
 did so, when he said that in the lives of most men and 
 women there was a moment when a decision had to be 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 •taken which was likely to influence their fate for time 
 and perhaps for eternity ; an hour when there was a 
 hand to be cut off, an eye to be plucked out ; and if 
 they lost heart, if they failed and shrunk from the 
 self-inflicted suffering, even should they escape the fires 
 of hell, their earthly destiny would prove but a miser- 
 able failure, a hopeless mistake. He said it made him 
 tremble to think how sometimes a whole future of 
 ; greatness or of shame, of virtue or of crime, turned on 
 one decision, on one act of a poor, weak, blinded, in- 
 fatuated human will. How angels and devils must 
 watch with eager hope and fear the debate which goes 
 on in the mind of one who stands, knife in hand, long- 
 ing and not daring to sever the offending limb which 
 is dragging him down into perdition. He said "Temp- 
 tation" was the grandest thing in the world, because it 
 gave man the opportunity of using the greatest gift of 
 God. That when, in the magnificence of his free will, 
 he flung from him the object on which every passion 
 of his soul was bent, and plucked out of the aching 
 socket the eye dearer to him than life, he became a 
 worthy spectacle for angels and for men, one of the 
 glorious band who have fought and overcome. 
 
 " I will be of that number," the preacher felt as he 
 uttered those stirring words, and resolved to crush in 
 his soul every feeling untrue to his plighted troth. " I 
 will be of that number," murmured one of his hearers 
 as she thought of the temptation which had been be- 
 setting her of coveting for herself the love which was 
 .another's due. She had drunk in the eloquent words 
 Edgar had uttered ; she felt ready to march to the 
 scaffold, if needs be, or to the stake any day. But, in 
 the ardour of self-sacrifice, a thought crossed her mind 
 which caused a terrible reaction in her heroic emotions. 
 A troublesome guardian angel, eager to test their 
 reality, or, may be, an evil spirit, jealous of their con- 
 
 P 
 
226 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 tinuance, whispered, " Leave Holmwood to-morrow ; 
 give up those last three days of dangerous happiness, 
 of inevitable temptation." Alas! the whisper was 
 most unwelcome ; the suggestion quelled at once the 
 generous excitement ; two or three times in the course 
 of the day the thought recurred, but was met with an 
 offer of compromise. She would not say a word or 
 give a look which her conscience might blame ; but 
 why should she leave her friends ? why make herself 
 miserable ? why not accept the short happiness which 
 could injure no one but herself? 
 
 Annie had heard that sermon too. Her cheeks had 
 not flushed, her heart had not beat fast, but it had 
 made an impression on her also. She had been watch- 
 ing, she had been thinking, and every day made her 
 more certain that Edgar liked Ita, and that she liked 
 him. They had behaved very well, they had talked 
 very little together, and scarcely looked at each other 
 at all. Edgar had been more gentle, kind, and affec- 
 tionate to herself than he had ever been before ; but 
 she had observed his face when Ita was singing, she 
 had seen him start when she passed near him, leave 
 the room suddenly when she came in, and change 
 colour whenever any allusion to her departure was 
 made. Once, when she mentioned some Catholic 
 friends of hers abroad, he had exclaimed in an un- 
 guarded manner that it would make him miserable if 
 she went to live with them, and then had seemed 
 confused and grieved at the vehemence with which he 
 had spoken. Annie once thought of consulting Eliza, 
 but her pride could not endure to take another into 
 her confidence on this subject. No, she should act 
 for herself and by herself. 
 
 She took a walk alone that Sunday afternoon. Mr. 
 Roland and Eliza had gone in the pony-chaise to 
 Bramblemoor for the afternoon service; Mrs. Gerald 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 227 
 
 she had left lying on her sofa in the bed-room with a 
 headache ; what Ita was doing she did not know : but 
 it did not signify. She felt she must spend some 
 hours alone, she would not go to church again, 
 she would say her prayers in the wood. So when the 
 bell for the afternoon service was ringing, and Edgar 
 had gone across the lawn into the churchyard, she 
 walked to the grove, which went by the name of The 
 Forest, and sitting down on the trunk of a tree, she 
 began to think. Her meditations were singularly 
 matter of fact. A romantic person would have 
 wondered at the uninteresting manner in which she set 
 about planning an act of heroic unselfishness. " It is 
 of no use to think any more about it. He likes her r 
 there can be no doubt of that, and so he must marry 
 her. They will live at the Vicarage, which is almost 
 like Holmwood, and, as I shall never marry, some 
 day he will have this place. I am younger than he is, 
 that is the worst of it ; but if he dies before me it will 
 go to his children, and in the meantime I can help 
 them in all sorts of ways. I can new-furnish their 
 house. They can have game and fruit, and all they 
 want from the farm and the garden. It will be almost 
 as if Holmwood belonged to him. What I want to 
 make Edgar understand is, that I love him and will 
 love him as much as ever I did, and yet that I shall 
 not be a bit unhappy at his marrying Ita. I like to- 
 love him in this sort of way better than to be his wife 
 — at least I think so." 
 
 Some large tears had gathered in her eyes and 
 were falling on the blue hyacinths with which she had 
 been filling her lap. " If he had liked me as I see he 
 likes Ita, that, I suppose, would have been the greatest 
 happiness of all. I had just an idea of it at the time 
 when it was settled that we were to be married. He 
 used to look so pleased when we were walking up and 
 
228 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 down the terrace and talking of the future. But next 
 to that what I shall like best is, that he should be 
 happy with her. She always thinks everything he 
 does is right, and never contradicts him. I am not 
 like that ; I could never give up my own opinions as 
 she does. Some months ago she thought nothing so 
 dull as the English service, and now she can never go 
 to church often enough. The thing is to find some 
 way of bringing all this about. I set about it so badly 
 before, and I am always so stupid." 
 
 A long fit of musing ensued, during which a few 
 more tears fell from Annie's eyes. Yet it was true that 
 she did not feel very unhappy ; at any rate, it was a 
 better sort of unhappiness than the misgivings she had 
 so often felt as to the possibility of making Edgar 
 happy, of being the sort of wife which would suit 
 him. 
 
 Four o'clock struck at the stable clock, and she 
 thought the service must be over. She had not said 
 any prayers yet, and she tried to read the Psalms for 
 the day ; but her mind wandered very much, and she 
 soon fell again into a brown study. The sound of a 
 footstep made her look round, and she saw Edgar 
 coming towards her. She went to meet him, but said 
 nothing of what was in her mind. He told her that 
 he was going to London the next day, and should not 
 return till the end of the week. She understood at 
 once that he was practising what he had preached in 
 the morning, plucking out the right eye, cutting off the 
 right foot. He smiled and spoke cheerfully ; but she 
 felt he was suffering, and longed with a vehement 
 longing to make him happy, to break through all 
 reserve, to force him to stay. But to Annie nothing 
 was so difficult as to speak ; she did not know how to 
 begin, it was so difficult after the way in which her 
 first attempt had failed. So she ended by saying 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 229 
 
 nothing, and, as soon as they reached the house, went 
 up to her room, and did not go as usual to Mrs. Gerald's 
 sitting-room at five o'clock for tea. 
 
 At dinner Mr. Roland said to Edgar, " By what 
 train do you go to-morrow ? " 
 
 " The seven o'clock one," he answered. 
 
 " Where are you going ? " Mrs. Gerald asked. 
 
 " To London." 
 
 " And when do you come back ? " 
 
 " Not till Saturday," he-j:eplied. 
 
 Ita was to leave Holmwood on the Thursday, and 
 Marchbanks on the Friday. Annie looked at her, and 
 observed that she turned pale. Three whole days she 
 had reckoned upon, after that she knew all would be 
 over ; but now it seemed more than she could bear. 
 He was doing what she had not had the courage to do. 
 There was shame as well as sorrow in her heart. She 
 ought to have been the one to go. An intolerable fear 
 crossed her mind that she had let him see that she 
 cared for him, and that he was going in consequence. 
 There was no time now for anything ; she should have 
 to say good-bye to him, when the candles were being 
 lighted, and everybody standing near the door. She 
 had meant, before they parted, to ask his advice about 
 many things ; to get him, for instance, to give her a 
 list of books. She had hoped to treasure up many a 
 token of the past — those little helps, which soften the 
 sickening pain of separation, which leave something 
 for the heart to rest on till it has become inured to 
 loneliness. Even in the greatest grief, casual circum- 
 stances have a strange power of increasing or alleviat- 
 ing suffering ; and in some sorrows, those which come 
 from quick feelings and a lively imagination, it is 
 wonderful the difference they make. Ita thought that 
 if she had been able to tell Edgar before they parted 
 that she thanked him for what he had taught her ; that 
 
230 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 all her future life would be influenced by the advice 
 and the instruction she had received from him ; that 
 she would never forget the little church of Bramble- 
 moor, and hoped he would pray for her ; and, at the 
 last moment, he could have spoken some kind words 
 to her, and she could have heard him say, just as she 
 was going away, " God bless you," that then her 
 suffering would be tolerable. She had made up her 
 mind to bear such a parting as that. So that it was 
 attended by these alleviations, it seemed as if she 
 could endure it. But now irritation, intense disap- 
 pointment, nervous dread of having in some way 
 or other committed herself, were rankling in her 
 heart, and putting all gentle, soothing feelings to 
 flight. 
 
 When Edgar and Mr. Roland came into the draw- 
 ing-room, she fancied the former was moving towards 
 her. Partly from fear of seeming to expect it, and 
 partly that she was really afraid of not being able to 
 carry on an ordinary conversation with him, or, if they 
 spoke of more interesting things, to do so in a calm 
 manner, she did not look up but kept her eyes fixed 
 on a book of prints. He sat down almost opposite to 
 her. Mrs. Gerald was pasting pictures in a scrap-book, 
 and Mr. Roland helping her to cut them out ; in an- 
 other part of the room, Annie and Eliza were playing 
 some sacred music, so that it was almost like being 
 alone with him. He put a little parcel before her, and 
 said, " Will you let me give you this Prayer-book ? I 
 hope that w r herever you are you will remain in com- 
 munion of spirit with us." 
 
 She thanked him, and then tried to say something 
 about his praying for her, but could not get out the 
 words. She glanced at his present. It was the " Book 
 of Common Prayer." Somehow at that moment she 
 did not feel pleased with it ; she wished he had given 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 231 
 
 her some other book, " The Imitation of Christ," or a 
 *\ Bible," or even f« The Christian Year." 
 
 Edgar said, after a moment's silence, " Annie will 
 hear from you sometimes." 
 
 She did not answer. In spite of all her efforts to 
 restrain them, tears were running down her cheeks. 
 He saw those tears, and his whole countenance changed. 
 His own sufferings he had endured with courage, but 
 her grief made him feel quite beside himself. He 
 could not remain sitting where he was, and yet could 
 not bring himself to leave the room. He went and 
 sat by Mrs. Gerald, with a face so pale and a look of 
 such misery that there was one other person present 
 who could no longer brook it. " Now for it," Annie 
 said to herself, " God help me. This must not goon." 
 
 She got up, and passing by him, said, " Edgar, come 
 to the library. I want to speak to you." 
 
 " Will it not do when I come back ? " he whispered. 
 Each instant, even of suffering, seemed precious to 
 him. " Would to Heaven," he thought, " she had let 
 me remain here, doing nothing, for this last hour." 
 
 But she said, " No, it must be now ; " and lighting a 
 candle, she went across the hall into the dark library. 
 He followed her, and stood against the chimney, while 
 she sat down on one of the green leather sofas, and felt 
 glad that the single candle gave so little light. 
 
 " Edgar," she said, in a firm voice — " Edgar, we 
 must make an end of this misery. You must marry 
 Ita." 
 
 " Oh, for God's sake, for pity's sake," he exclaimed, 
 with some violence, " do not begin again about that, 
 to-night, at least. I am ill, Annie. I am not up to 
 another such conversation as we had before on that 
 subject." 
 
 " It shall not be another such conversation. Edgar, 
 please understand me. What I mean is that it would 
 
232 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 be very wrong, very unkind, now not to tell me the 
 truth, to let me stand in the way of your happiness, 
 when the only thing I have wanted all along was to 
 make you happy. I might say that I had made up 
 my mind not to marry you, and so leave you free. 
 But I do not w r ant to do it in that way. I want you 
 to be happy and to let me help you to be happy now 
 at once." 
 
 She had stood up and gone near him ; and, before 
 he was aware of it, had taken hold of his hand, and 
 gently pressed her lips to it. She had never done this 
 before ; when she did it, he felt she was in earnest, and 
 that all was changed in their relative positions. 
 
 " I can never marry you," she again repeated. " Our 
 engagement is as much at an end as if it had never 
 existed. But answer me this question — oh, I implore 
 you, Edgar, do answer me, now that you are free, 
 quite free, as free as if there had never been any 
 question of your marrying me, would you, do you wish 
 to marry Ita?" 
 
 Edgar had never wept since his childhood. It was 
 a new, strange sensation to him — the strong emotion 
 was forcing its way from his heart and shaking his 
 frame with irresistible might. He sank down on the 
 sofa, and burst into tears. Annie sat down by him,, 
 and waited till his agitation had subsided. 
 
 He said at last, " God is my witness that this has 
 been all against my will ; that I have fought, prayed, 
 struggled against it — that this morning when I preached 
 on the duty . . . ." There he broke off. He could not 
 tell Annie that to have kept his troth to her would 
 have been the hardest of sacrifices. 
 
 " It was not a sin," she answered. " If it had been 
 a sin, I think God would have given you strength to 
 conquer it. I am glad you did not conquer it, I am 
 indeed. I am speaking the perfect truth. I don't 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 233 
 
 think I should have been happy as your wife, always 
 thinking I did not suit you. But may I, may I tell Ita 
 to-night before she goes to bed that she need not go 
 away ? She looks so pale, poor girl ! So very pale 
 and sad." 
 
 " Annie, you are too good. It is not right, it cannot 
 be right. You have taken me by surprise. You must 
 think of what other people will think and say." 
 
 " I do not care a straw about that ; only are you 
 sure you love her, and wish very much to marry her — 
 that you do not mind about her having no family, no 
 birth-place, as it were ? " 
 
 " Alas ! if I did not love her more perhaps than it 
 is right to love anybody, I should not be reproaching 
 myself as I do now for my conduct towards you, 
 dearest, dearest Annie. I did not know till these last 
 days, how much I cared for her. It is too dreadful, 
 too abominable to say this to you." 
 
 11 No, not at all. That is your mistake. The more 
 you tell me you love her, the happier it makes me. It 
 is a real comfort to me, Edgar." 
 
 " Well, I really did not know it, and when I found 
 it out, I was resolved to crush the feeling, to drive it 
 out of my soul ; for if it was not exactly a sin, still it 
 was wrong. It ought never to have been. But I 
 thought to-night she did look very unhappy, and it 
 almost broke my heart." 
 
 " And you do not mind about her birth — her being 
 found alone in a boat at sea ? " 
 
 A faint smile passed over Edgar's face. " If she had 
 been found on a dunghill I should not care." 
 
 Those words, and the accent with which they were 
 uttered, put an end to any lingering doubt in Annie's 
 mind as to the degree to which he cared for Ita, and 
 she said, "Then will you let me manage to make her 
 a little bit happy to-night, just enough to cheer her up ? 
 
234 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 I think you had better still go to London as you in- 
 tended. Telling Aunt Gerald will be the worst part of 
 the business, and I had rather have her to myself." 
 
 " I really feel quite bewildered, Annie. It seems so 
 strange, so sudden, so sad in some ways, and as if it 
 could not be right. All we had thought of and looked 
 forward to . . . ." he added, with a sigh. 
 
 She looked at him anxiously. " Edgar, will it ... . 
 I hope it will not be a great trial to you about Holm- 
 wood? " 
 
 " Oh, dearest Annie, the Vicarage . . . ." He stopped 
 short ; he could not tell her that with Ita the Vicarage 
 would be a Paradise. 
 
 But she guessed what had passed through his mind, 
 and exclaimed, " I am so glad now that you are a 
 clergyman, though I never quite liked it till now. You 
 and Ita will agree so well about everything. She will 
 be, as you know, as High Church as you can wish. It 
 is all so well, so right ; it is just what ought to be ... ." 
 There was a little nervousness, perhaps, in the way 
 Annie kept reiterating these assurances. She did not 
 seem unhappy, nor did she feel so, whilst under the 
 influence of strong excitement. What had passed was, 
 to a certain extent, a relief ; what she had yet to do, a 
 stimulant. The pain was to come afterwards. It was 
 like a wound received in battle, there was no leisure to 
 feel the smart. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ita was watching the clock in the 
 drawing-room, and counting the minutes, as the hour 
 advanced, and they did not return. She felt very 
 miserable ; it was such unsatisfactory wretchedness, 
 unlike what she had made up her mind to bear. It 
 seemed so hard that Annie should have taken him away 
 just then, she who was going to be happy with him 
 all her life. She might have supposed that, after 
 working for Edgar and with him, and having been his 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 235 
 
 pupil, so to speak, for so long, she would wish to say 
 a few parting words to him that evening. She did not 
 call to mind then that, when he had tried to speak to 
 her, she had been unable or unwilling to answer him. 
 Now she would have given anything to have seen him 
 sitting again at that table. 
 
 At last the door opened, and Annie came in, looking 
 flushed and excited. She went to the tray, and poured 
 out some wine and water, as if she scarcely knew what 
 she was doing. 
 
 " Is it not time to go to bed ? " she said. 
 
 " High time, I think," Mrs. Gerald answered, putting 
 down her brush and shutting up her book. 
 
 Ita moved towards the door. She had seen Edgar 
 look into the room and disappear : she thought he was 
 perhaps waiting in the hall or on the stairs to say 
 good-bye, but he was not anywhere to be seen. She 
 went up to her room with a sick feeling of disap- 
 pointment, and, throwing herself on the sofa, cried 
 bitterly. 
 
 The door opened soon afterwards, and Annie came 
 in. Neither of the two girls could, perhaps, have 
 afterwards stated very exactly what passed between 
 them during the next hour. Annie had said that Ita 
 must not mind (her favourite phrase) her saying some- 
 thing very odd. She must tell her that a great change 
 had happened. Ita sat up and looked at her as if she 
 thought any change, as far as she was concerned, must 
 be for the better. The tears were running down her 
 cheeks, but she did not seem conscious of them. 
 
 " What change ? " she asked, in a low voice. 
 
 " I am not going to marry my cousin. We have 
 come to that decision, and I thought you would like to 
 know it to-night from me, before other people are told. 
 No one knows it but he and I." 
 
 At the first moment Ita did not feel glad. It had 
 
236 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 never crossed her mind that, under any circumstances, 
 she could herself marry Edgar. To live near him, and 
 work for him, was all she had ever looked forward to ; 
 and her first idea was that, perhaps, it was a great 
 blow to him that his marriage was broken off. She 
 had a vague misgiving that it might somehow be her 
 fault, and to cause suffering to any one, and to him in 
 particular, was to her nature an intolerable trial. 
 
 " Is he unhappy ? Has it pained him very much ? " 
 she asked, forgetting what a strange question that was 
 to put to Annie. 
 
 " No, it is a great relief to both of us," she an- 
 swered; "it is the best thing that could have hap- 
 pened." 
 
 " Whose fault has it been ? " 
 
 " Nobody's fault." 
 
 " But I thought you were so fond of him ? " 
 
 There was a choking sensation in Annie's throat 
 as she answered, " There is nobody, and there will 
 never be anybody, I shall care for as I do for him ; 
 and that is the reason why . . . ." She stopped, and 
 then exclaimed with vehemence, " Oh, Ita, I did not 
 mean to say this ; but remember, if he ever asks you 
 to marry him, if you ever do marry him, you are 
 more bound than any woman ever was to make him 
 happy ! " 
 
 Annie left the room after this burst of feeling, which 
 threw Ita into a strange agitation, and walked straight 
 to Mrs. Gerald's apartment. As soon as she had shut 
 the door, she said, "I am very sorry for you, Aunt 
 Gerald, because I know it will vex you ; but I am not 
 going to marry Edgar, and it is of no use to say any- 
 thing to me about it." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald looked at her quite aghast. " God help 
 us, then," she murmured, and then coldly asked if they 
 had quarrelled. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 237 
 
 " No ; on the contrary, we are greater friends than 
 ever." 
 
 " But then why .... ?," 
 
 " Well, because, though he has tried not — tried, I 
 believe, as hard as possible — he is in love with Ita, and 
 he must marry her." 
 
 " No, you cannot, you do not meau that ! It is too 
 bad, too dreadful! " 
 
 " No, it is not bad, it is not dreadful. What does 
 it signify, if I don't mind ? Why should anybody else 
 mind, if I don't ? It is my own doing." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald's head sank on her breast. She looked 
 the picture of perplexity and woe. Annie's excitement 
 took the shape of anger at what seemed to her an 
 exaggerated manifestation of sorrow on the occasion: 
 She was determined not to be pitied — that was the 
 only thing she could not bear ; and Mrs. Gerald was 
 looking at her with a commiseration which irritated 
 her beyond measure. 
 
 " Good gracious ! Aunt Gerald," she exclaimed, "do 
 not be in such despair. I shall never marry, and 
 Holmwood will still belong to the Derwents ! " Mrs. 
 Gerald seized Annie's hands, and said with a tremu- 
 lous energy, " Oh, Annie, Annie, my poor unhappy 
 child, what have you done ! You have marred your 
 whole destiny." 
 
 " No ; and I should not much care if I had. I, don't 
 think it signifies so much about being happy. I sup- 
 pose . . . ." here her voice faltered a little, " I suppose 
 you •will not go abroad now, Aunt Gerald ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gerald pressed her lips to her cheek without 
 answering. She seemed hardly able to speak or think 
 — all her plans were overthrown, all her reckonings 
 at fault, 
 
PART II, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 About two years and a half had elapsed since the 
 evening when Mrs. Gerald had said to Annie Derwent, 
 M You have marred your own destiny " — since Ita 
 Flower had suddenly passed from the deepest dejection 
 to the most lively anticipations of happiness — and 
 Edgar Derwent found himself tacitly engaged to the 
 portionless girl whom he passionately loved instead 
 of to the rich heiress who, to use her own words, once 
 uttered half in jest, but perhaps with a secret sadness 
 at heart, had let him off marrying her. 
 
 Certainly, up to the time we are speaking of, Annie 
 seemed to have attained her object, if that object was 
 to secure her cousin's happiness. From the moment 
 that she had given him up as her husband, and he 
 had married Ita, she had applied herself with an 
 affectionate solicitude to provide for and increase, by 
 every means in her power, the comforts and enjoy- 
 ments of their home. She made this her special work. 
 Whilst he was spending his honeymoon by the sea- 
 side, the little vicarage house became transformed, 
 by dint of care and expense, into a lovely cottage, 
 furnished in the most comfortable manner. She 
 filled it with the pictures he had always admired 
 most at Holmwood, stored the shelves with his 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 239 
 
 favourite books, and transferred the prettiest flowers 
 from her conservatory to the little greenhouse ad- 
 joining Ita's sitting-room. 
 
 On the day they were to return, she went to give 
 a last look at everything she had done and arranged. 
 It was on a hot afternoon in July, rather tired with 
 her exertions, she sat down on the lawn to rest, and as 
 her eyes fell on her old friends, poor Mr. Pratt's bee- 
 hives, the words of his favourite hymn — 
 
 " How doth the little busy bee 
 Improve each shining hour " — ■ 
 
 came into her mind. She felt a rising in her throat, 
 a wish to cry, she could hardly have said why. 
 
 Things affect us in an indirect manner, when we 
 are suffering more than w T e are quite aware of, or are 
 willing to acknowledge to ourselves. Annie thought 
 her emotion proceeded from the recollection of the dear 
 old man who had been so fond of her, but this was 
 probably not quite the case. The newly-married couple 
 were to arrive at about six o'clock, and she had meant 
 to receive them and enjoy their surprise at the sight 
 of the improvements she had been making. But be- 
 fore the time came she thought better of it. 
 
 There were great delicacy and great diffidence in 
 Annie's reserved nature. " No," she said to herself, 
 suddenly rising from the bench under the old horse- 
 chesnut tree—" No, their arrival will be perhaps one 
 of the happiest moments of their lives. Perhaps, if I 
 was here, I should spoil it a little. Edgar might be 
 sorry for me, though he need not. I should have liked 
 to have shown him myself the new bench under the 
 sunset-tree, but it is better not." 
 
 She told the housemaid to give her love to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Derwent, and to say that she would pay them a 
 visit after breakfast the next day. 
 
2 4 o MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 When Mrs. Gerald saw her darling Annie coming 
 home pale and tired, she felt all sorts of fond tumultuous 
 sensations rising in her heart. She would have liked 
 to express them, but it was seldom possible to show 
 Annie sympathy. She did not like it — and less from 
 her aunt than from any one else. She did venture, 
 however, to kiss her forehead, and to her great surprise 
 Annie looked up in her face and said, " You must not 
 think I mind it, Aunt Gerald." Aunt Gerald felt the 
 tears rushing into her eyes, but turned away that they 
 might not be seen. 
 
 Certainly, Annie did not look as if she was a person 
 to be pitied on the following day, when she paid her 
 visit to the Vicarage, and listened to Ita's delighted 
 exclamations about the beauty of everything that had 
 been done for them, and ran about with her from 
 room to room, and then from the lawn to the flower- 
 garden, and from the kitchen-garden to the dairy, 
 explaining, showing and enjoying everything together 
 like two pleased children. Edgar was as delighted as 
 she could have wished with the position of the new 
 bench. " Dearest Annie," he said, " we sat there last 
 night and watched the sunset, only wishing you had 
 been with us. It was a beautiful sunset, and every- 
 thing so still and calm, and the view of Holmwood so 
 lovely through that peep in the trees you have made, 
 that we could not help feeling that you had prepared 
 for us a little ready-made Paradise, too fair for this 
 world." 
 
 " Well, you must let me take care of your Paradise 
 for you. I mean to be head gardener at the Vicarage, 
 if you please. I know you will both be quite engrossed 
 with parish work, and all that sort of thing, and you 
 will want somebody to look after the flowers. So will 
 you now promise that you will not mind me any more 
 than the boy who works in the garden, and then I 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 241 
 
 shall not mind going in and out, and doing jobs about 
 the place. I mean to be your odd woman." 
 
 They laughed and said she should do and be every- 
 thing she liked ; and so she did, and the arrangement 
 proved a very agreeable one to both parties. Edgar 
 and his young wife would not have thought it right to 
 spend much time or money on ornamental gardening ; 
 but Annie had plenty of means and an abundance of 
 leisure, and while they worked amongst the poor and 
 visited the sick, and taught in the school, she built 
 them a conservatory, made a little fountain, clipped the 
 rose trees, planted annuals, opened views, and spent 
 whole hours by herself working in some part or other 
 of their little domain, inspecting the dairy, feeding the 
 chickens, and making herself, as she often remarked, 
 " generally useful." She felt their happiness was her 
 work, and she enjoyed it. Sometimes as she was 
 twining the creepers round the pillars of the verandah 
 — one of her new additions to the little old-fashioned 
 red brick house — she glanced at the study where Edgar 
 was sitting with his pale, grave, thoughtful counten- 
 ance bent over his books, and Ita by his side writing 
 under his dictation, and now and then raising her 
 earnest eyes to look in his face, while with her pen in 
 hand she waited for the next sentence he would utter. 
 Or she would see them go out arm-in-arm towards the 
 village, and as they passed the orchard where she 
 was busy pruning, she heard Ita's joyous laugh, and 
 watched her light step — the laugh of the happy, the 
 step of the light-hearted. She saw the way in which 
 he leant upon her when he came home tired, for he 
 often walked further than his strength warranted ; and 
 perhaps if ever in that generous heart there was the 
 least approach to a feeling of envy, it was then. She 
 liked to see Ita cheering Edgar like a sunbeam, and 
 brightening his life by her sweet childlike merri- 
 
 
 
242 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 ment ; but when he was ill and his wife was nursing 
 him like a ministering angel, and his eyes were follow- 
 ing her about with a dependent and wistful expression, 
 then sometimes, just for an instant, there was a little 
 pain in Annie's heart. 
 
 But she quickly knew how to drive it away, and 
 raise her own spirits ; at one time by buying a new 
 pony-chaise which she insisted on their using, in order 
 not to let her little grey ponies grow too fat for want 
 of exercise ; at another, by getting a new lamp made 
 on purpose to spare the sight, or by sending in sur- 
 reptitiously a particularly comfortable sofa, which Ita 
 was to pretend was for her own use, but on which she 
 was to persuade her husband to lie down. She sur- 
 rounded them with all that wealth could supply of 
 comfort, and beauty, and charm, without appearing to 
 do so in a glaring or obtrusive form. There was a 
 pleasure they were hardly conscious of — their minds 
 being occupied with grave duties and hard work — in 
 the flowers, sunshine, and shade, rippling water and 
 smooth grass, which encircled their little home ; and 
 their mutual love, engrossing and necessarily selfish, 
 though not unamiably so, was basking as it w T ere in 
 the atmosphere of peace, of brightness, and of loveliness 
 with which Annie surrounded them. 
 
 Nor did she neglect to assist Edgar in any of the 
 objects he had at heart. When he expressed a wish to 
 rebuild the school, and found a small hospital for the 
 sick of the parish, to restore the church, and convert 
 some cottages on the estate into almshouses, she enabled 
 him to carry into effect every one of these schemes. 
 He had only to say that he wanted money for any 
 purpose of that kind,, and it was instantly placed at 
 his disposal. But she now never said a word about 
 religion to him or to Ita. The internal arrangements 
 of the church were transformed according to his views, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 243 
 
 and she made no remark ; flowers and candlesticks 
 were placed on the altar, daily service and chanting 
 introduced, and she said nothing. She always went to 
 church on Sundays, but she did not personally adopt 
 any new practices ; if any one alluded to these novel- 
 ties in her presence, she changed the subject. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald did not take much notice of them 
 either, her mind was otherwise engrossed. At first, 
 after Annie's engagement to Edgar had been broken 
 off, she had appeared miserable. When, after a while, 
 by Annie's efforts, his marriage with Ita was brought 
 about, she seemed restless and uneasy; sometimes she 
 talked of going to Italy, but this was a sort of feeble 
 intention not likely to be realized. The fact was that, 
 unless she took any one in her confidence and im- 
 parted to them the doubts which had passed through 
 her mind, she could scarcely set on foot any inquiries 
 with the least chance of success ; and she reasoned 
 with herself that after all it was not her duty to take 
 any such steps. She had in good faith accepted Annie 
 as her niece, no one had ever questioned her being 
 Robert Derwent's child. Why should she stir in the 
 matter ? 
 
 At a time when Ita was thrown on the world name- 
 less, friendless, and well-nigh portionless, and all the 
 felicities of earth seemed showered on Annie, she had 
 almost resolved to try and discover if the former's ex- 
 traordinary likeness to her brother's wife was a freak 
 of nature, or whether she was not after all the real 
 Annie. The possibility of it since her last interview 
 with Lady Emily had forced itself on her mind, and 
 it seemed a crime to let her go away like an utter 
 stranger, when all the time perhaps she was Robert's 
 child. She used to look alternately at the two girls — 
 at her own, own Annie, so loved since her earliest 
 years, and then at that other girl with those, to her, 
 
244 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 terrible, soft brown eyes, so like those of Robert's wife,, 
 and feel as if she should go out of her mind with the 
 doubt. The prosperous one was her darling, her idol 
 — for that other poor friendless child, who was perhaps 
 after all the real Annie, she felt a yearning pity, a 
 strange involuntary attraction. All this seemed re- 
 versed at times. All the love of past years fought 
 against the new doubt, and the whole misgiving seemed 
 at moments nothing but a bad dream. 
 
 When, however, most unexpectedly Ita Flower be- 
 came Edgar's wife, Mrs. Gerald's mind was filled with 
 a storm of conflicting feelings. The difficulty became 
 greater than ever of disclosing her doubts, even if she 
 had been almost certain that they were well grounded. 
 After Annie had been supplanted and with the most 
 generous unselfishness had promoted Edgar's marriage 
 with her rival, how could she ever bring herself to 
 endanger her position and prospects. When she saw 
 her employing her fortune in benefiting those who T 
 however innocently, had robbed her of the happiness 
 she had once looked forward to, she could not believe 
 it would be right to take the first step in a course 
 which might end in depriving her of home. She now 
 dreaded any evidence coming to light on that point. 
 She never drew aside the curtain over Mrs. Derwent's? 
 picture ; she could not bear to look at the infant in her 
 arms. Still, supposing by any chance Ita was that 
 infant, she was happy now. She had found in a 
 husband's devoted love more happiness than posses- 
 sions or fortune could give. Tired of doubts, weary 
 of weighing possibilities, with no new evidence to 
 assist the mental process, Mrs. Gerald became to a 
 certain degree reconciled to let the subject rest even 
 in her own secret thoughts. She persuaded herself 
 that the best course was to remain passive, and shut 
 up in her own breast the knowledge of facts which 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 245 
 
 anight disturb the peace of two persons, who already 
 stood in a somewhat strange position with respect to 
 each other. This decision calmed her spirits, and she 
 seemed tolerably happy during those first two years of 
 Edgar's marriage. 
 
 Edgar worked as hard at Holmwood as he had done 
 at Bramblemoor, and Ita threw herself heart and soul 
 into all his occupations and pursuits. She very soon 
 won all hearts in the parish. The people liked him, 
 but they doated upon her. She saw a great deal of 
 Eliza, who was now married to Mr. Roland, and 
 settled at Bramblemoor. Common objects of interest 
 made it a pleasure to meet. There was always some- 
 thing about which to consult the Rolands, or about 
 which to help them. They were poor, and Ita could 
 show them many a little kindness, which was a comfort 
 to them and a joy to herself. Her only trouble in 
 those early days of her marriage was the weakness of 
 Edgar's sight, which rather increased than diminished. 
 He could with difficulty read and write at night, but 
 she was his eyes and his hands, he used to say. 
 
 " And your heart, too, Edgar ! " she would add, with 
 her bright smile, " your sweetheart, as the old books say. 
 I do not like those pretty words to be used in the way 
 they now are. Nancy Betts told me yesterday that 
 Tom Pike was her sweetheart ! Fancy Tom being any 
 one's sweetheart ! I could as soon fancy Polly's being 
 his lady love." 
 
 ' ' Why, what is your idea of a lady love ? ' ' Edgar asked. 
 
 She smiled and answered, " A lady loved, I suppose, 
 in a chivalrous manner. With something of worship, 
 in the old sense of the word, mixed up with love. I 
 think old Mr. Sydney's manner to his wife gives one 
 the idea of that sort of feeling, and her way of enjoying 
 liis care and tenderness is so pretty. I think they are 
 such nice people ! " 
 
246 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 A cloud passed over Edgar's face. The Sydneys 
 were rather a sore subject to him, and the only ap- 
 proach to a quarrel between him and Ita had been 
 about accepting or not an invitation to Grantley 
 Manor. Ita was very confident that there could not 
 be the least objection now to her talking about religion 
 with Mrs. Sydney. What she had said to her at 
 Carsdale before her marriage had indeed made some 
 impression upon her at the time, because then she had 
 no idea how Catholic the Church of England was. 
 Now she was so satisfied and so happy that it could 
 not be bad for her to see Roman Catholics, and Mrs. 
 Sydney had always been very kind to her ; she would 
 be sorry not to keep up the acquaintance. 
 
 " I have no objection, dearest love, to your doing 
 so," Edgar would reply ; " but I particularly hope you 
 will not form an intimate friendship with a person 
 who has abandoned the Church of her baptism." 
 
 Ita looked thoughtful. " Is it a duty, Edgar, for 
 people to remain in the Church in which they have 
 been baptized ? " 
 
 " A very great duty. We owe allegiance to our 
 Spiritual Mother." 
 
 V But, Edgar, I believe / was baptized by a Roman 
 Catholic priest." 
 
 " Conditionally, I suppose ; they could not have 
 known whether you had been baptized or not." 
 
 "Ah, well; I suppose it was conditionally, as you 
 say ; but if I had not been baptized before ? " 
 
 " Yours is an exceptional case ; we cannot argue 
 upon it." 
 
 " I mean that I owe no more allegiance to one 
 Church than the other." 
 
 " If not on that ground, on a thousand others." 
 
 " Edgar, did not the Donatists, whom you were 
 writing about last night, baptize people ? " 
 
• MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 247 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " But then was it not right for them to leave the 
 Church of their baptism ? " 
 
 " The Donatists were heretics — the Anglican Church 
 holds all true Catholic doctrine. So the cases are not 
 similar." 
 
 11 But then it seems to me that it is of no use 
 speaking about the Church of our baptism ; that the 
 question is whether the Church in which we were 
 baptized is heretical or not ? " 
 
 " Of course that is the question ; and, as the Church 
 of England is not heretical, any one who has been 
 baptized in that Church has no right to leave it." 
 
 " Is the Church of Rome heretical ? " 
 
 " No ; she is full of abuses, but has not fallen into 
 explicit heresy." 
 
 " Then if I could ever find out that that baptism 
 was my real baptism, I should be obliged to be a 
 Roman Catholic ? " 
 
 " You never can find it out. Besides, there are 
 circumstances which make it a moral obligation for 
 you to belong to the English branch of the Church 
 Catholic." 
 
 " 1 do not want to leave it," Ita said, tenderly 
 pressing her cheek against her husband's shoulder ; 
 " you know how I love Ruth's words, ' Thy people 
 shall be my people, and thy God my God.' There is 
 no fear of my wishing to be what you are not." 
 
 As she took up her pen again, the thought passed 
 through her mind, " But who is it who settles what is 
 heresy and what is not ? " She would not, however, 
 begin again to argue. She thought she should submit 
 that question to Eliza the next time they met. She 
 liked talking of these things to her and to Mr. Roland 
 better than to her husband. Edgar had a peremptory 
 though not unkind way of answering her questions ; or 
 
248 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 else he kissed her, or he laughed at what she said ; 
 and, if she was gaining the least advantage in the 
 argument, he looked so annoyed that she generally 
 avoided any discussions with him. 
 
 In the autumn of the third year of their marriage, 
 Edgar caught a bad cold which left behind it a cough 
 and much languor. His eyes in consequence became 
 still weaker, and the doctors recommended very strongly 
 that he should spend the winter months in the South. 
 He resisted this suggestion at first, but his wife, Annie, 
 Mrs. Gerald, and the Rolands, all pressed him to sub- 
 mit to the verdict, and finally it was settled that he 
 and Ita should proceed to Mentone, and spend four or 
 five months at the villa, which Lady Emily Hendon 
 had taken there for a number of years. The remainder 
 of the lease had been left to Ita, and her delight was 
 unbounded at the idea of going to Mentone and re- 
 visiting the home of her childhood. Nor was she 
 insensible to the pleasure of taking Edgar to a house 
 for the time being her own. There was a little touch 
 of self-complacency about this feeling — it was almost 
 like becoming an heiress too in her way. She loved 
 Annie with all her heart for her great kindness to 
 them, but had perhaps experienced a slight vague 
 regret that all her husband's material comforts were 
 derived from his cousin's generosity. At any rate 
 she was delighted that they were now going to live 
 for a while in her villa. Edgar was amused at the 
 consequential, childlike manner in which his little wife 
 talked of her lemon-trees and her olive yard. She 
 laughed herself at the thought of the fuss which the 
 old gardener and his wife would make with the padrona. 
 
 Edgar had been to Italy before his marriage, but 
 he had entered it by the Mont Cenis and returned by 
 the St. Gothard. He had, therefore, never travelled 
 along that wonderful coast which lines the Mediterra- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 249 
 
 nean with a fringe of matchless beauty — with purple 
 mountains, and green hills, and sunny shores washed 
 by the waves of a lake-like sea ; with valleys receding 
 amidst snow-topped heights, fair little towns lying on 
 the edge of the blue waters or crowning the summits 
 of lone rocks ; old cities of the middle ages, grim with 
 feudal towers and ruins, but gilded with sunshine ; and 
 brightened by orange-trees rising amongst their decay- 
 ing walls, and encompassing with golden fruitage the 
 fallen grandeur of their palaces, each in smiling ma- 
 jesty adding its peculiar prestige to the surrounding 
 magnificence of earth, sea, and sky. 
 
 There is not, perhaps, a greater pleasure on earth 
 than to travel with those we love through scenes new 
 to them, but endeared to us not only by their intrinsic 
 beauty, but also b}' the poetry of our early recollec- 
 tions. Ita enjoyed to the utmost this delight on the 
 bright sunny December day, when, having left the 
 winter behind them half-way down the Rhone, and 
 slept one night at Nice, she and Edgar crossed the 
 pass which separates its vale of fruitful gardens from 
 the heights above Villa Franca and St. Hospice. Side 
 by side, in a little open carriage, they went on their 
 way, skirting the cliffs on the Corniche road. She was 
 too excited, too happy to talk ! she was afraid of 
 Edgar's missing a single feature of the view — a single 
 effect of light and shade — one glimpse of that glorious 
 scenery. A little exclamation did burst from her lips 
 when they came again in sight of the Mediterranean 
 on the side of the mountain, just beyond the wayside 
 inn sacred to the memory of a French marshal in a 
 cocked hat. It was lying below them like a sheet of 
 molten silver, glittering with that peculiar light which 
 only belongs to southern seas. 
 
 " There it is again ! " she said ; and he answered, 
 /'Yes, and more beautiful than ever." 
 
250 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 As they advanced, and passed La Turbia and its 
 Roman tower, which in that bleak spot has weathered 
 the storms of thousands of years, her heart was beating 
 in hushed expectation of what Edgar would say on be- 
 holding Monaco and its two promontories, encircling 
 with their smiling banks the little crystal bay and its 
 clear waves. He did say, " How beautiful ! " and 
 pressed her hand. She felt then quite happy, and sat 
 anticipating every turn of the road, watching his face, 
 and enjoying his admiration. She was so proud of 
 the blue sea, of the glens and the torrents, of the pines 
 and ilexes, of the grand old gnarled twisted olive-trees, 
 even of the wild heart's-eases by the roadside. Edgar 
 told her that she exulted as vain-gloriously in the 
 beauty of the mountains and the deep colour of the 
 sky, as if she had had a share in their creation. 
 
 She coloured, smiled, and said, " No ; but I am very 
 glad God made them, and that you admire them." Her 
 heart was full. She did not like him to joke at that 
 moment. He seemed to feel it, and answered in a 
 different tone, " I cannot help thinking, when one sees 
 such magnificent scenery as this, of what St. Augustine 
 says, ■ If the prison-house is so beautiful, what will the 
 palace be ? ' " 
 
 " Oh ! I only hope," she exclaimed, " that the prison- 
 house is not too beautiful. To see all this again with 
 you is almost too much joy for earth ! " 
 
 At that moment, about half way down the winding 
 descent, she cried, "There is Mentone ; " and the 
 little gem of the Riviera, with its jutting fort, its 
 graceful Campo Santo on the hill, and its picturesque 
 white churches, appeared for an instant on the edge of 
 the waves, but soon to be hidden again by the hills 
 above Capo Martino. 
 
 Edgar turned to his wife, and said, " Your Mentone ! " 
 
 She smiled, and answered, " My Mentone ; but yon- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 251 
 
 der is my cradle, the only birth-place I know of, that 
 grand wide sea on which I floated so near death, so 
 strangely helpless, so strangely saved ! " She laid her 
 head on her husband's shoulder, and added, " Is it not 
 a singular thing to live, and not to know who gave 
 you birth, whence you came, or anything about your- 
 self, except just your own self. It is rather sad." 
 
 " I like it," Edgar said, pressing her hand. " I like 
 to feel that you have no tie,rio relatives on earth ; that 
 you came straight out of that fair sea ; that you belong 
 to nobody but God and me." 
 
 " God and him ! " Ita repeated to herself the words, 
 " God first, and then him." It was one of those 
 thoughts that at the moment is not much dwelt on, but 
 which seems to sink into the mind and to grow in it. 
 
 " Look at that mass of olive woods," Edgar said, 
 " how glorious they are, how unlike the poor stunted 
 olive-trees of Provence — these are real forest-trees ; 
 and then those glimpses of the sea between the 
 branches are so lovely. How mild the air is now ! 
 What good this climate will do me ! " 
 
 " I am sure, I am sure it will," Ita joyfully ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 And now they issued from the shade of the grove 
 which lies at the entrance of Mentone, and entered the 
 beautiful alley of oleanders, leading to the town ; on 
 their right the shore of the western bay, with its rip- 
 pling waves and foaming crests ; and on the left a 
 perfect forest of orange and lemon-trees, backed by 
 purple mountains rising one above the other in soft 
 and lovely grandeur. 
 
 One hill lower than the rest, and clad in green, 
 drew from Ita the exclamation, " Oh, there is the 
 Annunziata ! a chapel which once was a convent. It 
 was one of my favourite walks." 
 
 They drove past the inn, the only one then in 
 
252 MRS, GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Mentone, which now boasts of more than a dozen 
 hotels, and on to the other side of the little town and 
 along its eastern bay, till they arrived at Lady Emily 
 Hendon's villa, one of the first which had been built 
 for foreigners. It stood, surrounded by olive woods, 
 in the midst of a garden full of catalpa-trees and roses, 
 which, even in that wintry season, were blossoming in 
 a wilderness of shrubs and flowers. An orange grove 
 stood behind the house, and in front of it a terrace 
 overlooking the sea ; but between it and the shore ran 
 the highroad, bordered on each side by oleanders and 
 cactuses. 
 
 That scarcely cultivated garden, rich in the natural 
 magnificence of its fruits and flowers, with the pictu- 
 resque view of Mentone on one side, and the coast as 
 far as Bordighiera on the other, was as lovely a spot 
 as the imagination can conceive. Edgar was as en- 
 chanted as his wife could have desired. They stood 
 on the terrace looking about them till it was dark, and 
 then they could hardly tear themselves away from it, 
 or sit in the house after their dinner, which Antonia 
 had cooked for them, with salutary reminiscences of 
 the sort of plain dishes Lady Emily used to like. 
 
 Poor Lady Emily ! Ita shed a few tears when she 
 arrived at the villa ; and she went and sat a little while 
 in her bed-room, feeling sad. But when she looked 
 out of the window, and saw her husband walking up 
 and down under the ilex-trees, and his eyes met hers 
 with a glad and bright expression, a rush of joy filled 
 her heart. Gratitude for love is so different to gratitude 
 for benefits. Lady Emily was forgotten, and, starting 
 up, she rushed down to join Edgar, and to watch with 
 him the sun disappearing behind the fort, and crim- 
 soning, with a fiery light, the waves, the opposite 
 coast, and the white houses of the promontory of 
 Bordighiera. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 253 
 
 An hour or two afterwards they were sitting at the 
 window looking at the stars, when suddenly Edgar 
 exclaimed, " Good Heaven ! Is the town on fire ? " 
 
 Ita glanced in the direction he was pointing to, and 
 said, " Oh no ! I remember it is to-day the Feast of 
 the Immaculate Conception, and that is the bonfire on 
 the Piazza San Michele." 
 
 The flames rose high, and by their light the facade 
 of the church could be seen. She could almost dis- 
 tinguish the statue of the Archangel, which she used 
 to look at with awe in her childish days, wondering if 
 he would ever draw his half-unsheathed sword. She 
 had asked her nurse if he would ever do so. " Not till 
 the day of Judgment," Madalena had answered, and so 
 Ita grew up in the belief that that very angel and 
 sword would enact a part in the world's closing scene. 
 
 She was smiling to herself at this reminiscence of 
 her childhood, when Edgar said, " Did you ever see 
 anything like the picturesque effect of the blaze on the 
 old buildings ? How pretty the Piazza must be, 
 crowded with people. Come, put on your bonnet, 
 darling, and let us go and see what we can." 
 
 She was ready in a minute, and they walked through 
 the olive groves to the ancient gateway at the entrance 
 of the Via Lunga, and down its narrow length to the 
 foot of the fine broad flight of stairs which leads up 
 to the Piazza San Michele. It was densely crowded, 
 but room was made for the strangers. As the bonfire 
 was going out, they followed up the steps, through the 
 narrow archway, the crowd of peasants who were hur- 
 rying into the Church of the White Penitents, where 
 the festa was kept. Ita felt as if she was dreaming. 
 To be going with Edgar into a Catholic church made 
 her heart beat with a strange joy. 
 
 It is often thrown in the teeth of converts to 
 Catholicism that they always had a leaning to the 
 
254 MRS - GERALD'S TSIIECE. 
 
 Church of Rome, that they were always known to 
 have an attraction towards her. Well — let it be 
 granted that the conversion of those who had a re- 
 pugnance to her forms, who saw no charm in her 
 services, no beauty in her worship, but who yielded 
 to the force of irresistible conviction, is a greater 
 proof of her claims to the submission of dispassionate 
 minds — is it any proof against those claims that they 
 approved themselves instinctively to other minds and 
 hearts ? If a mother had lost her child, would it be a 
 proof that that child was not hers, if before legal 
 proofs of it were laid before him, he had felt his heart 
 yearn towards that mother? If we have been baptized 
 into the Church of Christ, by whatever hands, or in 
 whatever place, is it strange that we should feel our 
 relationship to that Church ? That long before con- 
 viction, even perhaps before doubts had taken pos- 
 session of our souls, we should have heard the voice 
 of God speaking to us in faint, low whispers, whenever 
 we approached her altars, and bowed down before the 
 Blessed Sacrament ? 
 
 If Ita was ever to be a Catholic, her conversion 
 had certainly no chance of being considered as a 
 triumph over dislike and prejudice. From her earliest 
 childhood the word Catholic, the sight of a crucifix, 
 or a picture of the Madonna, a procession passing along 
 the streets greeted by the bowing down of reverent 
 heads, and lowly-bended knees, made her heart beat, 
 and her eyes fill with tears ; and she had felt, long 
 before she believed in the Real Presence, or under- 
 stood the meaning of the word, that Benediction was 
 a blessing. When, after nearly three years' interval, 
 she found herself with Edgar in the presence of the 
 brilliantly lighted altar, where the priest was about to 
 give that mysterious blessing, it would be difficult to 
 describe her emotion. She was anxious to see if he 
 
MRS. GERALDS NIECE. 255 
 
 would kneel. When he did so, and with his face 
 buried in his hands, she rejoiced far too much, per- 
 haps ; for this act of worship did not imply what it 
 formerly did, when the recognition of the reality of the 
 divine gift in the Sacrament of the Altar was the 
 harbinger of conversion to the Catholic Church. In 
 Edgar's case it was the necessary result of a theory he 
 was obliged to carry out — the necessary admission 
 that the Church of Rome possessed what his sect in 
 the Anglican Establishment likewise claimed. 
 
 Let it not be understood that Ita was at that time 
 positively desiring her husband's conversion to the 
 Catholic Church. Far from it. Had Edgar told her 
 then that he had made up his mind to be a Roman 
 Catholic, she would have heard the announcement with 
 mixed feelings. She had entered with ardour into all 
 he had begun to do at Holmwood ; and to Romanize 
 the Church of England, and see it reconciled to the 
 Church of Rome, was the day dream of her life. She 
 had rather vague ideas as to when and how this was to 
 happen. In the meantime, her code was to love every- 
 thing Catholic — to indulge in all possible Catholic 
 devotions — to sympathize with everything Catholics 
 thought and did — and, as long as she was permitted to 
 do all this, to be a good Anglican. But she could not 
 endure attacks or reflections on the Church of Rome. 
 Then came out the instinctive feelings of the child. 
 Edgar had tried her in this way already, two or three 
 times, since they had been abroad. On these occasions 
 she felt all sorts of rebellious thoughts against the 
 Church of England rising in her mind, and could not 
 always help expressing them, or showing that she only 
 based her allegiance to it on the presumed fact of its 
 union, at least in spirit, with the Roman Catholic 
 Church. One day, when they had passed a picture 
 in a wayside shrine, representing the holy souls 
 
256 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 in Purgatory begging for prayers, he had quoted the 
 lines in the " Christian Year" : — 
 
 " If thou hast loved in hours of gloom 
 To dream the dead are near, 
 And people all the lonely room 
 With guardian spirits dear, — 
 
 " Dream on the soothing dream at will, 
 The lurid mist is o'er, 
 That showed the righteous suffering still 
 Upon th' eternal shore." 
 
 She had observed — " I do not see how the departed 
 souls would be the worse for our prayers if they did 
 not need them ; whereas, if they wanted that help, and 
 we went on ' dreaming on that soothing dream,' it 
 would be very terrible for them and for us." 
 
 " The question is," Edgar replied, " whether that 
 belief is the true one or not." 
 
 "Oh! yes — of course — but I have rather given up 
 thinking about that." 
 
 "What do you mean, my love ? " Edgar exclaimed. 
 
 " What I mean is this — if the Church of England 
 is a real Church, and the Church of Rome a real 
 Church too, then it almost would seem as if there was 
 no such thing as truth." 
 
 " How can you speak so, Ita ? " 
 
 "I mean no such thing as truth that we can be 
 certain about. If a person is obliged to believe in 
 France what the Church teaches him, and in England 
 what the Church teaches him, they cannot both believe 
 the truth. You always speak of Mr. Keble as if he 
 was such a good Churchman, and yet he says things 
 in those beautiful poems of his which go right against 
 what Catholics abroad are taught to believe — in those 
 lines you repeated just now, and those others about 
 the Blessed Sacrament : — 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 257 
 
 " ' Oh ! come to our Communion Feast ! 
 There present in the heart, 
 Not in the hands, th'Eternal Priest, 
 Will his true self impart.' " 
 
 " We do not take for granted what any individual 
 says, however wise or good he may be ; but, as regards 
 the present question, the modern ideas about Purgatory 
 are one of the additions the Church of Rome has made 
 to its faith." 
 
 11 But, Edgar, if I was a Frenchwoman, if I was 
 living at Paris or Marseilles, I should be obliged to 
 believe in Purgatory. The Church would then be 
 teaching me an untruth." 
 
 " You would not be responsible for any error which 
 you had not the means of discovering. God would 
 not call you to account for the result of the position 
 in which His Providence had placed you." 
 
 " But if, either by reading or speaking with an 
 Anglo-Catholic, I was to find out that some of the 
 things the Roman Catholic Church teaches are corrupt 
 additions to the old faith, what should I be obliged to 
 do? Ought I, in that case, to leave the Catholic 
 Church in my country, or to pretend to believe what 
 I did not, or try to believe what might not be true ? " 
 
 " I do not see, my dearest love, why you should 
 trouble yourself to think how you ought to act in a 
 position in which you will never be placed. You 
 belong to a pure Church, which has retained all the 
 essential and true Catholic doctrines and rejected 
 Roman additions. Therefore no such difficulty exists 
 for you, and it is a waste of time to be discussing how 
 others ought to act and feel under different circum- 
 stances." 
 
 Ita sighed. It is so painful to get answers which 
 do not meet the want pressing sorely on your soul, 
 which turn instead of confronting the difficulty in your 
 
 R 
 
258 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 mind. " But if I was to have a thought — you would 
 call it a temptation I know — that the Church of 
 England taught something that was not true, I should 
 be obliged to drive it away. It says, for instance, 
 that the Roman Church has erred . . . ." 
 
 11 1 have explained to you, my love, in what sense 
 that article is understood by many members of our 
 Church. They maintain that it only means that if 
 the Churches of Jerusalem, Alexandria, and Antioch 
 have erred in matters of faith, so has the Church of 
 Rome. For my part, I conceive that the Church of 
 Rome has erred in many respects, though not so as 
 to forfeit its position as a teacher of truth to its 
 children." 
 
 "Then you think it teaches them a great deal of 
 truth and a little falsehood ? " Edgar made no answer 
 and she went on. " And that is why I said just now, 
 that I do not think much of what is true or what is 
 false. It seems to me more a matter of obedience 
 than of faith. It seems to be the duty of one person 
 to believe in one way, if he is born at Calais ; and 
 another in another way, if he is born at Dover. On 
 one side of the sea a good Catholic must think the 
 Church of England is a branch of Christ's Church, 
 and on the other side a good Catholic must think she 
 is no such thing. And so about many other things 
 too . . . ." 
 
 " The humble pious Catholic at Calais, who fulfils 
 all the duties his Church prescribes, and does not 
 trouble his mind to determine difficult abstract points, 
 will not be called to account for the mistakes which 
 his humility and docility may lead him into. We 
 maybe sure of that, my love, and I only wish there 
 was amongst us more of that submissive spirit which 
 exists in the Church of Rome." 
 
 Ita was going to exclaim, " Oh, but it is so dif- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 259 
 
 ferent ! " but she felt it was better not to press the 
 argument further. She shut up again in her heart 
 that inexorable problem against which all Anglican 
 arguments break their points — " the absence of au- 
 thority in the so-called English Church," and avoided 
 for some days all subjects of conversation with her 
 husband which would have led to discussions of this 
 sort. But it was a great pleasure to her to find that 
 he was willing to pray in Catholic churches as well as 
 to look into them. 
 
 On the evening we were speaking of, the music in 
 the Church of the Conception was better than is 
 usually the case at Mentone. The Confraternity of 
 the White Penitents, to whom it belongs, had done 
 their best on that occasion ; and, though Edgar thought 
 it too noisy and lively, neither his ears nor his preju- 
 dices were greatly shocked. The inside of the church 
 was, however, very hot, and when they hurried out 
 there was a cold breeze blowing from the sea. Edgar 
 had not brought a greatcoat, and Ita was frightened 
 at feeling how cold it had turned. The sunny warmth 
 of a December day had deceived them both. She 
 took off her own shawl, and wanted to insist on 
 wrapping it round his chest and throat. 
 
 He said, " Nonsense, darling. Put it on yourself. 
 I insist upon it." 
 
 " You make me miserable, Edgar," she said, half 
 crying. " It is dreadfully cold. You will be ill. Now, 
 dearest, do, do." 
 
 " Certainly not, my love." 
 
 " But, Edgar, you know, it does not signify if I catch 
 cold, and very much if you do." 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense ! Come along, we can walk 
 fast." 
 
 Ita had been speaking quite aloud in her distress, 
 and was heard by a gentleman who was also coming 
 
260 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 out of the church. He stepped forward and said, " Will 
 you excuse me, but I know what it is to be taken in 
 by these southern climates at this time of the year. I 
 have a cloak with me which I do not want, for I lodge 
 close by here ; may I lend it you ? " 
 
 Edgar began to thank the stranger and to refuse ; 
 but Ita eagerly took hold of the proffered cloak and 
 wrapped it round her struggling husband. 
 
 " I am so much obliged to you," she said to the 
 owner. " It is so very kind." 
 
 " Where shall we send it back ? " Edgar asked, 
 feeling rather cross with his wife. "lam really quite 
 ashamed . . . ." 
 
 " To No. 9, Via dei Cappuccini," answered the 
 stranger. " Any time to-morrow will do. Here is my 
 card." 
 
 " Now really, my love, you are too tiresome . . . ." 
 
 " No, dear old man, you are too foolish." And so 
 they went home disputing. 
 
 When they got home, and looked at the card Edgar 
 had put in his pocket, he read the name of the Reve- 
 rend Edmund Neville. 
 
 11 The Reverend Edmund Neville," he said, looking 
 inquiringly at Ita. 
 
 She took the card and exclaimed, " I will tell you 
 who he must be. It must be Mrs. Sydney's brother- 
 in-law." 
 
 "The priest?" 
 
 " Yes, the widower, who became a priest. I heard 
 he was in bad health. I suppose he is spending the 
 winter here." 
 
 Edgar said nothing. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 After breakfast on the following morning, Edgar said 
 he should carry back the cloak to Mr. Neville's 
 lodgings, and leave his card if he did not find him at 
 home. " I suppose you will not take a walk so early," 
 he said to his wife, who was standing at the door in 
 ecstasies over some pink geraniums on the wall of 
 their villa. 
 
 " I should like very much to go out with you," she 
 answered, " but I think I had better devote this morn- 
 ing to the painful business of looking over the papers 
 in poor Lady Emily's bureau. I have got the keys, 
 you know." 
 
 She hesitated a little and then added, " Mrs. Gerald 
 advised me particularly to look for a paper .... about 
 myself, which she said Lady Emily had told her must 
 be here. It was drawn up at the time she adopted 
 me. 
 
 " By all means look for it," Edgar answered, " but 
 I do not expect that you will learn anything more 
 from it than you have heard from Mr. Hendon." 
 
 He shaded his eyes with his hand and said, " How 
 overpowering the light is ! Whether this climate does 
 me good or not in other ways, I am afraid my sight 
 will suffer from it." 
 
 " Only just at first," Ita exclaimed, going up to 
 him. " You know the doctors say that it is general 
 weakness which affects your eyes, and as you grow 
 strong here, they will also get well." 
 
262 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 He smiled and kissed her wistful, though bright 
 face. " I have always told you that some day you 
 will have to be my eyes, love. I could still perform 
 my duties with you to write for me and help me." 
 
 " It will not come to that," she replied, shaking her 
 head. 
 
 " It may, or it may not," he said. " But it is better 
 to be prepared for it." 
 
 He went out, and the dazzling view with all its 
 sunny, glittering beauty did not, at that moment, seem 
 as fair to Ita as it had done just before. 
 
 She went slowly upstairs to what had been Lady 
 Emily's bed-room. It was a strange thing, she thought, 
 to open that bureau where she used to see her writing 
 her letters, and settling her accounts, which she did 
 not venture even to approach in former days ; and now, 
 with the full freedom and uncontrolled power death 
 gives to survivors, she was about to turn over and in- 
 vestigate its contents. One drawer after another she 
 opened and examined. They contained letters from 
 friends and acquaintances, account-books, receipts, a 
 few drawings, one or two little albums and boxes, 
 advertisements and prospectuses. Nothing of value 
 or of interest. 
 
 At last, under the programme of a concert at Nice, 
 and an extract from an old "Times" newspaper, she 
 found an Italian document written in a stiff, legal hand. 
 She soon perceived it was the paper Mrs. Gerald 
 had spoken of. It was drawn up by a notary, and 
 gave an account of the manner in which she had been 
 picked up at sea in her infancy by the fisherman 
 Giovanni Piombo. He stated that the bambino, was 
 lying wrapped up in a red shawl at the bottom of an 
 empty boat, which was drifting at the mercy of the 
 waves, between the coast of the Riviera and Corsica, 
 that he had got ihold of the boat and taken the 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 263 
 
 creatura, whom he found was alive, on board his 
 vessel, and carried her with him to Ajaccio, where 
 some time afterwards he brought her back to his 
 home at Spedaletti, a village on the sea shore between 
 Bordighiera and San Remo. His wife and himself, 
 though povera gente, had taken care, for three years, 
 of the child, and had her baptized conditionally at 
 their parish church. The certificate of this baptism 
 was in the same cover with Giovanni's statement. Then 
 followed in accordance with the laws of the country, 
 the conditions of Lady Emily Hendon's adoption of 
 the child. It touched Ita to see that the fisherman 
 had stipulated that she was to be brought up a buona 
 Christiana. In his simple faith he did not imagine 
 that any one could attach a different sense than he 
 did to those words. 
 
 Ita leant her head on her hands and tried to recall 
 as much as she could of those early days of her life. 
 She remembered sitting on Giovanni's knees while he 
 was mending his nets on the shore, and his wife feed- 
 ing her with pollenta. She had also a distinct recollec- 
 tion of the day when she was taken away from their 
 cottage, and the carriage in which she was carried to 
 Mentone. They used, those good people, to see her 
 now and then at the villa, till she was about nine 
 years old. Then the fisherman died, and Genoveva 
 soon afterwards. She had heard Maddalena, the woman 
 who took care of her, say that she had got a Mass 
 said for one of her friends who was dead, and so the 
 next time she saw the Abbe Giovanni, she asked him 
 if he would say one for Piombo and his wife. He 
 promised he would, and giving her his blessing, said 
 that God would reward her some day for this little act 
 of charity. She now would see the Abbe and explain 
 to him that her husband and herself were Catholics — 
 Anglo-Catholics — and not at all like Mr. Nilson and 
 
264 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Mrs. Greatwell, and some other English people, who 
 wanted to make the Mentonese Protestants. 
 
 Maddalena, her old nurse, had always looked on the 
 English clergyman, who lived in a villa near Lady 
 Emily's, as an agent of the devil ; for he had told her 
 it was wrong to pray to the Madonna, and to kneel 
 down before the Blessed Sacrament. Ita had caught 
 something of her nurse's feeling on the subject ; so 
 that when at the age of seven she was taken for the 
 first time to Mr. Nilson's house to spend an hour in 
 his dining-room while he read through the Anglican 
 Service, and then a sermon, and that, too, on a day 
 when Maddalena had promised she should go to San 
 Michele, and kiss the feet of the divino Bambino, 
 who was to be carried round the church for every- 
 body to see Him and to embrace Him, she felt no 
 reverent or amicable feelings towards the minister or 
 the service. 
 
 With flushed cheeks and pouting lips, and some 
 unflattering Mentonese expressions of contempt and 
 aversion passing through her mind, she went through the 
 compulsory ordinance; and ever afterwards, through- 
 out her childhood and early youth, it became her ob- 
 ject to escape the Anglican Service, and slip away 
 with Maddalena to Mass or Benediction. As Lady 
 Emily did not go to church herself, and really cared 
 very little if Ita went or not to Mr. Nilson's dining- 
 room, her efforts were often attended with success. It 
 was only when, now and then, English friends were 
 staying with them that she had to go as a matter of 
 course to the " Messe des Anglais," as Lady Emily's 
 courier called the Protestant Service. 
 
 All this came back very vividly to her mind, and 
 she thought what a different religion it was she had 
 learned from Edgar. She compared the hated dining- 
 room with the churches of Holmwood and Bramble- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 265 
 
 moor, and the things she remembered hearing from 
 Mr. Nilson with those Edgar and Mr. Roland taught, 
 and painfully tried to recall the theory which accounted 
 for these strange discrepancies between the teachings 
 of those who were all clergymen of the Church of 
 England. She tried to make it clear to her own mind ; 
 for it struck her how difficult it would be to make the 
 Abbe Giovanni and her dear friend in the Via Lunga, 
 la Signora Santa Agnese, understand it. 
 
 The sound of steps under the windows roused her 
 from these absorbing thoughts, and an instant after- 
 wards she heard Edgar's voice calling her. She hastily 
 locked up the bureau, ran downstairs, and found, with 
 her husband in the drawing-room, a pale, thin, middle- 
 aged man, whom she recognized at once. 
 
 " Mr. Neville," Edgar said, when she came in. 
 u Mrs. Sydney's brother-in-law." She expressed warmly 
 her gratitude about the cloak, and he said, with a 
 smile — 
 
 " It was not on the strength of the cloak I ventured 
 to call, but Margaret Sydney told me I might use her 
 name as an introduction." 
 
 " Oh yes, of course," Ita exclaimed. " We are so 
 glad to make your acquaintance." She glanced a little 
 anxiously towards her husband, but he did not look 
 displeased or embarrassed, and the visit passed off 
 very well. He even asked Mr. Neville to stay for 
 luncheon, but he said that was too English a meal for 
 him. He breakfasted at twelve, according to the 
 custom of the country. 
 
 When he had gone away, Ita said, " How pleasing 
 Mr. Neville is ! " 
 
 II He looks like a person who has gone through much 
 suffering," Edgar remarked. 
 
 II I am so glad you asked him to come and see us 
 again. I was so afraid you would not." 
 
266 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Why did you think so ? " 
 
 " Because he became a Roman Catholic — you have 
 such a strong feeling on that subject." 
 
 " His case I consider rather an exceptional one. 
 There is much that accounts for the step he has taken. 
 You know he concealed his marriage for some time 
 from motives of interest, and made his wife very un- 
 happy. He wanted to constrain her to abandon the 
 Church in which she had been baptized and educated. 
 His remorse afterwards was very great, and she ac- 
 quired so much influence over him that it was not 
 wonderful that he ended by embracing her religion. 
 This was more than fifteen years ago, I think, at a 
 time when the principles and claims of our Church 
 were far less understood than now, and I look upon 
 his change very differently than on recent acts of 
 that sort, when men who had owned and served the 
 Church of England as their spiritual mother, have 
 forsaken her and gone over to a hostile camp, not out 
 of ignorance, but from restlessness and impatience." 
 
 Perhaps some other day Ita would have been in- 
 clined to defend the seceders to Romanism, for whom 
 she felt a secret kindness. She looked upon them as 
 an advanced guard gone on before, whither she hoped 
 eventually to see all those she cared for arrive by 
 means of corporate re-union — a thing often spoken of 
 by Edgar and the Rolands to allay her longing for 
 unity whenever it became at all troublesome ; only it 
 threw her- rather into despair when they said, " It 
 would not be then, or for twenty, or for fifty years, 
 perhaps ; but that, nevertheless, they were on the way 
 to it." 
 
 " But by the time it happens we shall all be dead," 
 she used to urge, and then they said — 
 
 " What did that signify ? They were sowing, and 
 others would reap." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 267 
 
 " But why wait, and die waiting, when we might 
 have now what we are waiting for ? " 
 
 Then she was gently taxed with impatience ; re- 
 minded of the beautiful words : " In quietness and 
 confidence shall be thy strength," and advised not to 
 make haste in time of clouds. 
 
 These exhortations acted like opiates on her mind, 
 stilling its misgivings without removing them. For a 
 while she acquiesced in the exercise of that unreason- 
 ing submission which her husband preached to her. 
 It would have naturally suited her fervent, humble, 
 and gentle spirit, but still the question would rise 
 again, the never-answered, imperious, merciless ques- 
 tion, which no sophistry can meet and no ingenuity 
 evade, " Whom am I to trust ; to whom and to what 
 am I to submit ; whether I look up to heaven above 
 or to the earth beneath, where is the voice which can 
 speak audibly to my conscience, and bid me accept 
 any one of the jarring dictates which in discordant 
 multiplicity and endless contradiction, resound from 
 the heights, and issue from the depths of the so- 
 called Church of England ? How choose between 
 opposite dogmas ? How reconcile irreconcilable 
 precepts ? " 
 
 However, with the feminine quickness and tact 
 which she was peculiarly gifted with, Ita felt that it 
 would not be well to take notice of Edgar's happy 
 inconsistency, or on that first day at Mentone to 
 engage in an argument which might excite in him any 
 hostile feelings towards Roman Catholicism, so she 
 abstained from uttering a word in favour of those he 
 called apostates. She was only too glad that he saw 
 extenuating circumstances in the case of Mrs. Sydney's 
 brother-in-law, and could afford to leave undefended 
 the more recent converts. 
 
 Many were the loved spots where she was longing 
 
268 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 to take Edgar. She felt much more disposed to make 
 him acquainted with her favourite views and walks 
 than to take him to visit her friends. She foresaw a 
 certain difficulty in making some of them understand 
 his position. If she told them he was a Protestant 
 clergyman, besides giving him offence by calling him 
 so, she was afraid they would set him down as no 
 better than Mr. Nilson or M. Bercail, the Swiss 
 minister. But if she said he was a priest, they would 
 be horrified at his being married. She would have 
 made up her mind to describe him simply as an 
 English gentleman, but she had misgivings that he 
 would not submit to this suppression of his sacerdotal 
 character, and would puzzle them by allusions to it. 
 His dress, too, verged on that of a priest, and would 
 attract attention. 
 
 So instead of proposing to introduce him to her 
 acquaintances, she asked Edgar on the day but one 
 after their arrival to go with her to the Annunziata, a 
 small chapel on a height above the town, midway 
 between the valley of Turin and that of Cabrol, and 
 below the purple mountains which encircle the white 
 little city, embowered in its groves of golden fruitage. 
 She dearly loved this rustic sanctuary with its ever- 
 greens and its pines ; its simple images and rude ex- 
 votos. Every turn of the steep ascent was familiar 
 to her ; every stone where she had been accustomed to 
 rest ; every ruined shrine on the roadside where pil- 
 grims, with their beads in hand, once paused and 
 meditated on the mysteries of the rosary. She loved 
 the clear sky, the glimpses of the sea, the fresh sweet 
 air, the sight of the peasants, of the goats, of the flocks, 
 of the patient donkeys, of the barefooted children ; 
 but what most delighted her was Edgar's intense en- 
 joyment, his enthusiastic admiration of the scenery. 
 In that respect their sympathy was perfect. Both had 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 269 
 
 religious minds, and as they ascended the hill words 
 out of the Psalms seemed to rise naturally to their 
 lips — words of adoration, praise, and love ; words that 
 express the deepest, sweetest, and highest emotions of 
 the soul, just as much now as when they first burst 
 from the burning heart of Israel's inspired king. They 
 sang them together while resting on a green bank half 
 way up the ascent, and when they left off singing, Ita 
 gathered the little flowerets within her reach, and 
 pulled them to pieces in order to dive into the wonder- 
 ful mysteries of beauty concealed within their secret 
 folds. With childlike ecstasy she saw, with the help 
 of Edgar's magnifying-glass, each little speck on the 
 pistil of the arum, the dark monk's-hood expand into 
 a little blossom of exquisite loveliness. 
 
 " How bewildering it is," she exclaimed, " to think 
 of the endless amount of beauty scattered over the 
 face of the world, unknown, unenjoyed by any living 
 being, by men at least. I wonder if the angels enjoy 
 anything on earth, if they see beauty in what seems 
 to us so lovely." 
 
 " As our Lord saw beauty in the flowers of the field, 
 why should not angels ? " 
 
 11 Oh, yes ; then I hope they do. I am so glad that 
 is mentioned in the gospel." Ita was silent a moment, 
 and then said, " How one would wish to live many 
 lives in one ! To have days of boundless length and 
 capabilities to acquire every kind of knowledge ! 
 There are openings on all sides, but they seem to 
 close before we have time to appreciate them." 
 
 " I suppose we are given those glimpses," Edgar 
 replied, " to lead us higher than this world." 
 
 11 But even this world we see so little of. How 
 many people I am sure have never looked into the 
 inside of a monk's-hood," Ita said, once more peeping 
 into the secret folds of the dark little plant. 
 
270 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 "And some never think of looking up at the starry 
 sky." 
 
 " I do not care near so much about the stars as 
 about the earth. They give me puzzling thoughts, 
 and I hate perplexity." 
 
 " You are not patient," Edgar said, laughing. " It 
 is great wisdom to submit to our own inevitable ignor- 
 ance." 
 
 She smiled. "Yes, you are quite right; but I do not 
 like to think of what I cannot understand." 
 
 " And yet you are always starting thoughts of that 
 kind — wondering over all sorts of things — just now 
 about the mysterious amount of beauty lavished upon 
 this world, where so few appreciate and enjoy it." 
 
 " I was wrong to say that I did not like to think of 
 what I do not understand. It is what perplexes me 
 that I dislike. The two are very different. Perplexity 
 is a distressing feeling, whereas we can admire and 
 adore what we cannot fathom. Indeed, we could 
 hardly adore, I think, what we did quite understand. 
 It would not be enough above us for that." 
 
 " But what, then, perplexes you in the stars ? " 
 
 " Their innumerable number. They fill, and rise, 
 and multiply in the sky, till it gives me a giddy feeling 
 to look at or think of them." 
 
 " But, my foolish darling, are not the waves of the sea 
 and the blades of grass on the earth equally countless ? " 
 
 "True; but we know more about them. I should 
 not mind if I were sure the stars were only what Mil- 
 man calls them — ' God's lamps enthroned on high.' I 
 do not want to think that they are worlds. Sometimes, 
 however, I fancy that they may be the mansions our 
 Lord speaks of, when He says there are many of them 
 in His Father's house. That is one of the passages in 
 the Bible I often muse over, Edgar. I hope we are 
 sure, you and I, of being in the same mansion." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 271 
 
 " You take things very literally, love ; but sure we 
 cannot be, even of going to heaven." 
 
 " No ; but we hope it with a feeling very like security. 
 As God is our Father, if we really always do what we 
 think pleases Him, we cannot be afraid." 
 
 " No ; if we do to the utmost of our power what He 
 reqnires of us, we shall be saved." 
 
 " And we will — we will both always do what we 
 see to be right." She looked up into her husband's 
 face with an earnest, eager, wistful look. " You will, 
 I know you will not find it difficult — you are so brave 
 and so strong. I shall try. I promise you to try." 
 .... A sudden thought passed through her mind at 
 that moment. It came like a shot, and thrilled through 
 her heart with something like physical pain. It was 
 the idea that it might happen one day that she and 
 Edgar would not agree as to what was right. The 
 promise she had just made might demand an unex- 
 pected fulfilment. She did not think so. She hoped 
 not. It was but the faintest prevision of a possible 
 misery. But it made her silent for a while. She did 
 not mentally retract that promise, but quickly turned 
 away her thoughts from it, and, as she gathered more 
 arums, said, " These brown little monk's-hoods make 
 me think of the Capuchins. Up to the time of the 
 first French Revolution they had a convent at the 
 Annunziata. 1 I wish they were here again ! Should 
 not you like to see them in their picturesque habits, 
 
 1 Since the year 1867, the Sons of St. Francis have returned to 
 their ancient abode. One of the descendants of the family which 
 purchased it at the time of the French Revolution, M. Charles de 
 Monleon, has restored it to the religious banished from Genoa by 
 the impious Italian Government. The peasantry welcomed them 
 with all the fervent love and simple faith which still dwell in their 
 hearts, and, by gratuitous labour, after their own hard day's work, 
 have helped to rebuild the monastery and to enlarge the little 
 chapel. 
 
272 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 ascending and descending this hill, working and pray- 
 ing in this beautiful solitude ? " 
 
 Edgar smiled, and said, " In the meantime, let us go 
 up to the little chapel." 
 
 " And pray that this may happen ? " 
 
 Edgar did not answer, and they turned into a 
 narrow path close to the spot where the monastery 
 had once stood. 
 
 " We are nearly arrived," Ita said, her heart beating 
 with delight. The last scramble was accomplished, 
 and then they stood on the eminence, and at the door 
 of the chapel. Ita pushed it open, and Edgar followed 
 her into the little sanctuary. He took off his hat, and 
 looked about him, in the hesitating manner which 
 indicates the inward doubt how much or how little 
 respect ought to be paid to a Catholic church by a 
 good Anglican. There was no especial reason even 
 for a Catholic to kneel, for at that time the Blessed 
 Sacrament was not reserved in the little chapel of the 
 Annunziata. But this would not have, perhaps, made 
 any difference. It did not occur to Edgar, nor even 
 always to Ita, to think whether the Real Presence, in 
 which they both in a certain measure or manner 
 believed in, hallowed or not at that moment the place 
 where they were standing. So little do those outside 
 the Church practically realize the truth even of what 
 they profess to hold. She longed very much, however, 
 to kneel down before the crucifix, and to lay at the 
 feet of the Madonna the nosegay of pink heath and 
 large white daisies which she had gathered on her way 
 up the hill. In her careless, uninstructed girlhood, 
 she used to perform these little acts of devotion. She 
 longed to renew them with truer feelings of piety, for 
 she knew more of religion now, and had really begun 
 to try to love and serve God. But as long as Edgar 
 was near her she did not venture to follow the impulse 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 273 
 
 of her heart. She was never sure what he would 
 think on those occasions, and she was afraid of setting 
 him against entering into Catholic churches, by herself 
 showing what he would consider unreasonable and ex- 
 aggerated devotion. It was, therefore, a relief to her 
 when he said he would take a walk further up the hill, 
 and asked if she would wait for him in the chapel. 
 She was glad when the door was shut, and she could 
 kneel or stand, or sit, as she felt inclined, and timidly, 
 like in old days, dip her finger into the holy-water 
 stoup, with a vague feeling of awe and a sense of 
 refreshment in her soul, which the cool drops seemed 
 to symbolize. 
 
 She mused on all that had happened to her since 
 she had last stood within those rude but hallowed walls, 
 where so many successive generations had uttered 
 prayers and thanksgivings. A fishing-boat or lemon- 
 laden vessel hardly sails from Mentone, but a Mass is 
 said at the Annunziata, to beg a blessing on its course, 
 and another is offered up in gratitude when it returns. 
 She had returned to the home of her childhood laden 
 with new blessings. Her life, which had threatened 
 to be so lonely, had been enriched and gladdened by 
 a great deep happiness and a priceless love. For 
 more then two years earth had been heaven to her, 
 and her joys had gone on increasing instead of dimin- 
 ishing. " Oh, my God ! I thank Thee ! I thank Thee 
 with all my heart ! " she murmured, with her head 
 resting against the altar rails. She repeated these 
 words three or four times over, but with an unaccount- 
 able feeling of depression. 
 
 She was not anxious about Edgar's health, though 
 he was very delicate. It had never occurred to her 
 that there was anything really of consequence the 
 matter with him ; and there was not a shadow she 
 could see falling on their future, save one, which as 
 
 s 
 
274 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 yet was too faint, too fitful, too unreal, to obscure in 
 the least degree her happiness ; and yet she did not 
 feel quite as she used to do at Holmwood. There she 
 had led a charmed existence. There she had wor- 
 shipped Edgar peacefully — idolized him without a 
 misgiving, for whatever progress she made in the 
 knowledge of God and religion was identified with her 
 enthusiastic devotion to him. Now a change, slight 
 indeed, but just perceptible, had come over the spirit 
 of her dream ; old difficulties which had laid dormant 
 for a time, rose again in her mind, and though met by 
 inward answers which she earnestly tried to consider 
 as conclusive, were not as easily disposed of as she 
 expected. This was perhaps the cause of the cloud 
 which had dimmed for a moment the perfect enjoy- 
 ment of that happy day amidst the scenes of her 
 youth. 
 
 But it passed away when Edgar returned and called 
 her, and they sat under the pine-trees eating their 
 luncheon, which one of Elisa Ferrari's famous donkeys 
 had carried up the hill. 
 
 " How I wish Annie was here ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " I do not think her appreciation of Mentone would 
 at all come up to your expectations," replied Edgar. 
 ** I know nobody less likely to enjoy being abroad." 
 
 " No. I suppose she would not be happy away 
 from Holmwood. Dear Annie, she is very matter of 
 fact. But I should not want her — that is, I should 
 not expect her to feel the sort of admiration for this 
 country which I feel, and which I should have been 
 disappointed if you had not felt. There are persons 
 from whom one does not look for one kind of sym- 
 pathy, and I think Annie is one of them. She is 
 affectionate and generous beyond anybody in the 
 world, but she would not understand why my feeling 
 about this place is a very peculiar one, and I should 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 275 
 
 never try to explain it to her. I wonder what it comes 
 from, the power of feeling not only for others but with 
 them?" 
 
 11 Do I possess that power ? " 
 
 A slight blush rose on Ita's cheek ; she smiled, and 
 said ; "You like others to sympathize with you . . . ." 
 
 11 And do I not sympathize with them ? " 
 
 " In some things you do. But I think men differ 
 from women in that respect, and perhaps it is right 
 it should be so. I always liked that idea of Milton's, 
 that man was made for God alone, and woman for 
 God and man ; it seems more natural that we should 
 enter into all your important interests than that you 
 should sympathize in all our . . . ." 
 
 " Your what ? " Edgar asked, smiling. 
 
 " I cannot find the right word ; trifling they are not. 
 What shall I say? womanly ones." 
 
 " I cannot imagine, dearest love, one care, anxiety, 
 pleasure, or wish of yours which I should not sym- 
 pathize with." 
 
 " Oh yes, I know you would, my own darling ; 
 you are to me all tenderness and goodness. Like 
 that beautiful line of Campbell's — 
 
 ' A friend to more than human friendship just.' 
 
 But the best way in which you can sympathize with 
 me is by always letting me sympathize with you. By 
 letting me have a share in all your thoughts . . . ." 
 " And yours ? do you keep any from me ? " 
 Ita blushed deeply. " Never, but when I think 
 they would pain you." 
 
 " How could your thoughts pain me ? " 
 
 " I think they would sometimes displease you : 
 
 yours are so positive, so fixed — mine so uncertain, so 
 
 wavering .... But do you know, Edgar, we ought 
 
 to be going on. We must not forget in this sunshine 
 
276 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 and these green woods that the days are as short as 
 at home. Will you have another date ? " 
 
 " No, no, make over the basket and everything in 
 it to your donkey boy, and let us be off." 
 
 They started, and Ita said she would guide her 
 husband down the steep descent, for that he had not 
 been used like her to those stony pathways cut in the 
 rock. He laughed at her, but in jest put his arm 
 within hers. When they had gone a little way he 
 stumbled. She turned laughingly, and said, " There, 
 now, without me you would have fallen. You are 
 walking with your eyes shut," she added, surprised. 
 11 Why do you do that, Edgar ? " she said with a 
 gentle but very sad smile. 
 
 " I was practising," he answered, " against the 
 time when you will have to lead me about. I have 
 often thought, Ita, what a good wife you will make to 
 a blind man. You will describe everything to me. It 
 will do almost as well as seeing ; and I think I might 
 still perform most of my duties, and be of use as a 
 clergyman, with you to help me." 
 
 " I cannot bear to hear you speak in this way. I 
 am sure you will not become blind. It is all fancy, 
 dearest, darling Edgar." 
 
 "It is not all fancy," he answered, shading his eyes 
 with his hand. " It is better to be prepared for what 
 may happen ; and I want you not to think it would 
 be so bad. With a wife like you, and the perfect 
 union between us of every thought and feeling, / 
 should not think it at all an overwhelming calamity." 
 
 It was with a feeling she could scarcely have denned, 
 but that made her breathe an irrepressible though 
 inaudible sigh, that Ita heard her husband speak of 
 their complete union of opinion and feeling. She 
 hardly knew whether to be sorry or glad, that he 
 seemed so unconscious that on one subject there was 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 277 
 
 not perfect sympathy between them. He had not then 
 noticed since they had been abroad what she had so 
 keenly felt. How this illustrated what they had talked 
 of a moment before ! How sensitive she was to what 
 he had not even noticed ! Was she less frank, less 
 sincere than her husband ? She who was always re- 
 proaching herself for being too impulsive, too eager, 
 too quick to feel and express what she felt. No, she 
 had not been wanting in openness, although she had 
 kept to herself many a misgiving, many a doubt, which 
 would have angered and grieved him. Nor had he as 
 utterly failed in perceiving her disposition of mind as 
 his words implied. The real fact was that, though he 
 perfectly saw his wife's strong sympathy with Roman 
 Catholicism, he could not apprehend, realize, or con- 
 ceive that there could be any real danger of her 
 seriously holding different religious opinions from him- 
 self. She was so humble and submissive, and, above 
 all, so ardently attached to him, so full of respect and 
 admiration for his talents, that it seemed simply im- 
 possible she should ever take a line of her own on the 
 subject. 
 
 And as far as natural reasoning went, he was right. 
 But the mistake many people make on this point seems 
 to proceed from their overlooking the fact that faith 
 is a supernatural principle, that each individual soul 
 receives from God graces and lights which it will have 
 personally to give an account of, and that what belongs 
 to its sphere cannot be governed or judged by the same 
 rules which affect mere matters of opinion. Even 
 these cannot always be given up at the will of those 
 we love and look up to. Humility, however, some- 
 times inspires doubts which may induce submission. 
 But when once faith exists in a soul, no human con- 
 sideration can command its surrender. It may indeed 
 die almost unconsciously in the soul at an early stage 
 
278 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 of its existence under the pressure of outward influ- 
 ences when not courageously resisted. Sometimes it 
 is killed by a deliberate act extorted by others and 
 committed against the cries of a fully awakened con- 
 science, but it cannot follow the ordinary rules of 
 conduct or submit righteously to the influence of 
 affection or the commands of superiors. Its origin is 
 too sacred and its end too divine for even the holiest 
 of human ties to interfere between the soul and God, and 
 to decide if it shall receive or not the gift of its Creator. 
 
 Ita was not yet conscious of possessing this faith, 
 and Edgar was perhaps justified in considering her 
 predilection for the Catholic Church at that time as 
 the result of fancies called forth by old associations 
 and imaginative tastes. He remembered all the delight 
 and interest she had taken in his efforts to carry out 
 Church principles at Holmwood and at Bramblemoor. 
 He had no objection to allow her to expect the eventual 
 union of the two Churches, and he had good reason to 
 hope, if not to feel as certain as he did in his own 
 case, that she would live and die in the Anglican 
 Communion. So many go through the phase of mind 
 she was then experiencing. So many advance even 
 further and draw back. They return to what they 
 and their friends call a calmer, more reasonable, less 
 excited state of mind. God only knows if the germ 
 thus destroyed in their souls was the unhealthy growth 
 of a wayward fancy, or the seed which, if it had fallen 
 not on the roadside or the rock, or among the thorns, 
 but in the good ground of an honest and strong heart, 
 might have brought forth fruits of eternal life. 
 
 Ita felt it impossible to say anything in answer to 
 her husband's allusion to the possibility of his going 
 blind. She would not even let him see that it affected 
 her, still less could she at that moment have reminded 
 him that there was not a perfect accordance between 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 279 
 
 them on every point great and small. She disengaged 
 her arm from his, and said she would not on any ac- 
 count let him walk with his eyes shut. That he was 
 to take care of himself; and she went on before him, 
 skipping from stone to stone, and calling on him to 
 follow as if her heart was as light and her spirits even 
 higher than before he had uttered words, which for 
 more than one reason had damped all the joy she had 
 felt when they began to descend the hill together. 
 Alas ! in this world, even in domestic life, how much 
 dissimulation goes on — varying from the worst and the 
 meanest falsehood to the most heroic and generous dis- 
 sembling, often the highest proof of love that can be 
 given on this earth. 
 
 When they reached Mentone and arrived at the end 
 of the Contrada di San Michele, for the names of the 
 streets were not then turned into French, she looked at 
 her watch, and as there was still an hour to spare before 
 dinner-time, she asked Edgar to walk on before her 
 along the shore to the villa, while she called on her old 
 friend the Signora Santa Agnese, commonly called 
 Shia Teresina. Shia is a familiar rendering in Men- 
 tonese of the word Madame or Signora, and is only 
 used in conjunction with the Christian name. She 
 thought it would be unkind to delay longer paying her 
 a visit. He did not object, and she ran up the hill and 
 under the gateway into what was not inappropriately 
 called the Via Lunga.- 
 
 The entrance of the houses in this street is, generally 
 speaking, most unpromising ; but those on the side of 
 the sea afford an agreeable surprise to strangers, who, 
 after ascending steep staircases or descending dark 
 ones, often find themselves in sunny, cheerful rooms, 
 with pretty balconies, overlooking the eastern bay, and 
 facing the picturesque hills opposite Mentone, on the 
 side of Ventimiglia and Bordighiera. 
 
28o MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Ita knocked at the heavy, clumsy door she knew 
 so well, and, when it was opened by the Signora Santa 
 Agnese's servant, a joyful burst of recognition followed. 
 " La Signorina Inglese ! " Callista cried in a shrill voice, 
 and led the way to the inner chamber, where sat the 
 old lady, whose eyes seemed by far the most conspicu- 
 ous part of her diminutive person. She was curled 
 up in a corner of what our forefathers called an easy- 
 chair, but which we should hardly, perhaps, now 
 consider as such. She only occupied half the space 
 intended for its occupant, and the rest was filled up by 
 her work-box, her Prayer-book, and her cat. 
 
 "What, figlia mia ! " she exclaimed, for Shia 
 Teresina belonged to the old-fashioned Italian society 
 in Mentone, " is that really you ? " and she held out 
 her hands, small as those of a child, to Ita, and made 
 her sit down close to her. " And so you are come back 
 at last, Shia Margarita ? And not one bit the uglier 
 for your absence ! and as fond, I hope, of Mentone 
 as ever? But is it true, figlia mia, that poor Shia 
 Emilia is dead, and that you are married ? " 
 
 Ita answered the first of these questions with a sigh 
 and a sign of assent, and then said, " Yes; I have been 
 a wife for more than two years." 
 
 "Ah, brava!" cried the old lady. "I am glad to 
 hear it. I do not want my friends to follow my ex- 
 ample, though I have never wished to marry myself. 
 And your sposo ? Is he with you ? What a galant- 
 uomo he is to have brought you to see us! " 
 
 " He is not very strong, and we are come to try if 
 dear, beautiful Mentone will do him good." 
 
 " Of course it will. I dare say you have many 
 fine things in your country, but not such sunshine 
 as ours, I suppose; and it is sunshine that brings 
 people to life again. What is your husband's name, 
 carina ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 281 
 
 " Edgar Derwent," she said, trying hard to give an 
 Italian sound to that very English name. 
 
 " Dorante ? La Signora Dorante. Very well. And 
 II Signore Dorante is a good husband, I hope ? " 
 
 " Oh, the best, the kindest husband in the world ! " 
 
 " Bravissimo ! And are you both good Christians, 
 my child ? You used to say that you wished to marry 
 a Catholic, and to be one yourself." 
 
 " We are English Catholics ; that is, I mean Anglo- 
 Catholics." 
 
 " That is right — that is right, figlia mia. There 
 are Catholics of all nations — Italian, French, Spanish, 
 English. It makes no difference, so that they belong 
 to the one true Church. Deo gratias ! and so, my little 
 lamb, you have found your way at last into the true 
 fold ! Let me give you a kiss, I am so happy ! I 
 always thought you would be a Catholic. I think I 
 shall make you a present of the rosary, which the Holy 
 Father Pope Pius the Seventh blessed for my mother 
 the day he passed through Mentone on his way back 
 to Rome." 
 
 La Santa Agnese kept fumbling in a bag by her 
 side, which contained her most precious treasures. 
 Meanwhile, Ita felt very uncomfortable. She could not 
 allow her to believe she was a real Catholic, and ac- 
 cept her present under false pretences. The word real 
 had instinctively suggested itself, but she hastened 
 mentally to retract it, and began to explain that she 
 was not a Roman Catholic. La Signora Santa Agnese 
 looked at her in astonishment. 
 
 " Not a Roman Catholic ! But, figlia mia, there is 
 only one holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church, 
 and if you do not belong to it, you are not a Catholic 
 at all." 
 
 " Oh, yes, we are a branch — a branch of the Catholic 
 Church. It is, I know, very difficult to understand ; 
 
282 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 but we really are Catholics, not Protestants. I could 
 not bear to be a Protestant." 
 
 " Do you acknowledge the Pope," La Santa Agnese 
 asked. She had vague ideas of united Greeks, Ar- 
 menians, and others who do not follow the Roman rite, 
 and yet belong to the Catholic Church. Perhaps it 
 was this sort of thing her little friend meant. But 
 when Ita said " No, they were not under the Pope,"* 
 then her face fell, and she slipped back the rosary into 
 her box. 
 
 " You are laughing at me, figlia mia. Those who 
 do not acknowledge the Pope are not Catholics. 
 White is white, and black is black. It is a pity — a 
 great pity. God knows how sorry I am ; but let us 
 hope you will one day see the truth. I shall never 
 leave off praying for it, for I have always been fond of 
 you, and I am sure God never made you with that 
 sweet face and that good heart of yours without 
 intending to have you with Him in Heaven." 
 
 Ita had always been afraid of the difficulty she 
 should find in explaining Anglo-Catholicism to her 
 friends at Mentone, and her heart sank within her at 
 perceiving how hopeless it would be to convince her 
 dear old Shia Teresina of the fact that she and Edgar 
 were Catholics. She evaded the subject for the 
 present, and inquired about various acquaintances. 
 Then as the rosy hue on Bordighiera warned her that 
 the sun was setting, she rose to take leave of the little 
 old lady, who before parting with her, held Ita's pretty 
 face for one moment between her two hands, and 
 looking earnestly into her soft brown eyes, said : " Do 
 you still love the blessed Virgin as you used to do, 
 little Shia Margarita ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do," Ita answered in a low voice. 
 
 " Bravo, figlia mia. I am not afraid then. She will 
 see to you." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Ita came home a little vexed, she did not exactly know 
 with whom or with what, but she never visited on her 
 husband the effects of the clouds that obscured the 
 inward sunshine of her soul. It was not in her nature 
 to make others uncomfortable. She carried almost to 
 a morbid extent the dislike to give others pain, and 
 to suppress all outward marks of discomposure had 
 become with her a settled habit. So she talked all 
 the evening as pleasantly, and read aloud, and planned 
 an excursion for the next day with as much animation 
 as if she had not felt all the time out of spirits, and as 
 far as ever was the case with her a little out of temper. 
 Edgar had been tired with the long ascent to the 
 Annunziata, and said, " We will not go quite so far 
 to-morrow. By the way, I met Mr. Neville after I left 
 you. He says he will come here to-morrow at two 
 o'clock, and take a walk with us." 
 
 Ita did not feel quite as pleased as she would have 
 done the day before at the thought of this visit. 
 There are wayward changes in the feelings of persons 
 in her state of mind. She had resented Signora Santa 
 Agnese's disbelief of a fact that, at the bottom of her 
 heart, she scarcely had faith in herself, and this irrita- 
 tion that her own doubts had thus received a con- 
 firmation, gave her for the moment an almost hostile 
 feeling against Roman Catholicism. She felt wounded, 
 as it were, and ill-used by what she loved. It was 
 evident that Roman Catholics utterly scouted the 
 
284 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 theory which Edgar had anxiously instilled into her 
 mind. She had taken it on trust, and was clinging to 
 it with a determination to think as he did, and a secret 
 dread of anything which would shake that deter- 
 mination. 
 
 As she laid down to sleep that night, with the noise 
 in her ears of " the ever-sounding and mysterious 
 main," so strangely loud and ever-sounding on that 
 shore, a wish came over her that time might stand 
 still for a while. Life was happy then. Would it 
 always continue so ? Her religious principles and 
 feelings had been gradually and steadily advancing to 
 a point from which they could never recede without 
 infidelity — to God, and her conscience. They had 
 arisen simultaneously with her first acquaintance with 
 Edgar. They had grown with the growth of a new 
 love and a new happiness. Now a vague fear some- 
 times crossed her mind whether this earthly happiness 
 and this unearthly faith, which was gaining every day 
 a stronger hold upon her soul, could continue to keep 
 pace with each other. The strength, the demands of 
 that faith, seemed capable of extending beyond all 
 human considerations, and the thought alarmed her 
 sometimes. 
 
 The next morning, however, as is so often the case, 
 the vividness of this impression had passed away. 
 The Signora Santa Agnese was a very pious good 
 person, but of course quite ignorant of everything 
 beyond her immediate sphere. It was not to be won- 
 dered at that she ignored all Catholicism outside the 
 Church of Rome. The Abbe Giovanni would very 
 probably take the same view of the subject. He 
 could not know what was going on in England, and 
 would naturally consider as Protestants all those who 
 did not belong to his Church. But it was not impos- 
 sible that Mr. Neville, though of course he would 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 285 
 
 think it better for everybody to be Roman Catholics, 
 might take a more liberal view of the subject, and 
 understand the position of the Anglican Church. She 
 hoped that he and Edgar would discuss that point. 
 
 The day was beautiful — one of those fair bright 
 December days so common on the shores of the 
 Mediterranean. Edgar was looking well, and as Ita 
 was putting on her things she heard him and Edmund 
 Neville talking and laughing on the terrace under her 
 window. She joined them, and they set out to walk 
 to Capo Martino, going through the Contrado San 
 Michele, now the fashionable Rue St. Michel, and 
 then along the pretty picturesque avenue shaded with 
 planes and bordered with oleanders, now alas ! fast 
 dying away. They talked as they went along of 
 England, of Holmwood, Grantley Manor, and Carsdale> 
 of their mutual friends and acquaintances, and the 
 news they had heard of them since they had been 
 abroad. Mr. Neville asked after the Rolands, whom 
 he had met in the autumn at his sister's, and their 
 little girl, Ita's godchild. 
 
 "Has Mrs. Gerald been pretty well lately?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 " No," Edgar answered. "She is not at all in good 
 health. We tried to persuade her and Annie to join 
 us here, but could not induce them to move. Have 
 you found much benefit from the climate ? " 
 
 " As much as I ever expected to do," Mr. Neville 
 replied. 
 
 " I suppose you overworked yourself in London ? " 
 
 11 People said so, but I believe it would have been 
 just the same if I had done nothing." Then he quickly 
 changed the subject, and began to tell them the names 
 of the mountains which rise precipitously above the 
 orange-gardens and lemon-groves, forming that con- 
 trast of grandeur and smilingness which is the peculiar 
 
286 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 charm of the scenery about Mentone. Even on that 
 winter day the sun was so hot that they were glad, 
 after passing the little chapel of the Madonna near 
 Carnoles, to turn aside to the left into the olive wood, 
 from which they soon emerged on a picturesque bit of 
 sea coast, full of fragments of rocks and famous for its 
 wild flowers. There on the greensward the first 
 crocuses are always to be found. 
 
 Then passing again from sunshine into shade, they 
 strolled through a pine wood to the farthest point of 
 the promontory, where the waves were dashing joy- 
 fully and throwing up clouds of spray out of the 
 foaming cavities of the red and grey rocks. From 
 this spot, covered with aromatic plants and odoriferous 
 shrubs, on one side is seen Monaco, and on the other 
 Mentone — miniature Venices : little queens of that 
 bright sea which sometimes looks on a calm day like 
 a vast sheet of ice, with shining pathways intersecting 
 its smooth surface, and leading to distant regions of 
 unexplored beauty. 
 
 Ita well remembered the wonderful view from this 
 point. She had been looking forward to Edgar's 
 enjoyment of it, but he kept his eyes fixed on the 
 turf, and she saw they could not bear the dazzling 
 glitter of the sea. 
 
 " My husband's eyes are very weak just now," she 
 said to Mr. Neville. 
 
 " Let us go back into the shade," he answered ; 
 " the glare is intense just here." 
 
 They found pleasant seats on the trunks of some 
 fallen trees, with glimpses of the view through green 
 branches, which Edgar could enjoy. 
 
 A little goat-herd was watching his flock close to 
 them. Ita gave him some sous, and spoke to him 
 in Mentonese. This led to Edgar's saying, " Are the 
 people here as good as my wife declares them to be ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 287 
 
 " Mrs. Derwent, I think, must know more of them 
 than I do," Mr. Neville replied ; " but what I have 
 seen since I have been here inclines me quite to agree 
 with her. They seem a good, honest race of people ; 
 moral in their conduct, and very pious." 
 
 " There, Edgar, you see Mr. Neville is quite of my 
 opinion. I am so glad. You would not believe me." 
 
 " You are so enthusiastic about Mentone that I sus- 
 pect you of seeing everything in too favourable a light. 
 The church was very full that night we arrived," Edgar 
 continued, turning to Mr. Neville. " Are the services 
 always so well attended? " 
 
 11 Yes, I think so. The novena before Christmas 
 will soon begin, and San Michele will be crowded 
 every evening." 
 
 " I wish we could go sometimes," Ita said, " but 
 Edgar must not be out late at night." 
 
 "I suppose," Edgar said, " that there is much in 
 foreign churches which must scandalize English 
 Roman Catholics." 
 
 Ita felt her cheeks flushing, and eagerly looked at 
 Mr. Neville. 
 
 " Some of the habits of the people I might perhaps 
 wish to be different," he said, " but on the whole I 
 think there is much more to be admired than shocked 
 at in the aspect of churches abroad." 
 
 " It strikes me that the services are carried on in a 
 slovenly manner ; prayers gabbled over, and the men 
 and boys who serve at Mass are sometimes so ill-dressed 
 and dirty. The children behave dreadfully too." 
 
 " To those who are used to the slow, declamatory 
 manner in which the Anglican Service is read, there 
 seems, I know, something irreverent in repeating 
 prayers in a rapid manner. But I have found by ex- 
 perience that there can be quite as much, and some- 
 times more devotion in that way of saying them than 
 
288 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 in the other. I suppose a good deal depends on what 
 we are used to. As to the ragged appearance of the 
 servers at Mass, I own I find no fault with it. On 
 the contrary, I like to see that act of devotion per- 
 formed by very poor people who have not means to 
 get good clothes, or time to make themselves tidy. 
 As to the children, what can we say for them, Mrs. 
 Derwent ? They are very troublesome." 
 
 " But some of them are so good. I have often seen 
 quite little things come into church by themselves, and 
 say a prayer before the altar, and sometimes making the 
 way of the cross without anyone telling them to do it. 
 They do not think it wrong to run up and down the 
 church or smile at each other, as English children would.' y 
 
 " But they ought to think so," Edgar said, " especially 
 in a Catholic church it seems so strange that irrever- 
 ence should be tolerated." 
 
 " But it is not meant as irreverence, and I do not 
 think it can be called so," Mr. Neville answered. 
 " When our Lord was on earth He would surely have 
 suffered little children to run about and smile in His 
 presence ? " 
 
 Edgar shook his head and would not admit the 
 parallel. " My wife," he said, " thinks everything 
 perfect here. I must never venture on a criticism. 
 She says immediately it is English prejudice. Are 
 you thinking of going on to Rome, Mr. Neville ? " 
 
 " No, I must return to London as soon as I can. 
 A very different place from Rome." 
 
 " But quite as interesting in another way," Edgar 
 said. " I am not one of those who wish they had 
 lived in other times than our own. I am very glad 
 my lot has been cast in the nineteenth century, and, 
 at this period of it. I suppose that, though on many 
 points we disagree, we both must feel the greatest 
 interest in the revival of Catholicism in England." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 2g9 
 
 " Of course I do. Who could have believed half a 
 century ago what we now see ? There is a little book 
 called ' Father Clement,' which was written, I think, 
 between forty and fifty years ago, in which this pas- 
 sage occurs; I quote from memory: 'The Roman 
 Catholic traveller would sigh as he remembered that 
 in Britain his Church is almost forgotten ; her places 
 of worship in ruins, or, stripped of the character they 
 once bore, now dedicated to another faith ; her services 
 regarded as unmeaning ceremonies. Her doctrines 
 held as too absurd to be professed by rational men, 
 and her claims to infallibility charged as an illiberal 
 accusation of her enemies.' A very few years after 
 these sentences were written, what would the writer 
 have said, if he, or rather she, for I believe it was 
 written by a woman, could have beheld in a vision 
 what is now going on in England ? " 
 
 " I suppose that at the time you joined the Church 
 of Rome you did not anticipate the wonderful develop- 
 ment of Catholicism in our Church ? " 
 
 " I certainly did not foresee to what an extent 
 Catholic doctrines and practices would be adopted by 
 Anglicans, or what strenuous efforts they would make 
 to reconcile them with the articles and formularies of 
 the Church of England." 
 
 " You would not, perhaps, have abandoned it had 
 you known the great change about to take place 
 amongst us ? " 
 
 " If anything could have conduced to strengthen 
 my resolution, it would have been that foresight." 
 
 M I cannot understand that." 
 
 " All that has taken place since I became a Catholic 
 has only served to show me more clearly than ever 
 that there can be only one Visible Church, and the 
 absolute necessity of a living authority in matters of 
 faith. Every revival amongst you of Catholic doc- 
 
 T 
 
290 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 trine, every adoption of Catholic practices, proves to 
 me the perfect consistency of the Roman Catholic 
 Church ; and that all she teaches and enjoins is the 
 necessary consequence of the principles laid down by 
 the original promoters of the Catholic movement in 
 your communion." 
 
 " I cannot understand that, unless you assume that 
 we have not the same right to Catholic usages, and, if 
 I must use the word, developments, as yourselves. We 
 maintain just as much as you do that there is only one 
 Visible Church, one Catholic Church, and that it has 
 authority to teach. We say that it is the duty of in- 
 dividuals to submit to her teaching, and that to 
 separate from this one Church is a sin — the sin of 
 schism. I consider these points to be settled and 
 assumed on both sides. The difference between us is 
 not so much in the doctrines, we believe, although we 
 certainly hold you to be in error on several points ; 
 but as to the Catholicity of our branch of the one 
 universal Church, we assert that it has preserved the 
 Catholic faith far more free from corruption and 
 additions than the Church of Rome, and that it has a 
 claim, as the English Church, to the obedience of all 
 English persons." 
 
 " Don't you think we had better separate the two 
 questions of our supposed corruptions and of your own 
 Catholicity ? I hardly see how our faults can make 
 you Catholics. — Now, I know you maintain, in order 
 to make good your theory, that your Church is one 
 with the Catholic Church all over the world, and on 
 that assumption alone can its claims to authority be 
 established. The fact remains, that she is isolated, 
 condemned, and disowned by the whole of the' Catholic 
 Church ; and yet you pretend that she belongs to it so 
 thoroughly that you can, as an Anglican, profess to 
 believe in the existence of one Catholic and Apos- 
 
MRS.. GERALD'S NIECE. 291 
 
 tolical Church, not in the Protestant sense of an 
 invisible union between all who call themselves 
 Christians, but in a bond fide real visible union." 
 
 " But we say that in all essential points, in all that 
 is necessary to salvation, there is a perfect agreement 
 between the Roman and the Anglican branches of the 
 Catholic Church. All that has been everywhere and 
 at all times received as necessary to be believed is 
 taught by the Church of England as by your Church ; 
 but the latter has added to the faith, has corrupted its 
 purity and imposed unwarrantable terms of com- 
 munion. On her the onus of separation lies." 
 
 " There again you are going off the point, at least 
 in what you say as to purity of faith. As to unwar- 
 rantable terms of communion, do you mean by speaking 
 of these to acknowledge that you are in schism, but 
 not through your own fault ? " 
 
 Edgar paused. " There is schism between us, but 
 it is on account of your corruptions, which are imposed 
 on us as terms of communion." 
 
 " The Church, then, is no longer really one ? " 
 
 ''It is one invisibly and really, because its parts 
 agree on all necessary points. It is not one out- 
 wardly, because we are divided on account of your 
 corruptions." 
 
 Ita looked at her husband with trouble in her face. 
 He seemed to have contradicted himself. 
 
 Mr. Neville resumed. " So, then, our corruptions 
 are great enough to justify you in schism, but they are 
 not great enough to make any material difference 
 between us ? " 
 
 "There is a state of schism between us. We have 
 not separated from you, but you from us. The blame 
 lies with those who have corrupted the faith." 
 
 " I see," said Mr. Neville, " I must let you have 
 your own way. So as to these corruptions, then. This 
 
2Q2 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 brings us back to the question of authority. Who is it 
 that rules the faith to have been corrupted ? What 
 tribunal has pronounced on that question ? And how 
 many are there even amongst the members of your own 
 party whose witness will be found to agree so as to 
 find a verdict on that head. Who are there amongst 
 you who will exactly agree, and clearly and unani- 
 mously state when, where, and to what extent, the 
 Church of Rome has corrupted the faith ? " 
 
 " We appeal to antiquity — to the Catholic Church 
 before the separation of East and West." 
 
 " But if there is no living Church with power to 
 judge and decide on controverted points, there is an 
 end to all authoritative teaching. You appeal to tra- 
 dition against the witness and guide to tradition ; and 
 why may not individuals among yourselves appeal to 
 Scripture against your Church's interpretation of 
 Scripture ? and if this is allowed, then there is an end 
 to all belief in a visible teaching Church." 
 
 11 We hold what antiquity held." 
 
 " And how do you ascertain what antiquity did 
 hold?" 
 
 " By the unanimous consent of the Fathers." 
 
 11 But amongst yourselves — I do not even speak of 
 your bishops, or of the majority of your clergy — but 
 amongst your own High Church Puseyite party — can 
 you arrive at a unanimous agreement as to what has 
 been the consent of the Fathers, or as to who are 
 the Fathers whose testimony you are prepared to re- 
 ceive ? " 
 
 " We can arrive at the conviction that the Fathers 
 would never have sanctioned modern Romish innova- 
 tions." 
 
 " This is at best a negative kind of faith. And will 
 you let me ask you whether your own Church sanctions 
 your interpretation of her articles — whether it does 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 293 
 
 not accuse you of corrupting the faith by human tra- 
 ditions ? Do not your bishops, even while they admit 
 that you are the most zealous and hard-working of 
 your clergy, lament the opinions you hold, and depre- 
 cate the course you pursue ? Forgive me for speaking 
 thus freely. You know I did not begin this discussion, 
 and should not have thought of plunging into it at the 
 outset of our acquaintance, if you had not yourself led 
 the way to it." 
 
 Edgar smiled, and said, " I suppose that when the 
 mind is very much occupied with a particular subject, 
 as is the case with both of us, that it is difficult to be 
 long together before beginning to speak of it. I am 
 not at all afraid of being shaken by your arguments. 
 My conviction of the Catholicity of the Church of 
 England is founded not only on what appears to me 
 sufficient outward evidence, but on the most unmis- 
 takable inward experience. But you interrupted 
 yourself just now to apologize for what you were 
 going to say. Pray do not hesitate to express all your 
 thoughts." 
 
 " I was going to say that it passes my comprehen- 
 sion how sincere men — and I quite believe you and 
 some others of your way of thinking are sincere — can 
 take upon yourselves the responsibility of teaching 
 people doctrines which, to say the least of it, are am- 
 biguously stated in your formularies, apparently denied 
 in your Articles, and condemned by the bishops of the 
 Church you profess yourself to be taught and guided 
 by. How can you tell 3'our parishioners, ■ Do not be- 
 lieve what it seems to you the articles of religion in 
 your Prayer-book teach. Believe what we tell you 
 they mean, or rather do not mean. Do not believe 
 your bishop, who says we are wrong. We are right — 
 believe us? " 
 
 "Believe us! " Edgar exclaimed. " Believe us, be- 
 
294 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 cause we teach you what the Catholic Church has al- 
 ways and still teaches all over the world — what has 
 been believed in every age and in every part of the 
 Church." 
 
 " And how, I say, are they to know, those to whom 
 you say this, that what you tell them is true. You are 
 nothing more than individuals, condemned by the 
 superiors and the majority of your own body, and by 
 the whole of the Roman Catholic Church. You stand 
 alone, acting on your own responsibility, taking for 
 granted, on your own authority, what you assert, as- 
 suming a position and maintaining a theory which 
 many amongst you have held only for a comparatively 
 short time. You expect your parishioners to accept, 
 on the one hand, your charges against Protestantism, 
 in opposition to the opinions of your bishops and the 
 great majority of your own communion, and on the 
 other hand your accusations against the Church of 
 Rome, in opposition to the judgment of some of the 
 holiest, wisest, and most learned men the world has 
 ever known ; of -saints, martyrs, and doctors, teaching 
 one and the same doctrine, and supported by the 
 voices of nearly one thousand living bishops, and the 
 whole of the Catholic world in communion with 
 St. Peter. Is not this enough to make you hesitate to 
 trust in your own views and those of your friends in 
 the Anglican Church ? Are you not struck with the 
 fact, that no one takes the same view of your position 
 as yourselves? " 
 
 " Some members of your own Church have done so." 
 " If they do, they cease to be Roman Catholics, 
 though they may call themselves such, and continue 
 to frequent our churches ; but you will not find that 
 members of the Greek Church, though themselves 
 divided from the Latin Church, or Protestants of any 
 denomination, or Jews or even Infidels, will allow you 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 295 
 
 to be Catholics, or understand the theory by which you 
 seek to establish your claim to that position. Then, 
 many amongst yourselves, whose dearest and strongest 
 interest it was to continue to hold it, have felt them- 
 selves constrained to abandon it. Does not all this 
 make you doubt, waver, at least, in your reliance on 
 your own impressions on the subject ? " 
 
 Edgar glanced at his wife. He saw that she was 
 listening with the deepest attention to Mr. Neville's 
 arguments. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes fixed 
 on the ground, but now and then raised to his face 
 when he uttered some of the thoughts which had some- 
 times passed through her mind. Her husband knew 
 her countenance too well not to perceive that she was 
 deeply interested in the discussion. But he felt so 
 confident of the truth of his own convictions, that, on 
 the whole, he did not regret this opportunity of con- 
 futing a Romanist in her presence. Mr. Neville's 
 manner was not offensive. It was earnest and vehe- 
 ment, but neither scornful nor flippant, and he felt an 
 irresistible desire to continue the conversation. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Instead of directly replying to his opponent's last 
 words, Edgar said, " It is a matter of absolute certainty 
 that we have the Apostolical Succession, and as the 
 Church of England has also the true faith, once for all, 
 delivered to the saints, there is nothing to impair her 
 authority over us, and in her we have the Sacraments 
 and whatever else we need to be saved." 
 
 " Hardly whatever else you need to be saved if you 
 have not unity. Remember what St. Paul says about 
 all divine gifts if charity be wanting. You might have 
 all these things you specify, as I suppose the Donatists 
 had, and yet be lost. You have described an ideal 
 Church, guilty of schism and nothing else. However, 
 though rambling in argument usually leads to nothing, 
 I will take up your position as you put it ; you may 
 have an absolute conviction that you have the Apos- 
 tolical Succession, but that conviction is not shared by 
 dispassionate persons outside your Church, who have 
 studied the question. As a rule, it is disbelieved by 
 Roman Catholics, and some of your own communion 
 doubt the fact. The most that has ever been conceded 
 by Catholics on that point is, that the case is a doubt- 
 ful one, because it depends on a number of facts as to 
 which evidence is either wanting or imperfect. Your 
 assertion is, therefore, simply a begging of the ques- 
 tion. But, granting that it was ever so true and 
 certain, that fact would not decide the Catholicity of 
 the English Church ; again, the question would still 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 297 
 
 remain whether the succession was held in heresy or 
 schism. I suppose you do not hold that a body, having 
 the succession, cannot be heretical or schismatical ? " 
 
 " Not absolutely ; but I do maintain that there is 
 a strong presumption in favour of its orthodoxy, and 
 corroborative evidence is not wanting, The Church 
 of England is a great fact. It bears the tokens of a 
 work of God, of a step in the course of His Providence 
 for the furtherance of some great design in the world. 
 Its history contains such remarkable evidences of His 
 fostering care and supernatural grace, that I cannot 
 understand how anyone can abandon it without run- 
 ning great risk of abandoning Him. I speak as freely 
 to you as you have done to me." 
 
 " Of course ; we are both in earnest, and cannot be 
 hurt or offended if we each express fully our thoughts." 
 
 " Well, if in my opinion this has always been the 
 case, how much more is it so now, when in such a 
 striking way He has moved, and is moving, the 
 minds of men within her, calling them to the know- 
 ledge of higher truths, to a sense of deeper wants, to a 
 fuller appreciation of the means of grace ? Does not 
 this show that He looks favourably upon ner ? that 
 He has some work for her to do ? Yes. I [appeal to 
 you who left us, indeed, before all this was as plain as 
 it is now ; can we destroy, as far as in us lies, this 
 work ? You have expressed without reserve, your 
 opinion of the shortcomings of my Church, and I will 
 not hesitate to state my belief that God is preparing 
 her for the high office of first regenerating our own 
 nation, and then recalling to truth and purity the 
 corrupt Church of the continent." 
 
 Ita's face had lighted up when Edgar had spoken 
 of the work of grace in the Church of England ; but 
 his last words pained her, and she turned towards 
 Mr. Neville, anxiously looking for his answer. 
 
298 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 u It is not enough," he said, when Edgar paused, 
 " to ask these questions, and to take it for granted that 
 a review of the past, and the contemplation of the 
 present, will lead to such conclusions or justify such 
 hopes. I can assure you that, for my own part, such 
 a review and such a contemplation convince me more 
 than anything else of the utter fallacy of your ex- 
 pectations. Reading the signs of the times, and the 
 history of the past in the light of the present, I cannot 
 help seeing in them the very contrary lessons to those 
 by which Anglicans would dissuade people from leaving 
 the English Church. I believe the recent movement 
 in the heart of members of that Church, at a time 
 when the voice of Catholics scarcely ever reached 
 their ears, has been a call from God to rise up and 
 return to their true mother, and their true home. I 
 am convinced that the strange rise and sudden spread 
 of Catholic ideas amongst us is intended to prepare the 
 way for the reception of the Catholic system in the 
 only way in which it really can and does exist. It 
 has been, as it were, a clue dropped at our feet to 
 guide us out of a labyrinth of difficulties into the plain 
 path of truth." 
 
 " Your view of the subject, and mine," Edgar re- 
 plied, " certainly proves how possible it is for two 
 persons to draw contradictory deductions from the 
 same fact. But, after all, the internal evidence is to 
 those who possess it more conclusive than any external 
 argument ; and our blessed Lord has so spoken to us 
 in and through the Sacraments of our Church, that He 
 has, as it were, told us that He is there of a certainty. 
 Ita, you are no theologian, but I am sure you will 
 confirm what I assert : Have we not unmistakable 
 evidence that, in Holy Communion, for instance, we 
 receive graces which we should feel it blasphemy to 
 deny? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 2gg 
 
 " Oh, yes ! whatever else we might doubt about, we 
 could never deny that," Ita exclaimed. She was glad 
 Edgar had appealed to her on a point on which she 
 could give the answer he expected. 
 
 " But neither I nor any one else would ask you to 
 deny it," Mr. Neville said. " The reality of Sacra- 
 ments is one thing, the reality of grace another. It is 
 commonly taught by theologians that spiritual com- 
 munion, that is, an ardent desire to receive the Blessed 
 Sacrament, confers grace sometimes equal in degree 
 to what might have been received by sacramental com- 
 munion. In the case of devout Greeks and Anglicans 
 who approach to receive their respective communions, 
 ignorant of the schismatical or heretical character of 
 their respective churches, and with a real faith and 
 ardent desire to receive our Lord, we should hope that 
 the Greek would receive grace through sacramental 
 participation of the Holy Eucharist actually present on 
 the Greek altars, and the Anglican through desire of 
 the Sacrament as if our Lord were to say, ' According to 
 thy faith so be it done to thee.' I suppose you would 
 urge Dissenters in England to join your Church, as you 
 say that not to obey her is to incur the sin of schism ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "Well then, might they not give just the same an- 
 swer to you as you give to me ? That they are sure 
 that our Lord is with them with His grace where they 
 are. And should you wish or be able to deny it ? " 
 
 " No, so long as they do not see the guilt of the state 
 in which they find themselves." 
 
 " Exactly ; and that then is the answer which the 
 Catholic Church makes to you. In answering her you 
 use the answer which the Dissenter makes to you, and 
 in answering the Dissenter you use the answer which 
 the Church makes to you. You see the question can- 
 not be settled by inward experience ; it is one of fact. 
 
3O0 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 God is very good to all who are in good faith. But 
 when once a Greek or an Anglican had come to see 
 the true constitution of the Church and the untenability 
 of the position claimed by his communion, he could 
 not then on any account delay his submission to the 
 Church of Rome, because being no longer in good 
 faith, the stream of sanctifying grace would have 
 ceased to flow for him." 
 
 Ita was listening with her head resting on her hands. 
 At that moment the thought crossed her mind how at 
 onetime, especially during the winter before her mar- 
 riage, the reception of the Sacraments in the Anglican 
 Church had seemed to convey more grace to her soul 
 than had been subsequently the case. Was it that, in 
 those days, she accepted in perfect good faith the 
 teaching which since she had felt it impossible alto- 
 gether to accept ? Were those doubts sins, on account 
 of which grace had been withdrawn ? or, on the other 
 hand, was she resisting grace by turning practically 
 a deaf ear to them ? 
 
 This is the perplexing question which presents itself 
 in so harassing a manner to many members of the 
 Anglican communion, when they begin to feel mis- 
 givings as to the truth of what at one time they fully 
 believed. To one as ignorant about religion as Ita was 
 when she first made acquaintance with Edgar, the 
 Anglican theory offered no difficulties. She had not 
 hesitated to accept whatever he taught her with humble 
 docility and eager sympathy. Since her marriage she 
 had heard, read, and thought a great deal. The contro- 
 versies carried on in Church newspapers and maga- 
 zines, and her husband's extensive correspondence 
 with members of the High Church party, had neces- 
 sarily made her acquainted with the view which those 
 outside the English communion took of its claims to 
 be a branch of the Catholic Church and a teacher of 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 301 
 
 truth, and also with the innumerable differences of 
 opinion existing on important points, even amongst 
 Edgar's own friends and members of his own school 
 and party. The way in which some of them spoke of 
 their bishops ; the evasions and shifts they resorted to 
 in order to reconcile the teaching of Catholic doctrines 
 and the observances resulting from them with the 
 prohibitions of ecclesiastical superiors ; the use of 
 certain expressions to disguise the obvious meaning of 
 certain practices, pained and distressed her simple, 
 frank, and loving nature : and whether it was that her 
 increasing sense of this inconsistency dried up the 
 spring of devotion in her heart, or that she was un- 
 faithful to the new light dawning in her soul, certain 
 it was that as time went on she derived less and less 
 benefit from Anglican ordinances. 
 
 What Edmund Neville had said awakened also a 
 second thought still more startling than the first. In 
 her passionate love for her husband she had sometimes 
 had a daring, reckless — if we did not hope that God 
 looks with pity on the wild impulses of human affec- 
 tion, we should add an impious — feeling, that she had 
 rather as it were take her chance of salvation with 
 Edgar than separate herself from him in this world 
 and the next. Now the idea for the first time power- 
 fully struck her that he might be in perfect good faith, 
 and consequently safe in his present position, whereas 
 she might be running the risk of losing her own soul 
 by stifling the voice of God calling her to the true 
 Church. If she and Edgar were both to die that 
 night, and appear at the judgment seat of Christ, 
 perhaps he would be acquitted even if he had been in 
 error on account of his sincerity, and she .... how 
 was it with her ? Was she so entirely convinced of all 
 she had been trying hard to believe as to the Catho- 
 licity of the English Church, so sure that the handful 
 
3 o2 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 of men in that Church who held it were right, and the 
 whole Catholic world who denied it, wrong, that she 
 could plead conviction on that point at the supreme 
 tribunal of God, where every heart is laid open and no 
 sophistry will avail. There was a time when she could 
 have done so, but conscience whispered that that time 
 was past .... She was so absorbed in these reflections 
 that for a few minutes she lost the thread of the con- 
 versation going on between Edgar and Edmund 
 Neville. Her attention was roused by the emphatic 
 manner in which the former exclaimed : " But the 
 unbending theory of Rome cannot be reconciled with 
 existing facts. You assert that those who are not in 
 communion with your Church form no part of the 
 visible Catholic Church, and yet you cannot deny that 
 graces from Christ and visible good works, which are 
 the fruits of grace, are found outside the unity of the 
 Roman Church." 
 
 "We are quite ready to admit this, as I have al- 
 ready said," Mr. Neville answered, " whenever the 
 facts can be proved, and we fully admit many of the 
 alleged facts, but this falls in completely with the 
 doctrine of the Church concerning the visible and the 
 invisible Church. St. Augustine has summed up all 
 we could say on this point in his distinction between 
 the soul and body of the Church, expressing his hope 
 that at the last day many will be found to have 
 belonged to the invisible Church who never formed 
 part of the visible children, will be judged for their 
 own personal participation in heresy or schism not for 
 the heresy or schism of their fathers. If they have 
 been validly baptized they have been regenerated in 
 the Christ and united to the soul of the Church, and 
 they continue so till by their own act they knowingly 
 and wilfully reject the truth and unity of the Church." 
 
 H You do then admit the fact that in the Church of 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 303 
 
 England the Holy Ghost works with undeniable grace 
 and efficacy ? " 
 
 " I admit it just in the same way as I believe He 
 does wherever men of good will and in good faith, 
 according to the light given to them, seek to serve and 
 please God with humble and sincere hearts. But you 
 must excuse me if I consider that the Pasteur Oberlin, 
 for instance, or any good Presbyterian or Methodist, 
 is just as likely to belong to the soul of the Catholic 
 Church as the members of the Anglican communion." 
 
 " It would be the greatest of calamities to me," 
 Edgar replied, "if — which you have not yet done — you 
 could succeed in shaking my faith in the Catholicity of 
 our Church, because I must plainly tell you that it would 
 be an impossibility for me to join the Church of Rome." 
 
 " And why so ? " 
 
 " Because it would involve straining my conscience 
 to believe what I know to be false, and, moreover, 
 which I know that not only the Primitive but the Me- 
 dieval Church knew to be so. The English Church, 
 no doubt, teaches three or four Catholic doctrines less 
 clearly and plainly than could be wished ; it teaches 
 them indistinctly, if you will, but still it does teach 
 them. On the other hand, Rome now forces on us 
 three or four doctrines which St. Bernard, St. Thomas 
 of Aquinas, and St. Bonaventure would have thought 
 blasphemous. How then can I do otherwise than 
 stay where I am?" 
 
 " Will you tell me what the doctrines are to which 
 you refer ? " 
 
 " The Roman Church gives communion to the laity 
 under one kind only. Those who leave the Anglican 
 Church to join it, renounce half the sacrament insti- 
 tuted by our Lord ; give up the privilege of receiving 
 the precious blood, and exchange a perfect for a muti- 
 lated ordinance." 
 
304 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 44 But do you mean to say that the giving the Com- 
 munion in one kind to all but the celebrant, is a doc- 
 trine which St. Thomas and St. Bonaventure would 
 have called blasphemous ? It is not a doctrine but a 
 practice, involving, if you like, a precious doctrine, 
 which both of these saints believed, and which perhaps 
 you do not deny. St. Thomas in the l Lauda, Sion,' 
 expresses it in these words, 
 
 ' Manet tamen Christus totus 
 Sub utraque specie.' 
 
 44 I might, however, content myself with replying 
 that on this point, like on all others, the real question 
 at issue is, whether the Church of God, the pillar and 
 ground of truth, has authority or not to decide whether 
 any change in the form of administering a sacrament 
 maims it in any substantial particular or not. I grant 
 you that communion in both kinds was the usual pri- 
 mitive practice, though even then communion under 
 the form of wine only was given to newly-baptized 
 infants — and communion under the form of bread only 
 was permitted to be carried from the churches by lay 
 persons, to adore and communicate themselves with in 
 secret in the days of persecution." 
 
 " I know that perfectly well," Edgar interrupted. 
 44 But why, when there is no necessity for denying the 
 cup to the laity, was the practice enjoined which had 
 been resorted to in the early ages of the Church only 
 in cases of necessity ? " 
 
 44 So now it comes down to this, that what you first 
 call blasphemous doctrine is a practice which may be 
 justified by necessity, but as to which, in the present 
 case, you do not see the necessity. It became a 
 general custom in the Western Church, and the 
 Church having always held that although both kinds 
 were essential to the sacrifice, either kind alone sufficed 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 305 
 
 for communion tolerated the usage. In the course of 
 time what had been permitted became enjoined, partly 
 because it is much more difficult to guard against 
 accidents in giving communion to a large number 
 of persons under the form of wine than under the 
 form of bread, and that it became a very serious diffi- 
 culty in times when there was little commercial 
 intercourse between one country and another, to pro- 
 vide sufficient wine for the communions of whole 
 populations ; whereas, wheat is a product of every 
 region, and partly as a protest against the erroneous 
 belief that in receiving under one kind only, we do 
 not receive Christ as He is in heaven, our living and 
 glorified Lord. His Soul, His Body, and His Blood 
 united inseparably with one another, and with His 
 Divinity." 
 
 " Still I do not see how you reconcile this mutila- 
 tion of the Sacrament with our Lord's words in the 
 gospel." 
 
 " I must again remind you that you are not speak- 
 ing of mere difficulties as to which you are not clear, 
 but of doctrines and practices which so revolt your 
 conscience, that they are of themselves sufficient to 
 prevent your acceptance of the authority of the Church 
 which insists on them. Suppose the Anglican Church 
 had retained the practice as to this matter which it 
 found at the Reformation, would you on that account 
 refuse to belong to her ? " 
 
 Ita was inclined to say, " I wish it had," for she 
 had been very much shocked, both in England and 
 abroad, by the way in which she had seen the chalice 
 handled at the Anglican communion. She checked 
 herself, however, and, as Edgar did not reply, Mr. 
 Neville continued : — 
 
 " I suppose, by the words of the gospel, you mean 
 those of institution. I could answer that we do per- 
 il 
 
3 o6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 fectly reconcile this practice with our Lord's words, 
 seeing that we apply his commandment to the institu- 
 tion of the Sacrifice of the Mass, in which the priest 
 must receive in both kinds. But let me ask you, do 
 you not give up your own principles when you ad- 
 vance in argument the apparent meaning — that is, 
 what appears to you the apparent meaning — of a text 
 of Scripture in opposition to the decisions of the 
 Church ? If you use this method of reasoning, Dis- 
 senters may, on the same grounds, reject every Catholic 
 doctrine. There is not a single one which has not 
 been controverted by some sect or other, on the ground 
 of their own interpretation of some words of the Bible." 
 
 " Well, it was rather in a corroborative than a 
 positive manner that 1 supported what I hold to be 
 true Catholic doctrine, by a reference to the text of 
 Scripture." 
 
 "Will you let me ask . you this question, Mr. 
 Derwent — Do you believe, or not, that when Catho- 
 lics . . . ." 
 
 " Roman Catholics? " Edgar interrupted. 
 
 Mr. Neville smiled. " I glory in the name of 
 Roman ; but when I use it I must add the protest, that 
 I consider no one as a Catholic who is not a Roman 
 Catholic. Do you believe, or not, that when Roman 
 Catholics go to communion they receive Christ our 
 Lord whole and undivided ? " 
 
 Mr. Derwent hesitated. " I do not wish to decide," 
 he said, after a pause, " how far or not this may be 
 the case." 
 
 " But surely," Mr. Neville exclaimed, " if you im- 
 pugn the doctrine of the Church on this point, you 
 should have a clear and decided belief on this subject. 
 Just now you gave this as an instance of a doctrine 
 that would prevent you in any case from becoming a 
 Catholic." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 307 
 
 " I have a settled conviction that it must be a loss 
 to members of your communion not to receive under 
 both kinds ; but this is but one of the difficulties I 
 spoke of just now. Your modern idea of Purgatory, 
 for instance, is most repulsive, and not at all in ac- 
 cordance with the sweet and beautiful expressions in 
 the primitive and medieval liturgies concerning the 
 middle state of souls. You hold that it is for some a 
 purification by suffering. There is a horrible line in 
 one of your popular hymns, which speaks of their 
 enduring ' Pain above all earthly pain.' " 
 
 " We are going on to a second point before we 
 have settled the first. This is not the way to come 
 to a conclusion, but I must follow your arguments 
 wherever they may lead me. As to Purgatory, then, 
 I maintain, and I could allege a number of passages 
 to prove, that this doctrine was taught both in the 
 Primitive and the Medieval Church. St. Clement of 
 Alexandria, in the second century, speaks of ' a faith- 
 ful man passing to the severest suffering, and punished 
 still more (whilst he attains not yet, or not at all, to 
 those things which he sees others partaking) for the 
 completion of the penalty for sins committed after 
 baptism.' And St. Augustine, speaking of those who 
 will be saved yet, so as by fire, adds, ' because it is 
 said, " Thou shalt be saved," that fire is despised, yet 
 assuredly, though " saved by fire," that fire will be 
 more grievous than anything that man can suffer in 
 this life.' These are actually the very words of the 
 hymn you quoted." 
 
 " I shall look out for both those passages. I had 
 either never read or never noticed them. There is, 
 however, to my mind, something contradictory be- 
 tween St. John's words, ' Blessed are the dead who 
 die in the Lord,' and the idea of souls suffering after 
 death." 
 
3 o8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " If that is all you can say against us, we may 
 leave this point, for you cannot mean that this is a 
 blasphemous doctrine, which you could never accept. 
 For my part, I cannot see anything in the Catholic 
 doctrine on that point inconsistent with the Apostle's 
 words. ■ Those who die in the Lord' — that is, in the 
 grace of God united to Him, and free from the stains 
 of sin — are blessed in the immediate enjoyment of the 
 beatific vision after death. Those who, though united 
 to God by sanctifying grace, have yet need of purifica- 
 tion, have yet some [ wood, and hay, and stubble ' that 
 has to be burnt in the fire, are also blessed, because 
 they enjoy the certainty that they are saved, though 
 they may have to suffer greater pains, deeper sorrow, 
 from hope delayed, than we can form an idea of in 
 this world ; yet this is perfectly compatible with a feel- 
 ing of most intense blessedness, from the consciousness 
 that they are united to God, and that nothing can 
 separate them from Him. Would not the severest 
 pain be endured with joy even on earth, if we knew it 
 was hourly bringing us nearer to one .... whom we 
 had loved .... to one we felt ourselves to be 
 utterly unworthy of; but whom, through patient suf- 
 fering, we hope one day . . . ." 
 
 Mr. Neville's voice faltered, and he broke off sud- 
 denly in the midst of his sentence. 
 
 Both Edgar and Ita felt for him. The former said 
 gently, in a low voice — 
 
 " Yes ; I can understand that in some cases suffering 
 might be happiness." 
 
 Mr. Neville looked up quickly, and said— 
 
 " And that explains Purgatory. And now go on to 
 your next difficulty ; you spoke of three or four, I 
 think. Is it the worship of the Blessed Virgin ?" 
 
 " Yes, it is the attitude of the Roman Church with 
 regard to her that I think startling, really dreadful. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 309 
 
 St. Bonaventure and St. Bernard would have shrunk 
 with horror at the modern language of Rome with 
 regard to St. Mary." 
 
 u Will you give me some instances of the sort of 
 things you think would have shocked those saints." 
 
 " I mean such assertions as that some things are 
 impossible to the Son, nothing impossible to the 
 Mother ; or, again, that if we must choose an advocate 
 with the Father, it should be rather the Mother than 
 the Son." 
 
 M My dear Mr. Derwent, I deny that any approved 
 Catholic author can ever have said these things. It 
 would be impossible for any Catholic who had learnt 
 his Catechism ever to utter such words in the sense 
 that you attach to them. If they were said by Catho- 
 lics, the Church would condemn them. As to St. 
 Bernard, I could perfectly understand that if you 
 looked at the subject in the light that Protestants do, 
 how some of the things he says about the Blessed 
 Virgin might startle and distress you, but I cannot 
 conceive what you can find in the modern Catholic 
 devotions stranger than some of his sayings : for instance, 
 in his sermon on the Nativity he writes, ' Take away 
 the Sun which enlightens the world, and where is the 
 day ? Take away Mary, the star of the sea, and what 
 remains but darkness and the shadow of death ? ' And 
 in another page of the same sermon, ' With all our 
 hearts and affections, then, with all our desires let us 
 venerate Mary, for such is His will who would that we 
 should receive every thing through her.' And, again, 
 in another place, ' Go then to Mary. The Son will 
 hear the Mother and the Father will hear the Son. 
 This is the ladder of sinners ; this is my chief confi- 
 dence. This is the only reason of my hope.' I will 
 freely own to you that I had been for some years a 
 Catholic before I knew at all how emphatic are the 
 
3io MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 expressions of the early fathers of the Church of those 
 who lived during the centuries, which the Anglican 
 Church holds to have preserved the faith in all its 
 purity on the subject of devotion to the Blessed Virgin. 
 Nothing in St. Alphonsus Liguori's works exceeds, 
 if indeed it comes up to, what is to be found in their 
 writings." 
 
 " I cannot get over the feeling," Edgar said, "that 
 the worship of the Blessed Virgin, carried as far as it 
 is in the Roman Church, must interfere with that 
 devotion to our Blessed Lord, which ought entirely to 
 fill and absorb our hearts." 
 
 " I have two remarks to make in reply to this obser- 
 vation of yours. First, I would ask you whether the 
 firmest faith in the Divinity of our Lord and the 
 strongest personal love for His sacred Humanity are 
 to be found amongst those who ignore the privileges 
 and blame the practice of invoking the Blessed Virgin, 
 or amongst those who love and pray to her ? Whether 
 devotion to our Lord's Passion and the habit of con- 
 stant meditation on the mysteries of His life and death 
 are most prevalent in the Roman Catholic Church, or 
 in Protestant communions ? Whether in proportion to 
 the utter neglect of the worship of the Blessed Virgin, 
 Socinianism has not risen up amongst Protestants, and 
 on the other hand, when as of late years in the 
 Anglican Church there has been a return to a more 
 intense realization of the doctrine of the Incarnation, 
 it has not been immediately accompanied by a return 
 also of tenderness and reverence towards the Mother 
 of our Blessed Lord ? " 
 
 Ita raised her eyes to her husband with an ex- 
 pression which said as plainly as if the words had 
 been spoken, "You can give but one answer to that 
 question." 
 
 At last he said, " I honour and love the Blessed 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Virgin ; it is the position you give her I object 
 to." 
 
 " But this is not the reply to my question. What I 
 urge is, that it is that position which we give her which 
 produces the results I mentioned just now. I ask you 
 if facts do not justify my assertion. Is our Blessed 
 Lord more highly honoured, more recognized as God ? 
 Is the doctrine of the Holy Trinity preserved in its 
 •fullest integrity by those who refuse to honour His 
 Mother, or by those whom you think pay her undue 
 honour ? That is the question. I maintain that in 
 every sect which has abandoned the worship of Mary 
 — I need not, in speaking to you, stop to explain in 
 what sense we use that word — the doctrines of the In- 
 carnation, of the Divinity of our Lord and of the Holy 
 Trinity have gradually become obscured, and ended 
 by being denied. Devotion to the Blessed Virgin is 
 the bulwark of the fundamental principles of Chris- 
 tianity ; wherever it is given up, slowly but gradually 
 these principles disappear." 
 
 \\ I attribute this decay to the absence of Church 
 principles, not to the cause you allege. It is dis- 
 obedience to authority — it is the lawlessness of private 
 judgment — which has undermined Christianity in Pro- 
 testant sects, and brought about so many evils, even 
 in our Catholic and Apostolical Church ; but what 
 was the second observation you intended to make ? " 
 
 " I meant to ask you whether those who love any 
 one person ardently, do not also, on that account, love 
 dearly all who belong to that person ; and whether 
 they feel that these other affections interfere with the 
 one which has called them forth ? Does, for instance, 
 the grandfather who dotes on his daughter's child, 
 love her the less because of the affection he lavishes 
 on her infant ? On the contrary, when we love others 
 intensely, do not our hearts warm towards all those 
 
3 i2 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 they love or who love them ? Why should it be dif- 
 ferent in the case of the highest, holiest, and tenderest 
 feeling of our nature ? Why should our love for Mary, 
 which must necessarily and only proceed from love for 
 her Divine Son, diminish it ? What a poor mean fear 
 that is of loving God less because we love also the 
 most beautiful, perfect, and dearest work of His hands? 
 According to this narrow view, a soul without affection 
 for any human being would be most capable of loving 
 its Creator. I, for one, could never believe that doc- 
 trine. I think that the more tenderly we look upon 
 men on earth, and on the saints, the angels, and the 
 Blessed Mother of God in Heaven, the more will our 
 hearts expand in adoring devotion towards the great 
 God Who has made them and us. Many have practi- 
 cally felt this. Many who once never thought of Mary r 
 and who, through thinking of her, have acquired a 
 new, different, personal feeling for our Lord. You 
 speak of experience. I wish you would believe us! , * 
 Mr. Neville exclaimed, suddenly interrupting himself. 
 " We who have crossed the border ! We who have 
 entered the promised land ! We know what you do 
 not know ! We see what you cannot see ! And our 
 experience is supported by a large and unanimous 
 Church, whereas yours rests only on a small section of 
 persons who happen to agree with you in your own 
 body ; and, if I may speak generally as to converts r 
 their experience is that of persons whose convictions 
 have been tested by great sacrifices." 
 
 " You left our Church before she had sprung up r 
 as it were, from her ashes," Edgar exclaimed with 
 emotion. " You cannot understand what we feel for 
 our spiritual mother." He glanced at Ita, expecting a 
 responsive look, but she had covered her eyes with 
 her hands, and sat with her head bent down. 
 
 None of them spoke for a few instants. Then 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 313 
 
 Edmund Neville said in a different tone, " At Nice we 
 should never have been able to argue so quietly — the 
 air is too exciting. Mentone has such a soothing 
 climate that it helps one to be good tempered.' 1 
 
 Ita, glad that he had changed the subject, looked 
 up and smiled. " I think it makes one a little idle, 
 too," she said. " And yet the peasants seem a hard- 
 working race." 
 
 " They are so," Mr. Neville answered. " The wo- 
 men, especially ; the distances they walk, and the 
 loads they carry, are really wonderful." 
 
 " I hope," Ita said, " the boy from Castellar, who 
 used to bring us cones, will hear of my return. He 
 used to come to the villa every week with a bag full 
 of them. If not, I shall have to buy them in the 
 town. As Edgar cannot have a regular English fire 
 for Christmas, I mean to make him a beautiful extra- 
 vagant one all made of cones. It used to be one of 
 my childish wishes to make such a fire. It will look 
 like a mountain of blazing pine-apples, and the per- 
 fume will be delicious. It is getting rather late now, 
 I think we had better, perhaps, be moving." 
 
 They strolled slowly on the beach on their home- 
 ward way, enjoying the varying lights on the sea and 
 in the sky. Edgar could not help liking Edmund 
 Neville ; he thought him intelligent and refined. Be- 
 fore they parted, he asked him to dine with them on 
 the following day. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 On their way home, the Derwents met the Abate 
 Giovanni — Pre Gian, as he was called in the Men- 
 tonese dialect. He was an old acquaintance of Ita's, 
 and was delighted to see her. She introduced him to 
 Edgar. 
 
 " So she had been married for more than two years! 
 Well, how time did fly — she did not look much older 
 for all that ! Did she not find Mentone much altered ? 
 Ah ! people were building away very fast. There was 
 a new hotel springing up, and five or six villas just 
 finished. What would they come to at last ? How 
 pleased Antonia must have been to see her Signorina. 
 And Maddalena, he was sure, would walk from Nice, 
 one of these days, to pay her a visit. The villa had 
 been let to English people the last two winters, but 
 Antonia was always complaining of the padrona's ab- 
 sence. Ah! they had been to the Capo, and yesterday 
 to the Annunziata. Brava ! Monsieur did not look 
 very strong ; but the climate, with the help of God, 
 would soon make him quite well. He was so tall, and 
 tall people are not generally as strong as short ones, 
 like himself — but, perhaps, that was not the case in 
 England, where, he supposed, everybody was tall — 
 but he would not keep them standing in the cold. He 
 should call upon them some day soon," and, with a 
 kind smile, the Abbe left them. 
 
 "What a venerable, amiable-looking man," Edgar 
 said, and Ita was pleased. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 315 
 
 On the following day Mr. Neville came to dinner, 
 and a good deal of interesting conversation, without 
 any approach to controversy, took place between him 
 and Edgar. He spoke of the festas in the neighbour- 
 ing villages which would take place after Christmas, 
 and Ita, whose delight it had been to go to them in 
 former years, was glad to hear her husband say that 
 they should certainly try to spend St. Agnes's day at 
 the little old town of that name. And when they were 
 sitting alone together the next evening, she communi- 
 cated to him a plan which had just entered her head. 
 She wished to institute at Holmwood a festival in 
 honour of the patron saint of their church, St. James 
 the Apostle, and had been thinking over all the details 
 of it. There was a sort of tacit compromise uncon- 
 sciously going on between her and Edgar at that time. 
 When she saw him vexed at some manifestation of her 
 strong Roman Catholic predilections, she used to pro- 
 pitiate him by proposing to transplant some of her 
 favourite customs or observances into the Church of 
 England in general, and Holmwood church in par- 
 ticular. He was always relieved by her enthusiasm 
 taking that form, and in consequence received these 
 suggestions more graciously than he might have other- 
 wise done. 
 
 On this occasion he said, " Bat do not you remem- 
 ber, darling, that we have kept St. James's day as a 
 festival these last two years. We had red and white 
 roses on the altar. Annie gave us leave to gather as 
 many as we could find. They; were very much gone 
 off, but we spoiled her garden of all that remained, 
 and the school-children had a feast." 
 
 " Oh yes ; but what I want is to get the people 
 about us, rich and poor, to take an interest in the 
 festival, and come to church as they do here from 
 a distance, and make the day in every way a pleasant 
 
316 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 one. I think it is so nice when religion is connected 
 with enjoyment, and poor people have so few plea- 
 sures." 
 
 Edgar smiled and said, " But how would you pro- 
 pose to make our staid country-people merry on the 
 occasion ? " 
 
 " We might have a fair on the green after the 
 service." 
 
 " That would not amuse them much, I think." 
 
 " I should like to try, and then the school-children 
 might act a little play in a tent, as they did in the hall 
 at Christmas. May I have St. James's day this year 
 to do what I like with ? " 
 
 "That is a bold request," Edgar said, laughing. 
 " If you do not interfere with the hours of Church 
 Service, and allow Roland and me to have a veto on 
 your proceedings, you and Eliza may do your best 
 or your worst out of doors. And, indeed, I think 
 you had better try the experiment at Bramblemoor 
 than at Holmwood. I am not sure Annie would like it." 
 
 " She likes anything you like." 
 
 " Yes, she is very good and kind. God bless her," 
 Edgar answered, with a scarcely perceptible sigh. " I 
 wish she was married ! " 
 
 "Do you," Ita said. "Would she be happier do 
 you think? " 
 
 " Why don't you think she would ? " 
 
 " I am not sure. I am going to say a strange thing, 
 but Annie loves Holmwood, and everything about it 
 with an intensity which would almost interfere, I 
 fancy, with her happiness as a wife. She never likes 
 to be anywhere else. It is the only object of her 
 thoughts. She does not care to see anybody but us. 
 Do you know, Edgar, that she wishes us to have 
 children more even than we wish it ourselves. She 
 has told me that there is nothing would make her so 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 317 
 
 happy. I should be afraid, if we had a little child, 
 that she would want to keep it all to herself. I think 
 her affection for you is the most beautiful, unselfish, 
 and singular feeling possible." 
 
 Edgar looked at his wife's eager, sweet, expressive 
 face, and thought more of it at that moment than even 
 of poor Annie's feelings. He was as much in love 
 with Ita as the day they had married. 
 
 " My own darling," he said, drawing her near him, 
 "you are quite right; Annie's character is wonder- 
 fully unselfish and generous. She has been to me a 
 friend such as is seldom met with in this world, and that 
 is the reason why I long to see her as happy as we are." 
 
 " But do you think she could ever have been as 
 happy as we are ? If she had married you . . . ." 
 
 " Me ! Oh, she would not have been happy with 
 me. I could never have loved her as she deserves." 
 
 " Perhaps I am wrong, but I have a strong impres- 
 sion that she has the sort of fate that will, on the 
 whole, make her happiest. That she would not now 
 be happy in marriage. She knows you owe everything 
 to her — your little wife, and all the blessings, comforts, 
 and enjoyments which surround us — that home she 
 has made so perfect ; and I am sure this thought is a 
 continual delight to her . . . ." 
 
 " But I want her to be loved, and to love as we love 
 each other." 
 
 Ita pursed her lips and shook her head in a way 
 that said, as plainly as words could have done, that 
 she thought this a very wild, improbable, unreasonable 
 wish, something quite beyond hoping for; and then, 
 following up the unuttered thought, she said, " And 
 besides that, I am sure that one who had ever loved 
 you would never love very much any one else." 
 
 " Oh nonsense, wife of mine, you are in a strange 
 delusion on that point." 
 
3 i 8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Not a bit of it. I do not say that you are better 
 looking, or cleverer, or more excellent than anybody 
 else in the world . . . ." 
 
 " No, really? " Edgar interrupted, laughing. 
 
 "But only . . . ." 
 
 " Only you are a little goose — a dear darling, perfect 
 little goose ; " and Edgar kissed his wife to stop the 
 current of his own praises. 
 
 Just then the door opened, and the servant an- 
 nounced the Abate Giovanni. Ita greeted him very 
 warmly, and Edgar very civilly ; but he had made an 
 appointment to go to Mr. Nilson's house at eight 
 o'clock, and after a few minutes' conversation, he was 
 obliged to excuse himself to the Abate on account of 
 this engagement, but begged him not to shorten his 
 visit to Ita, whom he knew would be delighted to have 
 his company. 
 
 So when he went away, they began to talk of old 
 times — the Abate spoke with feeling of poor Lady 
 Emily's death — and said he had been glad to hear 
 that Ita was married ; her husband had a prepossessing 
 exterior, and looked so good, that he felt sure he must 
 be a very amiable man. "Was it true," he asked, 
 11 that he was an English clergyman ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " he was an Anglican clergy- 
 man." 
 
 The Abate sighed. 
 
 She hastened to say, " But he is not a Protestant, 
 he is a Catholic, an Anglo-Catholic." 
 
 " Not a minister of the Church of England, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, of the Catholic Church of England." 
 
 " But that is impossible, Signora. If he was an 
 English Catholic priest he could not be married." 
 
 " He is not an English Roman Catholic priest, but 
 a Catholic priest of the Anglican Church." 
 
 " But the Anglican Church is Protestant." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 319 
 
 11 No, Pre Gian," Ita eagerly rejoined, for she had 
 learnt as a child from Antonia to call him so ; " that is 
 the mistake. It has been thought to be Protestant but 
 it is really Catholic." 
 
 " We cannot be talking of the same Church, 
 Signorina. I mean the Anglican Church or Church of 
 England, to which the Reverend Nilson belongs." 
 
 " Oh yes, it is the same Church ; but my husband 
 thinks quite differently from Mr. Nilson. I assure 
 you nothing can be more different. Edgar believes 
 in the Real Presence and in Confession and Absolu- 
 tion 
 
 " O brava! " the Abate exclaimed, "then he is really 
 a Catholic ; but then how can he be of the same reli- 
 gion as the Reverend Nilson, who tells our poor people 
 that the Blessed Sacrament is nothing but a piece of 
 bread, and that it is idolatry to kneel before It, and 
 that they should not confess their sins to a priest, but 
 only to God." 
 
 " Well, it is not the same religion, but it is the same 
 Church." 
 
 " What, are there two religions in one Church?" 
 the Abate asked, still more puzzled. 
 
 " Edgar says his religion, his way of thinking I mean 
 — I suppose he would not quite admit about the two 
 religions— is what the Anglican Church really teaches, 
 and that what Mr. Nilson teaches is heresy." 
 
 "But then why does your Church let him teach it?" 
 
 " It cannot help it," Ita answered ; " unfortunately 
 some of our bishops think as he does." 
 
 M Strana Chiesa ! " murmured the Abate. " But, 
 Signorina, since you think it right to confess, whom 
 do you confess to as you have no priests." 
 
 " But we have priests. My husband looks upon 
 himself as a priest.' 
 
 " Indeed ! and do you go to Confession to him ? " 
 
320 • MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " No, but others do." 
 
 " And his bishop gives him faculties to hear con- 
 fessions ? " 
 
 "His bishop unfortunately does not approve of Con- 
 fession. Very few of our bishops do. None of them 
 are as Catholic as my husband and his friends, except 
 one, perhaps, the Bishop of " 
 
 " Then your hushand and his friends think they 
 know better than their bishops? " 
 
 " Yes, because they believe what you do, what all 
 the Catholic Church believes." 
 
 " But then why do they not become Catholics and 
 join our Church ? " 
 
 " Because they think you are wrong in some things, 
 and that the Church of Rome has a little corrupted 
 the faith." 
 
 " Ah ! then about some things they know better than 
 their bishops, and about others they know better than 
 the whole Catholic Church. What clever men they 
 must be ! What Prayer-book do they use ? " 
 
 " The Prayer-book of the Church of England." 
 
 " What you call the Common Prayer-book ? The 
 Reverend Nilson's Prayer-book ? " 
 
 " Yes," Ita answered, vexed to admit that there was 
 anything common between Edgar and Mr. Nilson. 
 
 " That good gentleman showed me one day an 
 Italian translation of his Common Prayer-book, and 
 I saw in it that your Articles of Religion say that the 
 sacrifices of Masses are blasphemous fables and dan- 
 gerous deceits ! The Reverend Nilson told me that 
 every minister of his Church was obliged to sign 
 them." 
 
 "Yes, but they do not believe them ; that is not in 
 what seems to be their sense." 
 
 The Abate looked grave, and said, " I am not a 
 learned man, Signorina, or a deep theologian, but it 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 32 1 
 
 •appears to my plain common sense, the greatest folly 
 and delusion imaginable for men to think they are 
 Catholics who obey neither the Pope nor their own 
 bishops, if they really have any ; who remain in a 
 Church that has no power to prevent its own ministers 
 from teaching error — for if some of them tell their 
 flocks that our Lord is really present in the Holy 
 Eucharist, as you say your husband does, and others, 
 like the Reverend Nilson, that it is superstitious and 
 idolatrous to believe it, it is clear that one or the other 
 must be teaching what is false — who use a Prayer-book 
 which says one thing and means another, or means 
 .nothing at all, and sign articles of religion they do not 
 believe to be true." 
 
 "But it is very likely my way of explaining the 
 matter which makes it seem all wrong," Ita exclaimed. 
 " It does sound very bad in the way you put it ; but 
 will you speak to my husband on the subject ? He 
 will explain it to you so much better than I can." 
 
 The Abate said he should be happy to converse 
 with Mr. Derwent on that and any other topic, and 
 then they spoke of other things. After he had taken 
 leave of her, however, and as he was going towards 
 the door, he stopped, turned round, and with a good- 
 humoured smile on his shrewd Italian face, he said to 
 Ita, " Pardon me, Signorina, but as an old friend allow 
 me to ask you whether you really believe yourself 
 that your husband is really and truly a priest ? " 
 
 Ita blushed and hesitated. " I suppose he is a 
 priest of the Anglican Church," she answered. "I 
 certainly can never feel as if they were quite like 
 Roman Catholic priests." 
 
 " I should think not," the Abate said, again 
 smiling. " I have no doubt Mr. Derwent is a good 
 husband and a very amiable gentleman, but as to 
 his being a priest . . . ." He made an expressive 
 
 v 
 
322 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 shrug, and bowing again to the clergyman's wife, left 
 the room. 
 
 After he was gone, Ita sat down near the window 
 watching for Edgar's return. The night was clear and 
 cold, the stars wonderfully bright, the sea splashing oris 
 the pebbly shore, and the mountains, the town, and 
 the woods lighted up by the moon almost as clearly 
 as if it had been day. Just below the villa, on the 
 spot where the hospice now stands, was a grove of 
 ilexes, through which a winding path led from the road 
 to the gate of the garden. 
 
 As she gazed on this well-known view, she thought 
 on the strange chance which had made her, the found- 
 ling child of the sea, the wife of an English clergyman r 
 and the question of the Abate haunted her. Did she 
 believe Anglican ministers were really priests ? did she 
 look upon her own husband in that light ? Once per- 
 haps she had done so. In those early days at Bramble- 
 moor she had reverenced him as a teacher and a guide 
 without analyzing the exact nature of his position. 
 She had felt for him an humble, timid, disinterested 
 respect and affection which did not at all militate 
 against the ideas she had unconsciously formed in a 
 Catholic country of the priestly office and character ; 
 but when imperceptibly at first and then irresistibly 
 that affection became more ardent and more tender, she 
 shrank from associating a passionate human feeling 
 with religious ministrations ; and when that love which 
 had once been hopeless was blessed beyond her hopes — 
 when she became Edgar's wife, his darling, his treasure, 
 when in the fulness of joy and mutual affection their 
 lives were bound together in the holiest and most inti- 
 mate union that can exist on earth, she felt less and less 
 able to consider him as a priest. It seemed to her that 
 consecration and sacrifice were involved in that office ; 
 that it called for a different kind of holiness than that of 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 323 
 
 married life. Every tender playful endearment, every 
 passionate emotion, all the unreserved confidence of 
 mutual affection was out of keeping with her idea of 
 its sacredness. In using the name in relation to the 
 Anglican clergy, she had gradually associated with it 
 a perfectly different notion than the one she had 
 formed of the Roman Catholic priesthood, but had 
 never clearly drawn the distinction in her own mind. 
 But the question she had just been asked had obliged 
 her to do so, and she then realized her utter disbelief 
 in the fact of Anglican orders. She felt that had she 
 believed Edgar to be a priest, she could never have 
 been his wife. The very thought was strange and 
 repulsive. " The more she loved him the more she 
 hated it. But then what did this tend to ? Where 
 would it lead her ? 
 
 There are moments in that irresistible progress of 
 the mind towards an inevitable result, when we feel 
 alarmed at the cogency of our own reasonings, when 
 we long to shut out conviction like the prisoners in a 
 sea-girt cave, to keep out the rising of the inexorable 
 tide. Conviction was pressing upon her. She was 
 aware of it, and tried to stem it by recalling some of the 
 arguments her husband had opposed to Mr. Neville's ; 
 but, like slackened ropes which fail to support the hand 
 which grasps them, they afforded her little help. 
 
 What desperate battles have thus been secretly 
 fought in support of the Anglican theory, within the 
 depths of many a soul whose whole freight of earthly 
 joys and weal has been embarked in that sinking 
 vessel ! How it has played the devil's advocate 
 against itself, and with what almost conscious eva- 
 sions silenced the cry of awakened conscience. Let 
 those who have never known any measure of this 
 strange suffering, deal gently with others who are 
 writhing under its pangs. 
 
324 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 When Edgar came in he found his wife still sitting 
 at the window, so absorbed in thought that she did 
 not notice his approach. There were no lights in the 
 room ; she had forgotten to ring for them. He put 
 his hand on her shoulder, and said, " So your friend is 
 gone ? " 
 
 "Oh yes, he has been gone some time," she an- 
 swered ; J'.I was very sorry you could not stay. I 
 should have liked you to talk to him." 
 
 " I hope you explained to him that I was obliged to 
 keep my appointment with Mr. Nilson. He had called 
 here two or three times, and I had sent him word I 
 should be with him at eight." 
 
 " Then, of course, you found him at home ? " 
 
 " Yes, and his wife also. They seem good-natured 
 people, but we did not touch on any subjects on which 
 we should have been likely to disagree. Mrs. Nilson 
 is coming to see you to-morrow." 
 
 11 Is she ? " Ita said, with a sigh. She owed Mrs. 
 Nilson a grudge since the time when she was a very 
 little girl. She had been left alone with her one day 
 in the drawing-room, and the clergyman's wife had 
 asked her, after a few exhortations, in the peculiar 
 phraseology of the Evangelical school, if she thought 
 she had found Jesus ? 
 
 "Yes," Ita had answered, "I find Him at San 
 Michele, when I go there with Antonia." 
 
 Mrs. Nilson had been dreadfully shocked, and with 
 mild indignation remonstrated with Lady Emily on 
 the danger of suffering that Italian nurse to take the 
 child to church with her. This had caused a tem- 
 porary prohibition on the subject, which had left an 
 unpleasant impression on Ita's mind. She did not, 
 however, mention this anecdote to Edgar, and made 
 no comment on the announcement of Mrs. Nilson's 
 visit. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 325 
 
 There was one subject on her mind which she did 
 not wish to speak of first, but about which she was 
 very anxious to know what her husband's intentions 
 were. It was Saturday, and what did he mean to do 
 about church on Sunday ? Would he go to San 
 Michele or to Mr. Nilson's dining-room ? While she 
 was playing to him on her old piano all the tunes she 
 could remember by heart, and afterwards reading aloud 
 some numbers of the " Guardian," her mind was 
 occupied with that doubt. The tone of the Puseyite 
 paper annoyed her more than usual that evening. 
 During the last few days she had become very sensitive 
 to any attacks on the Church of Rome. Her cheeks 
 flushed and her voice faltered when she had to read 
 out what she thought unjust and one-sided statements. 
 She did not, however, exclaim or protest against them. 
 She was afraid of awakening in Edgar antagonistic 
 feelings, for she had an instinctive conviction that the 
 amount of respect for Roman Catholicism which his 
 own theories obliged him to profess, would easily 
 change into hostility if she manifested too openly her 
 own predilections. 
 
 When they had finished reading that night there 
 was a pause, and then Edgar said, " The service is at 
 eleven o'clock to-morrow. As I expected, there is no 
 early celebration." 
 
 Ita made no answer. She had rather hoped he would 
 go to High Mass. 
 
 " They have advanced a step since your time," he 
 continued. " The service is in a room dedicated, at 
 least, to that purpose; not in Mr. Nilson's dining- 
 room." 
 
 " And are we to go there to-morrow? " 
 
 "Yes, of course," he answered, looking surprised. 
 
 Ita's countenance fell. She hesitated a little, and 
 then said, " But why not go to a real church when we 
 
326 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 can do so ? You used to say that abroad the Roman 
 Catholic Church was the Catholic Church, as the 
 Anglican Church is in England. Why, then, do we 
 not go to San Michele, instead of to Mr. Nilson's ser- 
 vice. He is certainly not a Catholic." 
 
 " Not, certainly, in his opinions ; but though he may 
 be unconscious of his own position and character, still 
 he is a priest of the Church of England, and he cele- 
 brates the service she appoints. It is, therefore, our 
 duty to attend that service as an act of obedience to 
 our spiritual mother. There is no objection abroad to 
 our occasionally attending Roman Catholic services, 
 but our own must always have the first claim, even 
 when the mode of performing it is distasteful to us." 
 
 The point was decided then. Ita made no further 
 objection. It was a disappointment ; but with her 
 usual sweetness of temper she did not show it. No- 
 body had naturally a more docile disposition. Obe- 
 dience to her husband was her constant habit in little 
 as well as great things. 
 
 So the next morning, without a murmur, even 
 though the bells of San Michele were ringing their 
 most joyous peal, she walked with Edgar along the 
 Via Lunga to the Piazza del Capo, and then up a 
 steep flight of stairs to what went by the name of the 
 Temple of the English. It was a long room with two 
 rows of chairs divided by a narrow passage ; a table 
 covered with green baize stood before the window at 
 the farthest end, with a chair on each side of it. The 
 Common Prayer-book and a Bible on the reading-desk, 
 and a few hymn-books scattered on the seats of the 
 congregation, were the only visible signs of religious 
 worship in this melancholy-looking chapel. 
 
 Ita resolved to suppress all feelings of discontent, 
 and to attend the service with attention and devotion. 
 It was always a happiness to her to kneel by Edgar's 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 327 
 
 side, to pour forth her soul in prayer in the same words 
 he was using, and to hear his voice singing God's 
 praises in unison with her own. With real humility 
 she made an effort that day to find strength and peace 
 in the performance of a religious duty ; and perhaps, 
 if no hymn had been sung, and no sermon preached, 
 she might, to a certain extent, have succeeded. But 
 when, on glancing over the page of a book which a 
 lady by her side had civilly handed to her, she per- 
 ceived that the hymn which had been given out was 
 one of praise and thanksgiving for the Reformation, 
 and its glorious author, the immortal Luther, a sick 
 feeling of disgust came over her. How could she and 
 Edgar be standing there joining in worship with those 
 who honoured w r hat they abhorred ; who exulted in 
 what they lamented ! She looked at her husband and 
 saw that he was moved. He looked flushed and an- 
 noyed. Then came the sermon. She did not care 
 that Mr. Nilson preached in a black gown instead of a 
 surplice. Those were not the little details that were a 
 grief to her. She tried to be patient. She raised her 
 heart to God, and sought to place herself in the frame 
 of mind with which a sermon ought to be listened to. 
 The text alarmed her, for she had an indistinct remem- 
 brance of the sort of comments Mr. Nilson used to 
 make upon the Second Commandment, according to 
 the Anglican version, part of the first in the Catholic 
 one. Her apprehensions were justified. Every hack- 
 neyed charge of idolatry, every misapplication of the 
 words of Scripture on the one hand, and misrepresen- 
 tation of the practice of the Catholic Church on the 
 other, were brought forward and urged in offensive 
 and insulting terms; and assertions made which, from 
 her own acquaintance with a Catholic population she 
 knew to be false. The blood rushed into her face 
 when the preacher spoke of the poor Papists and their 
 
328 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 idolatrous religion. Her temples throbbed, and her 
 heart beat with violence, when he went on to stigmatize 
 Mass as an act of idolatry, and a blasphemous fable. 
 It was more than she could bear. It could not be a 
 good or holy spirit of endurance that could make them 
 who called themselves Catholics join in worship with 
 persons who thus designated the Eucharistic Sacrifice,, 
 which they themselves professed to believe in and to 
 offer up, which could make them sit still and listen to 
 the utterance of such painful words. She longed to 
 get up and go. She looked again at Edgar. He had 
 shaded his face with his hand, and she could not catch 
 his eye. 
 
 She tried to pray, but it seemed a mockery of all 
 religion to pretend to belong to the same Church as 
 the minister who stood before them ; yet he was ap- 
 pointed by an Anglican bishop, and he professed quite 
 as much attachment to the Church of England as even 
 Edgar could do. It seemed as if in that one discourse 
 Mr. Nilson had contrived to say everything that could 
 most shock and wound any one with Catholic feelings 
 and opinions. After dwelling some time on what he 
 called the idolatry of the Mass, he went on to speak 
 of the Blessed Virgin as " that woman in no way 
 different from other women, and who after the birth o£ 
 Jesus Christ had had several other children." 
 
 Ita then stopped her ears, and cared not if others 
 saw it. She could not, she would not, listen to the 
 rest of the sermon, and felt quite ill with sorrow and 
 vexation. Many who may read these pages will look 
 upon this account of her feelings as an absurd exagge- 
 ration ; but we appeal to all who have known what it 
 is with Catholic feelings and sympathies to attend the 
 services of the English Church, and hear a completely 
 different faith preached, appealing equally with their 
 own to her formularies, and with far more reason than 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 329 
 
 their own to her articles and homilies — to find the 
 theories advocated in particular places, and by parti- 
 cular clergymen of their own school, breaking down 
 when compared with the general practice and belief of 
 the ministers and members of the Established Church ; 
 and what ought to be spiritual instruction given with 
 authority by duly appointed teachers, a snare, a 
 scandal, and a misery — something to be withstood, 
 resisted, endured, put up with, or disclaimed in turns. 
 " A cross," as the Puseyite leaders are wont to call it. 
 
 Not one of the small congregation assembled in 
 that chapel probably felt as she, or even as Edgar did. 
 They were used to Mr. Nilson's doctrine and style of 
 preaching. Some of them, indeed, might perhaps 
 think it tiresome of him always to attack the Roman 
 Catholics ; they might even consider it not quite 
 charitable ; but it did not otherwise shock them. They 
 agreed on the whole with his views, though they would 
 not perhaps have used such strong expressions. 
 
 Ita did not feel so angry with Mr. Nilson as pained 
 that Edgar could, as it were, sanction by his attend- 
 ance in his chapel the sentiments he uttered. She was 
 not learned, nor very clever, but she had the good 
 sense much less common than many people think, that 
 makes a person see that two and two makes four, and 
 an honesty of mind which is sometimes distinct from 
 honesty of heart, but which in her case was united to 
 it. If Mr. Nilson really thought what he said about 
 Catholics he was quite right to preach against them. 
 But that Edgar should belong to the same Church as 
 him, that the same ecclesiastical authorities should de- 
 pute them both to teach contradictory doctrines to its 
 members, that they should be brother clergymen, as 
 Mr. Nilson had said, in a note to her husband the day 
 before ; — this she could not reconcile with her simple 
 ideas of truth and consistency. 
 
330 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 At last the sermon came to an end. With a sense 
 of escape Edgar and Ita went quickly out, and down 
 the stairs, and then into the road leading to the olive 
 groves. They felt it a relief to be out of doors, and 
 walked on for some time in silence. Edgar looked 
 gloomy. She did not regret it. 
 
 " What horrible trash that man preached! " he said, 
 at last; "and those abominable Low Church hymns! 
 What a scandal it is that such persons should be 
 clergymen of our Church ! " 
 
 Ita felt it too deeply to be able to say much. He went 
 on abusing the sermon, and finding fault with the ar- 
 rangement of the chapel. At last she said, " Edgar, I 
 think sometimes that it will be impossible for me . . . ." 
 
 " To go there again ? " he exclaimed. This was not 
 what she was about to say, but he went on, " Well, I 
 own I rather feel that myself. But, dearest, we must 
 be patient. Rome was not built in a day." 
 
 The mention of Rome at that moment was some- 
 what unlucky ; he hastened to add, " Catholic prin- 
 ciples cannot spread in our Church quite as rapidly as 
 we would wish. The very difference, the immense 
 contrast you can yourself observe between the services 
 at Holmwood and Bramblemoor, and many other 
 places in England where church principles are now 
 carried out, and such an exhibition of heresy as goes 
 on here, shows you the wonderful progress we have 
 already made. Some twenty years ago this sort of 
 thing went on almost everywhere." 
 fg, u Then people at that time had no chance of learn- 
 ing Catholic truth, and now how many there must be 
 who have not any chance of it either !" 
 
 "But the number who have is increasing every day, 
 and if the disloyal and misguided men who have left 
 us had been true to our Church their number would, 
 by this time, have been much greater." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 331 
 
 " But is it not very bad for the soul to hear heresy 
 preached by the very persons appointed to teach us ? " 
 
 " Not if you are patient and accept it as a trial of 
 3'our faith." 
 
 " But it seems to me a sort of trial that we ought 
 not to accept." 
 
 " Well, do as you like, dearest Ita. I do not insist 
 on your attending the English service here. I know 
 it is very painful. Only I think it my duty to do so, 
 however much Mr. Nilson's sermons may disgust me." 
 
 " But I cannot bear the idea of not going to church 
 with you," Ita said, with tears in her eyes. 
 
 " I wish with all my heart we had never come 
 here ! " Edgar exclaimed. " I had a thousand times 
 rather have lost my health, my sight, or even my life, 
 than that you should lose faith in the Church of Eng- 
 land ! " 
 
 He looked so agitated, that wishing to soothe him 
 she said, " But I did not say, I did not mean that I 
 wished to leave it." 
 
 " Oh, no ; " he cried, interrupting her. " I did not 
 for an instant suppose you did. No, my own darling, 
 my treasure, my precious wife, you could not, I know, 
 harbour the deliberate thought of separating yourself 
 from me in a way that would destroy all my happiness, 
 ruin for me every prospect of usefulness, and even 
 drive me from you. No, I am sure you could never 
 dream of it ; of all the forms of misery, it is the one I 
 could not look in the face. No, all I meant was that 
 it would pain me very much if, on account of my 
 health, we had come to a place where, from casual 
 circumstances, you may feel more deeply the existing 
 trials in our Church, and contrast it unfavourably with 
 the Roman communion. It is for that reason that, 
 though I feel it myself a duty to attend the Anglican 
 service, I do not press you to do so. Go if you like 
 
332 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 on Sundays to one of the Roman Catholic churches, 
 and pray that our Church may be delivered from its 
 state of bondage ; that it may fulfil its great mission, 
 and still keep free from the errors and abuses of its 
 sister Church." 
 
 " We can see about that when next Sunday comes," 
 Ita said. She could not in fact bear the thought of the 
 shadow of separation, which what Edgar had proposed 
 seemed to throw on their future path. She felt that 
 there would be no sense of duty to support her in it. 
 If they belonged to the same religion they ought to go 
 to the same church. Her place was by his side unless 
 she clearly saw it should be elsewhere. On that day, 
 and those that followed, a cold, dull heaviness took 
 possession of her soul. Her apprehension of faith as 
 a reality seemed to grow confused and dim. After all, 
 she was too ignorant to decide what was right or wrong. 
 Her duty to her husband was, of course, a plain and 
 positive one, and come what might she would not make 
 him unhappy. She would try not to take those reli- 
 gious questions so much to heart. It was not a woman's 
 business to judge of controversial points. She sum- 
 moned to her assistance all the sophistry with which 
 weak, shrinking, human nature helps itself when it sees 
 before it a terrible alternative. She succeeded for a 
 while in silencing her doubts and misgivings. She 
 paid visits to her friends, and carefully avoided all 
 mention of religion. This was easy enough. They 
 were not anxious to press it upon her. The pious ones 
 among them thought praying for her would do more 
 good than talking. Others did not take the trouble of 
 thinking about it at all. She gave up all attempts to 
 persuade them she and Edgar were Catholics, and 
 ceased to ponder over that point herself. Her prayers 
 were said in a hurried or formal manner. She did not 
 feel inclined to read the Bible or spiritual books, be- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 333 
 
 cause then the very subjects she wanted not to think 
 of forced themselves on her mind. If she could but 
 tide over the time abroad, all would be right again she 
 hoped when she returned to England. 
 
 Edgar thought her rather capricious, because after 
 having seemed at first to like so much going to the 
 Catholic churches, she seemed now to object to it. 
 Even on Christmas-day, and the ensuing festivals, it 
 was somewhat reluctantly that she went with him in 
 the afternoon to San Michele. She made no difficulty 
 about going to the English service when he did, but 
 everything connected with religion seemed at that time 
 distasteful to her, and her spirits always rose when the 
 Sunday was over, and mostly they rose when she was 
 alone with her husband ; when they spent whole days 
 of sunshine and more than ordinary beauty in the 
 valleys of Mentone or of Cabral, or in some quiet spot 
 on the sea-shore. The cloud that then obscured for her 
 divine truth, the vague uncertainty which dimmed her 
 spiritual vision, made her cling to him with a yet 
 deeper earthly worship. She had one of those hearts 
 that are not in danger of selfishness. She bore meekly 
 the mental trial she was undergoing. Now and then 
 shaking off the heavy weight of discouragement, she 
 made a fervent appeal to God's mercy for light ; but 
 even while the prayer was on her lips, her heart 
 trembled lest the answer should come too distinctly 
 and too soon. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Edgar and Ita had not many visitors : he did not speak 
 French or Italian easily, and this disinclined him 
 to cultivate her Mentonese friends, and for particular 
 reasons, he did not wish to see much of the Nilsons 
 or of Mr. Neville ; but he liked the latter, and 
 they sometimes met him in their walks. Edgar asked 
 him to dinner once or twice, and sometimes he paid 
 them an evening visit ; but since the day at Capo 
 Martino, Edgar had carefully avoided all controversial 
 conversation with him in Ita's presence. But one night 
 when she had gone to bed early with a cold, and he 
 happened to be alone when Mr. Neville called, he 
 could not resist saying to him, " I hope you pray, 
 as we do, for the ultimate union of our respective 
 Churches? " 
 
 " I pray," he answered, " for the conversion of all 
 the members of your Church ; but as 1 do not consider 
 it to be a Church, in the Catholic sense of the word, I 
 cannot pray, in the way you do, for reunion." 
 
 "You assume, then, as a fact, what your own Church 
 has always considered as an open question, that is the 
 invalidity of Anglican orders ? " 
 
 "The Holy See has formally denied the validity of 
 Anglican orders by a decree of the Congregation of 
 the Holy Office, confirmed by Pope Clement XL, and 
 this decision is everywhere received and acted upon." 
 
 " But we do not, nor do many members of your 
 own communion, accept a decision of that sort as 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 335 
 
 conclusive, that has not received the sanction of a 
 General Council. 
 
 " The Church shows by her acts, which are in ac- 
 cordance with that decision, her estimate of the 
 validity of Anglican orders. I require no other evi- 
 dence. Nobody can deny that grave doubts exist as 
 to the historical fact on which you found your belief in 
 the validity of your orders." 
 
 " It appears to me to be established beyond dispute." 
 
 " But, supposing it to be so, it would not decide 
 the Catholicity of the English Church. The question 
 would still remain — Is this succession held in heresy 
 or schism ? The succession alone avails nothing for 
 your argument." 
 
 " But it does avail, when, at the same time, we 
 repel the charge of heresy and schism." 
 
 " But the Church of Rome considers you to be an 
 heretical communion, and you cannot clear yourself of 
 the guilt of schism, except by retorting the accusation. 
 Either the Roman Catholic Church, or the so-called 
 Church of England, must have grievously erred in 
 matters of faith. How can it be otherwise ? Who can 
 read the Thirty-nine Articles and not see that either 
 our Church or yours teaches what is false ? " 
 
 " I deny that utterly. We agree as to all essential 
 Catholic doctrines. As to the Articles, I should have 
 thought that you must have been long ago aware that 
 we do not consider them as Articles of faith, but simply 
 of religion. When they seem to reflect on the Roman 
 Church, they are, in reality, directed only against the 
 Court of Rome. They are intended, and the homilies 
 also, to meet special emergencies, and might easily be 
 reconsidered when the question of reunion comes to be 
 seriously contemplated ; the more so as the Council of 
 Trent has rectified the abuses against which they were 
 directed." 
 
336 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " I know this is the way in which Anglicans de- 
 fend their subscription of the Thirty-nine Articles, but 
 I own I cannot understand how any dispassionate 
 person, not interested in doing away with a difficulty 
 fatal to the position Anglicans wish to maintain, and 
 to the views they hold, could admit this as a tenable 
 explanation." 
 
 " You look at the subject from your point of view, 
 and see it, of course, in a different light from what we 
 do." 
 
 " But I do not find it generally so difficult to con- 
 ceive the mental position of those who differ from me. 
 I can understand the reasoning of Protestants, of 
 Unitarians, even to a certain degree the arguments of 
 Infidels, but I own that the Anglican theory has 
 always seemed to me so anomalous and inconsistent, 
 that I cannot comprehend how it can satisfy an honest 
 and logical mind. As a matter of fact, I do not think 
 you would find any one, who was not interested in 
 doing so, admitting, for instance, that a man can 
 conscientiously sign the Thirty-nine Articles, and, at 
 the same time, believe everything the Council of Trent 
 sets forth." 
 
 " But I do not profess to do so." 
 
 " Ay ! there is another difficulty. I met with one 
 of your clergymen, a short time ago, who assurred me 
 he did. There is such a variety of opinions, even 
 amongst the members of your own party, that the argu- 
 ment which meets the case of one individual, does not 
 apply to the next person you speak to." 
 
 11 You implied, by what you said just now, that it 
 is only from motives of interest that Anglicans defend 
 the position of their Church. Is not this rather a rash 
 judgment ? " 
 
 " I did not mean merely temporal interests, but all 
 those which touch their prejudices, affections, and pre- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 337 
 
 dilections. I see, on the one hand, the Anglo-Catholic 
 theory maintained by those to whom it is of the 
 greatest importance to establish it. I see it admitted 
 by no indifferent parties. And, moreover, I know that 
 numbers of persons, during the last three hundred 
 years, to whom it would have been the greatest ad- 
 vantage and relief to believe in it, have been unable to 
 do so. At one time, English Roman Catholics would 
 have saved their lives by accepting it ; later, their 
 properties and their political rights ; and in our days 
 we see Anglican clergymen reducing themselves, with 
 their wives and their children, to the extremity of 
 poverty, and losing their position in society — men and 
 women foregoing the brightest prospects, and running 
 the risk of banishment from home, and disinheritance, 
 all which evils they could avoid by, as I say, accepting 
 the theory of the Catholicity of the English Church. 
 If it was obviously tenable, is it possible to conceive 
 that they would not joyfully avail themselves of it." 
 
 " Suffering for the sake of a religious conviction is, 
 in itself, no evidence of its truth. Though I have not 
 more sympathy than you have for the French Hugue- 
 nots and the Waldenses, we cannot deny that they 
 went through great sufferings, rather than renounce 
 their heresies." 
 
 "Yes; but thinking, as they did, there was no 
 alternative for them but to give up their tenets, or 
 suffer for them. Now, what I mean is, that a certain 
 number of persons in the Church of England maintain 
 a theory which saves them from suffering, and yet they 
 say permits them to believe all Catholic doctrine, and 
 follow all Catholic practices. If this theory was tenable, 
 would English Roman Catholics, for three hundred 
 years, have suffered in so many and various ways 
 sooner than adopt it ? " 
 
 " If anyone is unable to satisfy himself that the 
 
 w 
 
33S MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 English Church is Catholic, he must of necessity be- 
 come a Romanist ; but those who are convinced that 
 she is a branch of the visible Church of Christ, are 
 bound to remain in her Communion." 
 
 " Certainly ; if they can really believe that their own 
 opinion on that point, and that of a few more belonging 
 to a particular scheme in the Anglican Church, is to be 
 relied on in preference to that of the Roman Catholic 
 Church, the Greek Church, the Protestant Dissenters, 
 and the majority of the members of their own com- 
 munion, all of which, while differing on other points, 
 agree in considering Anglican pretensions to Catho- 
 licity as unfounded and preposterous." 
 
 " The fact of the revival of Catholic doctrines 
 among us is itself an answer to your estimate of our 
 position." 
 
 " I should say that the very expression, ' revival of 
 Catholic doctrines,' on the contrary, confirms that 
 estimate. You can revive in a Church piety and zeal; 
 you can improve and elevate the morality of its clergy 
 and laity, and cause stricter discipline to be observed ; 
 but when you speak of reviving forgotten doctrines, 
 and of spreading them in a Church which, at the same 
 time, you profess to regard as a teacher of truth, there 
 is in this a contradiction of ideas which I do not see 
 how you can get over. You are gradually getting your 
 Church to teach you what you say she ought to teach ; 
 then, in what sense are you receiving her teaching? 
 By your own acknowledgment you are Catholicising 
 your Church, instead of your Church Catholicising 
 you. Under these circumstances, how can she be said 
 to be a teacher — how can she command submission, 
 or speak with authority ? Now, let me just put a case 
 to you. Take a simple-minded person, willing to learn 
 and to obey his spiritual pastors and masters as his 
 Catechism tells him to do. He has no knowledge, no 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 339 
 
 preconceived opinions, but natural, plain, good sense. 
 In despair of judging for himself, he resolves to accept 
 the teaching of the Church of England, and submit to 
 her guidance. Where shall he find it ? He asks who 
 are its exponents and its rulers. The answer is, of 
 course, the Archbishops and Bishops. Well, with one 
 ■or two exceptions, though differing about other things, 
 ihey will tell him to eschew Puseyism. He asks who 
 is the head of the Anglican Church. The Queen ; her 
 Majesty is a thorough Protestant — a great admirer of 
 the German Reformers. What are its articles of reli- 
 gion ? The Thirty-nine Articles ; reading them as a 
 plain, uninstructed man would do, he could not, in his 
 honest simplicity, but think ' the Church of England 
 may admit of some differences of opinion, but there is 
 one thing quite clear: it is Protestant, and no Catholic 
 can belong to it.' If he takes to reading history, will 
 it confirm or destroy this impression ? When has the 
 Reformed Church of England, before the Jast few 
 3 T ears, ever repudiated the name of Protestant ? Have 
 not Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer been called Pro- 
 testant martyrs ? Has it not made common cause 
 with foreign Protestants, and has not its hatred of the 
 Church of Rome, its bitter, unceasing animosity 
 against it, been the prevailing spirit in it for three 
 hundred years ? And even now, though some of your 
 High Church writers call it a sister Church, they can- 
 not refrain from abuse and misrepresentation." 
 
 " And has not the Church of Rome," Edgar ex- 
 claimed, " been very hard upon us, bitterly unkind ? 
 We, the Catholics of the Church of England, who are 
 fighting for the faith with its enemies at home, had 
 some right to expect sympathy and encouragement 
 from your Church, and we have met with neither one 
 nor the other." 
 
 " If I was not afraid of saying what might seem 
 
340 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 offensive," Edmund Neville said, " I would tell yout 
 openly what I think on that point." 
 
 " Say what you like." 
 
 " Well, I would put the case in this way. Let us- 
 suppose that, in feudal times, a great lord has been 
 violently deprived of a portion of his dominions by one 
 of his neighbours, who for twenty years has held it 
 by main force, and governed it very badly according 
 to the opinion of the original possessor. This usurp- 
 ing lord dies and leaves three sons, to whom the 
 possession of the province devolves. One of these, 
 with better natural dispositions than his brothers,, 
 dislikes their spirit and conduct, and would prefer 
 that the country should be governed in the same way 
 as it used to be under the rule of its former lord. He 
 accordingly writes to him : — 
 
 11 ' My Lord, — I do not altogether approve of your 
 acts in past times, and I should be unwilling to 
 separate myself from my brothers much as I blame 
 them, and detest the manner in which this province 
 was taken from you ; but I have been searching into 
 old family documents, and I have not any doubt ir> 
 my own mind — indeed, I am quite persuaded — that 
 we are relatives of yours, though my brothers, indeed, 
 do not acknowledge our common descent. I do not, 
 therefore, under any circumstances, contemplate re- 
 storing to you this property, nor submitting to your 
 government ; but, if I can get the upper hand in the 
 House, I fully intend, provided you agree to acknow- 
 ledge us as your relatives, to adopt most of your ideas 
 and principles, and perhaps even enter into a friendship 
 with you.' 
 
 " I conceive that the original possessor's reply 
 would be : 'If you detest the manner in which this 
 property was taken from me, prove it by giving up 
 your share of it. I do not see in the documents you 
 
MRS. G ALD'S NIECE. 341 
 
 allude to any proof that you are related to me. On 
 that point I agree with your brothers, and so do all 
 our neighbours. I protest against your assumption of 
 the fact, and against the claim you found upon it, and 
 till you give it up, and address me as a subject to 
 whose allegiance I have a right, no friendship can 
 exist between us.' Would this letter be a hard and 
 unkind one under the circumstances?" 
 
 " This may be very ingenious, Mr. Neville, but it 
 is not a just parallel." 
 
 " Surely you must admit it to be just as far as the 
 question goes of harshness and unkindness in the 
 treatment of your claims by the Church of Rome, 
 which utterly disallows them." 
 
 11 You are too imaginative for me." 
 
 " Too logical," Mr. Neville thought, though he did 
 not say so. 
 
 After a pause, Edgar said, " It is of no use to 
 discuss this point with Romanists. There is a pre- 
 determination, an unavoidable one, indeed, in their 
 case, not to admit our arguments or understand our 
 position." 
 
 " But has not that position been abandoned by 
 men who, so far from being predetermined on the 
 subject, struggled with a sort of despair to keep their 
 hold of it ? Did not they surrender at last to what 
 was repugnant and distasteful to them, leaving that 
 which was dear and pleasing ? Did not one powerful 
 and subtle mind, in particular, exert its utmost in- 
 genuity to find a mode of escape from the dreaded 
 conclusion, and does not a famous piece of casuistry 
 still appealed to by those who cling to the drifting 
 bark he had vainly sought to guide into port, remain 
 a monument of the ardent desire of the writer not to 
 forsake the communion he had once hoped formed part 
 of the Catholic Church ? No, I cannot understand 
 
342 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 you ; I do not see how with your Prayer-book and your 
 homilies, containing what they do, in your hands — 
 with the testimony of history before you, the deaths of 
 Fisher and More ; the numbers of priests and laymen 
 tortured and hanged in the days of persecution ; the 
 starving converts of the present day, those confessors- 
 whom infidels may sneer at, but whom you who believe 
 in Christ and in a Church cannot despise — that voir 
 can think that this long series of protests against the 
 Catholicity of the so-called Church of England was. 
 simply a mistake ; that Sir Thomas More might have 
 been as contented a diocesain of Cranmer or of Cromwell 
 as you of Dr. Blomfield or Dr. Phillpotts ; that Father 
 Arrowsmith and Father Southwell, instead of dying at 
 Tyburn, might have been Queen Elizabeth's bishops or 
 priests, though she indeed with her shrewd, keen, clear- 
 sightedness despised her own creations, and still have 
 been as good, nay, according to your theory, better 
 Catholics than as it was they proved themselves ; and 
 that the poor convert clergyman who entered a short 
 time ago the walls of a workhouse with his wife and 
 children, and another who has seen his wife die from 
 the hardships of sudden poverty, have gone through 
 all this misery gratuitously when they might perfectly 
 well have been Catholic priests in the Established 
 Church of England — dear Mr. Derwent, that you be- 
 lieve all this firmly, undoubtedly, unhesitatingly, is the 
 hardest trial of my belief in your sincerity. But I do 
 believe in it ... . Yes, I know how difficult it is to 
 see .... to admit . ... . I have no right to judge 
 others . . . ." . 
 
 Edgar was moved by the earnestness with which 
 this was said. The thought crossed his mind that he 
 was very glad Ita was not present. " This sort of 
 thing might have an effect upon her," he thought. " It 
 is plausible, but where would be our faith and our 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 343 
 
 trust if everything was clear and plain to us ? " And 
 he fell back on that fatal principle of patience — 
 patience in error — patience as a refuge against convic- 
 tion — patience as a sedative to the most reasonable 
 misgivings. " Now," he said, gently, "you must let 
 me have my say as I have let you have yours. In the 
 first place I consider that the Reformation was in many 
 respects as injurious to our Church as to yours. It 
 brought about in it, indeed, in a violent manner, some 
 of the beneficial changes which the Council of Trent 
 effected on the Continent. It cleared away many 
 abuses, but then it inflicted on us great and serious 
 evils. The tyranny of the State took the place of 
 Papal despotism ; doctrines which it has never formally 
 disowned were certainly obscured and thrown into the 
 shade, still in the worst of times there have been 
 among us witnesses to Catholic truth. A remarkable 
 tradition has handed it down from generation to gen- 
 eration, like a thread of gold through a dark and coarse 
 woof. We are the lineal descendants of the first 
 British Christians. We can look back to the Church 
 which the Apostles planted in our country, and to our 
 own as descending from it in uninterrupted succession. 
 There have been sad and dark pages in its history, 
 but now light is again shining upon it and grace flows 
 abundantly upon us through its ministrations." 
 
 " But if the present Church of England descends 
 from any Church at all, it must be from the Anglo- 
 Saxon Church founded by St. Augustine." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. The British Church had 
 bishops recognized by the rest of Christendom long 
 before St. Augustine came. Seven of them conferred 
 with him when he arrived. He did not confer orders, 
 he only founded new sees." 
 
 " But I need not remind you that there were in 
 England at that time two distinct race.:— the British 
 
344 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 and the Anglo-Saxon, the conquered and the con- 
 querors. The British chiefly in and about Wales. The 
 seven bishops Augustine conferred with belonged to 
 the conquered race. It was on the borders of Wales 
 that the conference took place. He entreated them to 
 help him to convert their Saxon conquerors. They 
 absolutely refused, and he prophesied their destruc- 
 tion. They had nothing whatsoever to do with the 
 Anglo-Saxon Church, of which he was the Apostle and 
 Metropolitan at Canterbury — the Church of Edward 
 the Confessor, of St. Thomas a Becket, of Sir Thomas 
 More. If these men were to return to life, could you 
 for a moment suppose that they would side with the 
 Anglican and not with the Roman Catholic Church in 
 England ? " 
 
 " I think those sort of suppositions irrelevant and 
 captious. We cannot at this distance of time judge 
 how the minds of men of former ages would be affected 
 by the present state of things amongst us. If you find 
 it so difficult to admit the Catholicity of the Church of 
 England . . . ." 
 
 " Not difficult but impossible." 
 
 " W T ell, if you find it so impossible, I find it impos- 
 sible also to believe in the divine authority of Popes, 
 many of whom were elected through the undue in- 
 fluence of emperors, women even, and lawless nobles 
 who prevailed on the cardinals to raise unworthy per- 
 sons to the Papal chair." 
 
 " Well, suppose the facts to be as you state them, 
 which I am not preared to admit, but for argument 
 sake granting they were, what would it prove? Only 
 that the cardinals sinned. If they made a true elec- 
 tion, the man they elected, though he were a bad man, 
 would still be really and truly Bishop of Rome and 
 Pope ; a true high priest as Caiaphas was, who, be- 
 cause he was the high priest, uttered a true prophecy. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 345 
 
 He would be in the position of the Scribes and 
 Pharisees of whom our Lord said, ' All things what- 
 soever they shall say to you observe and do, but ac- 
 cording to their works do ye not.' If a bad man was 
 elected Pope after Pius IX., we should be very sorry, 
 but we should obey him, for we believe firmly in the 
 promises of Christ, and that even if a bad man were 
 elected Pope he would be prevented by the Holy Spirit 
 from teaching error, just as the Jewish priests, though 
 bad men, told the truth to the wise men ; as Pilate 
 was compelled to place the true inscription on the 
 Cross ; as Balaam was compelled to utter a blessing 
 and not a curse. If you reject the papacy because 
 some popes were bad you say, you ought to reject the 
 College of Apostles because Judas once belonged to it." 
 
 " But how can you believe that the Holy Spirit 
 guides all the Popes to teach truth when it is well 
 known that some of them have condemned the acts 
 and denied the titles of their predecessors ? " 
 
 " Can you tell me what Popes you allude to ? What 
 acts ? What titles ? What predecessors ? " 
 
 " I cannot trust to my memory on the subject, and 
 I have not books here to refer to ; but I am certain 
 that such instances occur in history." 
 
 " If you had adduced the facts, we could examine 
 each on its own merits. As it is, I must answer in 
 another way. Now what follows from the fact that a 
 Pope condemns the act of his predecessor ? The an- 
 swer to that question depends on the nature of the act 
 condemned. If, for instance, a Pope said, * I think my 
 predecessor acted too severely in such and such a case, 
 or yielded too much to Napoleon the First, or was in 
 too great a hurry to restore the English hierarchy ; ' 
 such condemnations as these would prove nothing. 
 We are not required to believe that every act of a 
 Pope is the best thing he could have done." 
 
346 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " But what becomes, then, of the Papal infalli- 
 bility ? " 
 
 " If one Pope was to condemn a doctrine taught by 
 his predecessor ; if the Popes were to contradict one 
 another on matters of doctrine as your bishops do, 
 then it would certainly result that they could not be 
 infallible. At the same time it would not prove that 
 they are not the supreme authority in the government 
 of the Church. There are Catholics who hold that 
 the Pope may err even in doctrine, but that the Church 
 in council cannot ; but they do not on that account 
 deny the Papal supremacy in government. If you can 
 prove that one Pope has condemned the doctrine of 
 another, it would show that a Council is wanted to 
 decide doctrines ; but it does not show at all that the 
 Pope is not the head of the Church. We maintain 
 that he is appointed by our Lord as its supreme 
 pastor and ruler. Both the sheep and the lambs were 
 committed to St. Peter's care. Every bishop and 
 priest must submit to one authority in order that the 
 Church may be one in government. But, mind you, 
 I do not believe that you can show by history a single 
 instance in which a Pope has condemned a doctrine 
 really taught by his predecessor." 
 
 " I am certain such instances exist." 
 
 " It is difficult to carry on this sort of discussion 
 without books to refer to ; but there is another point 
 that must be taken into consideration. There have 
 been, at different times, pretenders to the Papacy, 
 many of whom were not really Popes at all, though 
 they took the name. It might, therefore, very well 
 happen that a Pope might condemn the acts and title 
 of his predecessors — that is to say, of men who had 
 taken the title, but were not popes at all." 
 
 The conversation was at that moment interrupted 
 by the sound of. a knock at the door. The instant 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 347 
 
 afterwards a servant came in to say Mr. Nilson had 
 called, and wished to speak to Mr Derwent. Nothing- 
 could be less agreeable to Edgar than to receive this 
 visit just then. He did not like to introduce Mr. 
 Neville to his brother clergyman, or Mr. Nilson to 
 him ; but there was no help for it. The room was 
 rather dark, and Edmund's Roman collar was con- 
 cealed by a comforter he had forgotten to take off, the 
 visitor did not recognize in him the Romish priest 
 he had sometimes met in the streets. 
 
 Mr. Nilson had been seized with a sudden hoarse- 
 ness which prevented him from raising his voice above 
 a whisper. 
 
 ' ; You see," he said, sitting down in the arm-chair 
 Edgar had placed for him, " that I am quite incapa- 
 citated for to-morrow's duties. May I hope, dear sir, 
 that you will have the kindness to read the service 
 and preach for me ? " 
 
 An imperceptible smile hovered on Mr. Neville's 
 lips. What a singular idea of duty it seemed, that two 
 men, each fully convinced that the other held danger- 
 ous errors, should think it right to undertake by turns 
 the instruction of their fellow-Christians. Edgar did 
 not at all like the idea of officiating in what he had 
 sometimes petulantly called Mr. Nilson's conventicle ; 
 but when it came to the point, he did not quite see 
 how he could refuse. Anglican scruples are very apt 
 to vanish at the touch of realities. It has been, for 
 instance, sometimes intimated to Dissenters not to ex- 
 pect to receive the Sacrament at a high Anglican 
 altar, and then a relative or friend who chances to be 
 a Presbyterian, or an Irvingite, may happen to be 
 staying with the clergyman, and the duty of excluding, 
 heretics from Communion does not seem stringent 
 enough to weigh against the fear of a family quarrel, 
 or the amiable dread of giving pain to a loved friend,. 
 
348 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 by the pointed manifestation of Church principles. It 
 would have been unkind to refuse Mr. Nilson's request, 
 and difficult, especially before Mr. Neville, to enter 
 into the subject of their religious differences. Besides, 
 as he had gone to his chapel for the service, he could 
 not well allege any good reason for refusing to do the 
 duty. So he said he would do what he was asked, 
 and was warmly thanked for his assent. Mr. Nilson 
 then said, " It is very fortunate indeed for my little 
 flock that you should have happened to be here just 
 now, Mr. Derwent. They are most of them pious 
 Christians who would greatly miss the privilege of 
 public worship on the Sabbath-day, and I should have 
 particularly regretted the necessity of closing the 
 chapel to-morrow, as I have reason to hope that 
 three or four women, natives of this place, and a 
 very superior young man, whom I hope, when he is 
 converted, may become a Scripture-reader, will attend 
 the service." 
 
 Mr. Neville bit his lip, and Edgar coloured. 
 
 " They are really very interesting inquirers. One 
 of the women, though she cannot read, accepted a 
 Bible. She said she supposed it would do her some 
 good ; and though this may be a somewhat supersti- 
 tious idea, there is something pleasing in it. When we 
 have an Italian Scripture-reader he can read and 
 expound to her the Holy Scriptures." 
 
 Edgar devoutly wished Mr. Nilson had not almost, 
 but entirely, lost his voice, and said, in a quick man- 
 ner, " I cannot think it can be right to perplex the 
 minds and disturb the faith of these poor people. I 
 am told they are good and pious, innocent and ig- 
 norant . . . ." 
 
 "Ay!" groaned Mr. Nilson, "utterly ignorant of 
 Gospel truths. Worshippers of the Madonna! " 
 
 " Not so ignorant as to religion, I suspect," Edgar 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 349 
 
 replied, " as some of our own poor people. From what 
 I hear, you would not easily find among these poor 
 peasants persons who had never heard of God and 
 Jesus Christ, unbaptized children, and baptized men 
 and women dying like dogs without a thought of God, 
 and of eternity. I am not a Romanist . . . ." 
 
 " God forbid ! " ejaculated Mr. Nilson. 
 
 " But I should shudder at the thought of shaking 
 the faith of a poor Roman Catholic who belongs to the 
 Church of Christ, and believes everything necessary 
 to salvation. I should think it a sin for which I 
 should be called to account on the day of judg- 
 ment." 
 
 Mr. Nilson looked aghast. " But, my dear sir, is 
 it no object to make these poor souls acquainted with 
 the saving truths of the Gospel ? To show them the 
 way of salvation ? To place the Bible before their 
 blind eyes . . . ." 
 
 " If they are blind how are they to read ? " Mr. 
 Neville murmured. 
 
 Edgar heard him, but not Mr. Nilson, who was 
 rather deaf, as well as hoarse. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Derwent," he continued, " If Papists 
 are not in a very dangerous state, then we have no 
 business to be Protestants. Then the glorious Refor- 
 mation was a sin, and the immortal Luther an enemy, 
 instead of a benefactor, of mankind ; and we had 
 better return again as fast as we can to the Church 
 of Rome. But I say she is idolatrous, and wicked in 
 her principles, though God forbid I should say so of 
 all her members, who are better than their doctrines ; 
 but we must try and snatch as many souls as we can 
 from her bondage, and restore them to the blessed 
 freedom of the Gospel. She keeps the Bible from the 
 laity — she will not allow the Scriptures to be read. 
 It was only the other day that one of the priests here 
 
350 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 wanted to take away a Bible I had given him from the 
 young man I was speaking of just now " 
 
 " A convert to your Church ? " Mr. Neville asked. 
 
 "Yes, he is about to abjure the errors of Rome, 
 and to marry an English young lady, who would never 
 have accepted a Papist for her husband." 
 
 "A satisfactory conversion!" Edgar remarked, in 
 a low voice. 
 
 " We are about to establish a central depot of 
 Bibles on this coast, and to organize a general system 
 for evangelizing the inhabitants of the towns and the 
 villages. We hope to receive large subscriptions from 
 England for this purpose, and the various Bible 
 Societies promise to aid us. I am happy to say that 
 we have already made some progress, though not so 
 great as we could wish. The people are so bigoted 
 and the influence of the priests still so great. Very 
 few of them will declare themselves Protestants, and 
 actually join our pure and holy Church ; but I have 
 noticed if not here, at least in some other places, satis- 
 factory symptoms. Some of those who have accepted 
 our Bibles and tracts, and the little charitable assist- 
 ance we can give them, have begun to eat meat on 
 Fridays, and declare they do not care for what the 
 priests say. And on the day of the Corpus Christi 
 procession at Bosco Nero, some of them were actually 
 standing with their hats on when the Host was carried 
 by. This was a great comfort to me. It seemed a 
 proof that Protestant truth is beginning to make its 
 way into these beautiful regions by means of the 
 gospel teaching of our dear Reformed Church, It 
 was very consoling indeed." 
 
 At this point Mr. Nilson's voice fairly broke down. 
 
 He had gasped out the last words with a strangling 
 energy which exhausted its small power. 
 
 Edgar's eyes met those of the Catholic priest, and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 351 
 
 with heightened colour, and in an excited manner he 
 exclaimed, " AH I can say is, that I utterly reject your 
 views of the teachings of our Church. I entirely dis- 
 agree with your opinions, and abhor the disrespect to 
 the Blessed Sacrament which you speak of. What you 
 call gospel truth I consider as downright heresy, and 
 I deny that our Church teaches it." 
 
 Mr. Nilson, making an effort to recover his voice, 
 murmured, " And you call yourself a Protestant clergy- 
 man ! " 
 
 " I do not call myself any such thing." 
 
 " Good heavens ! Mr. Derwent ! " 
 
 " I consider that those who speak and act as you 
 do, are the worst enemies of our Church. I beg your 
 pardon. Excuse me. I did not mean to speak so 
 strongly. Forgive me." 
 
 Such an expression of pain had passed over the 
 face of the older clergyman, so unmixed with resent- 
 ment, so sad and so perplexed, that Edgar felt remorse 
 at the violence with which he had expressed himself. 
 Mr. Nilson sighed deeply and said, " Alas ! what will 
 be the fate of our Reformed Church, for three hundred 
 years the stronghold and bulwark of Protestantism, 
 when her own ministers can use such language. My 
 dear friend ! you still have the Bible in your hands ; 
 you read it, I am sure, every day with prayer ; while 
 that is the case you cannot long be seduced by danger- 
 ous errors. That is my hope and my reliance." 
 
 Mr. Neville then said in a voice which this time 
 reached Mr. Nilson's ear, " Is it your belief, my dear 
 sir, that if any one reads the Bible every day with a 
 true and earnest desire to know and do God's will, 
 that he will be guided into all truth ? " 
 
 Mr. Nilson rather suspected that the person who 
 was addressing him was a Catholic, and the thought 
 crossed his mind, " Perhaps my words have struck 
 
352 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 him. He might be disposed to accept a Bible. I wish I 
 had brought one with me." However, he answered, 
 " I have not the slightest doubt of it. Only try, my 
 dear friend, and after a while the truths of the gospel 
 will be made clear to you ; you will feel an asssurance 
 of salvation, and your soul will pass from darkness 
 into light." 
 
 Mr. Neville answered, " For more than a year I 
 studied the Bible every day, beseeching God with 
 prayers and with tears to make His truth and His will 
 known to me. The more I read and the more I prayed 
 the more I became convinced that there is but one 
 Church appointed by Him to teach truth with au- 
 thority to men, and that is the Roman Catholic 
 Church. I abjured Protestantism, became a Catholic, 
 and in course of time a priest. I have continued to 
 read the Bible every day, and I have found day by day 
 my faith strengthened, and my reason more and more 
 convinced. I look back on the past and compare it 
 with the present, and if I would I could no longer 
 doubt. The Bible has done this for me. It has done 
 so for thousands in our own day and our own land. 
 I would fain add, may it do so for you both, who, like 
 
 knights disputing by the two-faced shield, are ministers 
 
 of a two-faced Church, which you appeal to with equal 
 
 right and equal hopelessness." 
 
 " But the Bible," shrieked out Mr. Nilson, " the 
 
 Bible cannot teach Roman Catholicism. It teaches 
 
 Protestantism ! " 
 
 Mr. Neville could not help smiling. " It has taught 
 
 me Catholicism. It teaches you Calvinism. It teaches 
 
 Mr. Derwent Anglicanism. It teaches us all charity, 
 
 I hope, and with that hope I will wish you good-night. 
 
 Do not, I beg of you, come out into the cold." 
 
 When the two clergymen were left together, one of 
 
 them thought, "It is these Evangelicals who drive 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 353 N 
 
 people out of our Church ; " and the other, " It is those 
 Puseyites who lure our people to Rome." 
 
 " I must go home too," Mr. Nilson said, " it is getting 
 late, I am really very much obliged to you about the 
 •duty to-morrow ; I suppose .... that you will not 
 touch in your sermon on anything extreme ? " 
 
 "No," Edgar answered, "but if any of your neo- 
 phytes are present, I do not know how I can refrain 
 from advising them not to be in a hurry to forsake 
 •their Church." 
 
 "You do not mean that you would stop the work of 
 grace? " 
 
 " Oh no, not any work of grace," Edgar impatiently 
 answered. " But, indeed, as I presume they do not 
 understand English, it cannot much signify as far as 
 (they are concerned, what I say or do not say. What 
 good do you think it can do those people to come and 
 sit by whilst the English Service is read ? Surely 
 those who blame the Church of Rome for using an un- 
 known tongue, should not encourage such an attend- 
 ance as this in our Church." 
 
 " It accustoms them to stay away from Mass," Mr. 
 Nilson answered, " and soon we hope to have an 
 Italian Service for them." 
 
 When the door had closed on his brother clergy- 
 man, Edgar walked up and down the room trying to 
 quiet his mind with the oft-repeated words — "In quiet- 
 ness and confidence shall be thy strength." 
 
 They might as well serve a man clinging to a sinking 
 ship, and refusing to be rescued. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 At eleven o'clock that same evening Edgar was writing, 
 in his dressing-room, his sermon for the next day. He. 
 stopped short in the middle of his task, and looked 
 into his wife's room. Seeing she was not asleep, he- 
 walked in, pen in hand. " It is dreadful," he said, 
 "to be obliged to preach for that man, and in that 
 wretched, conventicle-looking place." 
 
 " Then why do so, dearest ? " Ita answered ; as he 
 sat down by her bed-side. 
 
 " We must do our duty when it is difficult and 
 disagreeable as well as when it is easy and pleasant. 
 Everything of the kind was full of satisfaction and 
 pleasure at home. Here it is distasteful to the highest 
 degree. But we must not deprive others of public 
 worship to spare our own feelings." 
 
 " No ; if it is clear that you ought to officiate in 
 Mr. Nilson's chapel, then, of course, you must. But I 
 am glad I happen to have this cold just now, and 
 shall like much better to read the Service at home, 
 and the beautiful lines in the ' Christian Year ' for this 
 week, than to go to church to-morrow. By the way, 
 you will have to look out for the least objectionable 
 hymns in that horrid green book. Oh, darling Edgar, 
 I do not at all like the idea of your preaching for 
 Mr. Nilson, who says such dreadful things of Catholics. 
 It is so difficult to me to think it can be right. It 
 unsettles every notion of truth and falsehood ; and, 
 surely, if we ought to be true about anything, it is reli- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 355 
 
 gion. Anglicanism is such a makeshift," she suddenly 
 exclaimed, with a sort of desperation; "it is such a 
 system of expedients to prove to ourselves and others 
 that we are what nobody thinks us, and to make words 
 express what they do not mean. Oh, Edgar, God 
 cannot want this ! Forgive me, but I felt as if I should 
 suffocate if I did not speak out." 
 
 Edgar had turned pale, and looked sternly at his 
 wife. He felt for the first time, and with the keenest 
 pain, how much her confidence in the' Church of Eng- 
 land had been shaken since she had been abroad ; how 
 little she had been able to resist what he called the 
 fascinations of Roman Catholicism, and maintain her 
 Church principles when they happened not to be fully 
 carried out before her eyes. His fears were aroused, 
 his feelings hurt, his iron will arrayed on the side of 
 what he considered to be right. She had never spoken 
 so plainly before, or expressed so openly what he could 
 not bear to hear. He would speak plainly, also, half 
 from a sense of duty, half from indignant passion. He 
 had never before realized the possibility that his wife 
 could ever take a different line from him about religion. 
 Now it flashed upon him that other women had done 
 so — women as gentle and submissive as Ita in all 
 things else had been rebellious on this one point ; and 
 he resolved she should not go blindly forward in a 
 fatal course — that she should know, before it was too 
 late, what misery it would bring upon them both. 
 
 He took her hand in his, and said, slowly, fixing his 
 eyes upon her with an intensity which made her close 
 her own, " Ita, my own darling Ita, my beloved wife, 
 I have and do love you more tenderly, more ardently, 
 than I have, perhaps, ever shown or expressed — more 
 so, perhaps, than is right in one who has sworn to serve 
 at God's altar. Because I loved you so much . . . ." 
 He stopped, and his voice faltered. He thought of 
 
350 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Annie, generous, devoted Annie, and of his faithless- 
 ness to her, but did not give utterance to that thought. 
 He recovered himself, and did not finish his sentence. 
 He did not tell Ita that for her sake he had suffered 
 something very like remorse, but said, " No ; I think 
 it is impossible for any man to have loved a woman 
 more intensely than I have loved you, and yet, if you 
 were ever to forsake the Church of England, to deny 
 by that act her Catholicity, to side with her scornful 
 enemies, to turn publicly against me, and to proclaim 
 to the world your belief that my orders are invalid, my 
 ministrations void, my life a delusion, and my office a 
 sham, then there would be an end to all our domestic 
 happiness, and we should part. I cannot understand 
 how an Anglican priest can keep by his side, in his 
 house, and in his parish, a witness against his faith and 
 his Church. I would rather beg my bread with you 
 than live in splendour without you. I would rather 
 leave Holmwood for ever than separate from you ; but 
 my vows of fidelity to the Church of my baptism pre- 
 ceded my marriage vows, and as I said, on a day which 
 severed my fate from hers, who loved me well, though 
 unrequitedly, ' He is no Christian who is not ready to 
 cut off his hand or pluck out his eye rather than act 
 against his conscience.' I should tear out my heart 
 from my breast by parting with you, the darling and 
 treasure of my life ; but I would do so in that terrible 
 case — yes, even if these ejes were to weep themselves 
 blind after thrusting you from me." 
 
 He knelt down by the side of the bed, and hid his 
 face on the counterpane. Poor Ita looked on that 
 beloved head ; she laid her cold, nervous little hand on 
 the thick brown hair she was so fond of. She thought 
 of those eyes, which the least ray of light hurt, which 
 tears would fatally injure — of Annie and Holmwood 
 abandoned for her sake, for her, the nameless child 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 357 
 
 that had crossed his path and spoiled his destiny. She 
 looked up to heaven with a mute appeal, an intense 
 longing for a sign from the great, powerful, invisible, 
 silent Lord of Creation and Redemption. She sent up 
 that cry for light which so many utter in these days 
 from the depths of an agonizing perplexity. 
 
 The time was not yet come when that prayer was 
 to receive its answer. She turned again her eyes 
 towards her husband, and, as she bent over him, mur- 
 mured, " Thy people shall be my people, and thy God 
 my God ! " She, too, sought to still the voice of the 
 charmer by a text of Scripture. Edgar looked up into 
 her face. She threw her arms round his neck and 
 sobbed on his shoulder. " Never, never can I leave 
 you," she cried. "What you believe I must believe ; 
 what you hope I must hope, even against hope ; where 
 you are I must be, in life and in death. Who am I 
 that I should dare to separate myself from you, who 
 first led me to God and are a thousand times nearer 
 to Him than I am ? " Her cheeks were flushed, her 
 eyes sparkling. She was clinging to him as if the 
 idea of separation stood like a spectre by their side, 
 ready to thrust itself between their two hearts, which 
 were then beating close to each other. " Shall I pro- 
 mise you," she suddenly exclaimed, " never to be a 
 Roman Catholic ? " 
 
 Edgar started. He saw there was something like 
 desperation in her manner ; he shrunk from accepting 
 from her this promise. " No, darling," he said, tenderly 
 kissing her forehead, " no, do not make any promises ; 
 but I now feel sure you never will be one. You would 
 not break my heart, and throw a dark shade over the 
 whole of my life ? Drive away, banish such a thought 
 as a dreadful temptation. To use your own misapplied 
 words, my own wife, ' This cannot be what God 
 wants.' " 
 
358 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 She kissed his hand over and over again before he 
 left her to finish his sermon. She resolved when he 
 was gone never to leave the Church of England. She 
 said to herself, as her head fell back on the pillow, 
 "No, God does not want it of me." And yet Edgar's 
 own words were haunting her all the time. The hand 
 cut off, the eye plucked out, the heart torn from the 
 bosom, rather than not obey the voice of conscience. 
 But what did conscience command ? 
 
 This, this is the question, the harassing doubt, the 
 terrible uncertainty which distracts so many souls in 
 Ita's position. God answers it in His own day, in His 
 own hour — sometimes by a still, soft voice, heard in 
 silent prayer ; sometimes by the slow, gradual clearing 
 away of doubts, like that of a mist on the morning of 
 a sunny day; sometimes by a sudden burst of light, 
 flooding the astonished soul ; sometimes in grief, some- 
 times in joy ; sometimes by words like those St. Paul 
 heard on the road to Damascus, " Saul, Saul, why per- 
 secutest thou Me? " Sometimes by the simple " Follow 
 Me," addressed to the fishermen and the publican. It 
 comes at last, that answer, when the struggle is per- 
 haps at its height, and despair seems at hand ; when 
 the mind is weary with thinking ; when to pray is too 
 great an effort ; when we are about to murmur, and to 
 say to God what He said to Saul, " Why persecutes! 
 Thou me ? " Then, one day, His Divine hand beckons 
 us on. The suffering has not ceased, the doubts seem 
 scarcely to have vanished, but the struggle is ended. 
 We cannot go back. We see behind us nothing real, 
 consistent, and true. Before us what is there ? We 
 hardly know ; but we have a strong hope, almost a 
 faith, that beyond the veil which hides from us the un- 
 seen there lies a whole world of peace and strength ; 
 and we press on, though we feel it to be a venture. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 359 
 
 « Oh, my God ! I thank Thee that I made that ven- 
 ture!" ' * * * * * 
 
 About a fortnight or three weeks after this conver- 
 sation, in the early days of February, which had 
 brought with it cloudless skies and soft air, Edgar pro- 
 posed to make an excursion along the coast as far as 
 San Remo. Ita was delighted with the idea. To be 
 alone with her husband was, more than ever, what she 
 enjoyed. The interruptions to their solitude at the 
 villa had not, indeed, been frequent, but both of them 
 now rather dreaded visits, whether from Edmund 
 Neville or Mr. and Mrs. Nilson. The former did not 
 press any controversy upon them ; but there is always 
 some little embarrassment in seeing much of a person 
 whose mind is occupied with the same subjects as our 
 own, and yet those subjects are on both sides avoided. 
 It is often easier to carry on an ordinary intimacy 
 when there is a total absence of sympathy, than where 
 a constant temptation occurs to broach subjects of 
 common interest, but bordering on dangerous ground. 
 
 Ita also liked the thoughts of spending a Sunday 
 at San Remo, which was then quite uninvaded by 
 strangers. She and Edgar would go to no church, 
 but read the Service together on the sea-shore, or in a 
 shady spot in the woods. During a whole week she 
 should talk only with him ; hear hardly any voice but 
 his. They would be out of doors all day. It would 
 be like a second honeymoon. She was unconsciously 
 making her love for her husband her religion, and the 
 grey olive-groves, with the blue vault of heaven for its 
 dome, was the fittest temple for that worship. 
 
 There was, however, another consideration that 
 made] her eagerly look forward to this little journey. 
 They would pass through Spedaletti, the sea-coast vil- 
 lage where she had spent her infancy. She had not 
 
3 Co MRS, GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 ventured to speak to Edgar of her wish to go there- 
 She did not feel sure he would like it. He was always- 
 kind when she alluded to the pecularity of her fate, 
 but it was not a subject he was inclined to dwell upon, 
 and her sensitive consciousness of this reluctance had 
 prevented her from expressing her desire to visit that 
 spot. Now, however, it would come about in a natural 
 manner, and she prepared with great eagerness for the 
 excursion. Edgar was to walk and she to ride on a 
 donkey. They were to take nobody with them, but a 
 boy. A carpet-bag and a light box held all their 
 baggage. They intended to sleep the first night at 
 Ventimiglia, the second at Bordighiera, the third at 
 San Remo. 
 
 When they set out the weather had been perfectly 
 settled for some days. Everything was bright and 
 lovely as sunshine and spring could make it, foy 
 February when it is fine is spring on that coast. The 
 almond-trees were already covered with their pink 
 blossoms which mingle beautifully with the silvery 
 foliage of the olives. All was charming except the 
 dust which, when a diligence or voiture passed them, 
 rose in a dense cloud of white powder. Sometimes 
 they avoided the highroad, and followed a track along 
 the hills, or went for a little while along the sea-shore.. 
 
 At noon on the first day they stopped to rest the 
 donkey and themselves, and to eat their luncheon 
 under an ilex-tree in a gorge at the entrance of a 
 valley. Ita took a childish pleasure in filling their 
 gourds with water trickling from a rock. She was in 
 the greatest spirits. 
 
 " I wonder," she said, " if it is selfish to like to 
 have you all to myself ; I want nobody else, not even 
 the greatest friends." After a pause, she added : 
 " How strangely intense enjoyment borders on pain. 
 It makes me understand . . . ." She stopped short,. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 361 
 
 it was what Mr. Neville had said about Purgatory that 
 she was thinking of; " pain more intense than any 
 earthly pain, yet joy at the same time." But she was 
 afraid of disturbing the perfect bliss of that sunshiny 
 hour by the mention of anything in which Edgar and 
 her might not agree. 
 
 He smiled at her remark, and said, " How little 
 Annie would enter into that feeling of yours ! " 
 
 Ita laughed. " I can fancy her large eyes opening 
 wide with that surprised look they have when I indulge 
 in flights of fancy. What a dear kind letter that was 
 we had from her last week, full of the news of home. 
 It was so nice of her to tell us she had taken care to 
 send plenty of flowers from the hothouse every Sunday 
 for the altar, and that the children sang, ' Come, faith- 
 ful, approach ye,' still better than last year. There 
 was only one thing I wish she had not said." 
 
 " What was that ? " Edgar asked, as he leant back 
 against the tree, with his eyes half closed. 
 
 ' ; That she had heard a very painful report, but 
 would not mention it till she was quite certain of its 
 truth. What was the use, in that case, of speaking of 
 it at all ? I cannot bear people hinting at news whether 
 good or bad ? " 
 
 " Curiosity, thy name is woman," Edgar said, 
 laughing. 
 
 Meanwhile a troop of little ragged children had 
 gathered round Ita, and were gazing with wistful eyes 
 on the contents of her basket. The donkey-boy, who 
 had already had his own dinner out of it, told them 
 to go away, but she exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh, no ; let us give them the sandwiches. We 
 must keep the biscuits to fall back upon if we are 
 starved on the way; but they can have these," and 
 she distributed the contents of a paper bag amongst 
 the wild little urchins, who in return gave her bunches 
 
362 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 of violets, periwinkles, and pink anemones. She 
 asked them some questions, but their answers were 
 incomprehensible. They spoke the patois of the 
 Riviera, which is different from the Mentone dialect. 
 " We must resume our march," Edgar announced. 
 " Do ride the donkey for a while," she said, "and 
 let me walk." 
 
 11 Oh, dear no ! little woman ! " he answered, lifting 
 her on the saddle. " I am not at all tired," and they 
 went on, Edgar humming the old French Revolution- 
 ary song — 
 
 " En avant, marchons 
 Contre leurs canons, 
 A travers le fer, le feu des bataillons, 
 Courons a la victoire ! " 
 
 "1 like still better than that," Ita said, " the Hymn 
 of the Girondins. The refrain is so fine — 
 
 ' Mourir pour la patrie, 
 C'est le sort le plus beau, 
 Le plus digne d'envie.' 
 
 "A false sentiment," Edgar remarked. 
 
 "You mean that to die for one's faith is more 
 
 glorious? " 
 
 " Of course ; who could compare the two ? " 
 " Did you ever read Polyeucte ? " Ita inquired. 
 " No ; I could never endure French tragedies." 
 " Oh, I like some of Corneille's. Pauline in ' Les 
 
 Martyrs ' asks her lover, who is going to die because 
 
 he is a Christian, if he loves her (she is a heathen, you 
 
 know), and he answers — 
 
 • Beaucoup moins que mon Dieu, mais bien plus que moi-meme.' 
 
 " I like the idea, but I cannot say I care for the 
 line." 
 
 " I wonder how one could have borne what people 
 went through in the days of persecution." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 363 
 
 " We need not speak of them in the past tense. In 
 the Roman Catholic annals of the Propagation of the 
 Faith, there are frequent accounts of the most dreadful 
 martyrdoms in heathen countries. And I suppose the 
 Catholics in Poland endure, at the hands of the Rus- 
 sian Government, the severest sufferings, moral and 
 physical." 
 
 " It frightens me to think how ill I bear a toothache. 
 How should I endure the rack ? " 
 
 " I think what Mr. Neville was saying the other 
 day is true, that God gives us strength to bear the 
 trials He sends us, but not those we go through in 
 imagination. When you think of martyrdom it is 
 with the amount of courage you are naturally gifted 
 with . . . ." 
 
 " And that is the smallest amount possible," she 
 interrupted, with a smile. " I am not sure that I am 
 not afraid of that hungry-looking dog, who is barking 
 at us from the top of the cliff." 
 
 " Exactly so. Perhaps St. Agnes and St. Anastasia 
 might have also been frightened at a yelping cur. 
 When the trial comes, then the gift of strength comes, 
 if we have faith." 
 
 " Ah, then, a toothache without a special grace to 
 bear it may be worse than the thumb-screw with that 
 grace. As St. Theresa said, when she was going to 
 found a convent with eightpence, ' Theresa and eight- 
 pence are very little, but Theresa, eightpence, and Al- 
 mighty God are a great deal.' " 
 
 " I did not know that you had been reading St. 
 Theresa's works." 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Sydney lent them to me the last time 
 we were at Grantley Manor. She must have been,-I 
 think, the most charming person in the world, besides 
 a great saint. Do you not wish ?...." Here the 
 pathway became so narrow that Edgar could not keep 
 
364 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 by the side of the donkey, and Ita was left to her own 
 thoughts. She was struck by what her husband had 
 said about grace being given to us in proportion to 
 present trials, and not to those we look forward to. 
 Perhaps, then, we ought never to think that any effort 
 or sacrifice would be too great for our strength. Not 
 even . . . ." There she felt it necessary to check the 
 direction that thought was taking. It was better not 
 to follow it up. The words " Mourir pour la patrie" 
 kept, however, running in her mind. How strongly Ed- 
 gar had spoken about dying for one's faith. How much 
 more, then, ought one to suffer for it ! That, too, was 
 a dangerous subject of meditation, so, to divert her 
 mind from it, she talked to Dominico, who kept in front 
 of the donkey 
 
 " Is your mother still alive? " she asked him. 
 
 " Yes, Signora, thanks to the Madonna di Lagheto. 
 She went there last Trinity Sunday, and recovered the 
 use of her limbs. Her crutches were left at the altar 
 of the Madonna." 
 
 " Do people go there as much as ever ? " 
 
 M Indeed, I should think they did, Signora. More 
 than ever, I assure you." 
 
 "I remember one year that we stayed late in the 
 summer at Mentone, seeing carts full of sick people 
 with their friends on their way to Lagheto." 
 
 " To be sure, Signora, and no wonder, seeing what 
 great gvazzias are obtained there. My mother's hip- 
 joint was diseased for many years. She had been to 
 see doctors at Nice, but they all said it was a hopeless 
 case ; that she would never be better. Poverina, she 
 cried a whole day after they had told her so. But my 
 aunt, who is a holy woman, always praying, said, * If 
 I was you, Marina, I would go to Lagheto,' and my 
 father hired a cart, and took her there himself. There 
 was an immense crowd, so many carts and tents all 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 365 
 
 round the convent that they could hardly get near 
 enough for her to hobble to the church on crutches 
 They had to carry her at last, and hoist her over the 
 heads of the crowd to bring her near the Madonna's 
 altar. After she had said a prayer, she felt a strange 
 pain in all her limbs, as if something had happened to 
 her. This was the grazzia, Signora. She left her 
 crutches behind, and walked back all the way home. 
 She has been quite well ever since, and is almost as 
 great a saint now as my aunt. We shall all go to 
 Lagheto at the Trinity this year to thank the 
 Madonna." 
 
 "People go there from a great distance ? " 
 
 " To be sure they do. From Alassio and Savona, 
 and even from Genoa, and from the mountains, too, 
 in great numbers. They have done so for hundreds of 
 years and will do so, I think, till the day of Judgment. 
 The Madonna is so good," 
 
 " What is that about the Madonna ? " Edgar asked, 
 as they all turned again from the pathway into the 
 highroad. 
 
 Ita repeated to him in English what Dominico had 
 said. He shook his head. "Always the Madonna." 
 
 11 But, Edgar, if our Lord chooses to work miracles 
 at his Mother's request, why should you object to 
 it?" 
 
 11 // He does, but does He ? That is the question." 
 
 " I cannot help believing He does, for would it not 
 be most extraordinary that for hundreds of years thou- 
 sands and thousands of persons, at great trouble and 
 inconvenience to themselves, should travel long dis- 
 tances, carrying sick people with them to a particular 
 place, in order to obtain a miraculous cure, when no 
 such miraculous cures were ever obtained ? It would 
 be such a strange delusion." 
 
 " Strange, indeed, but unfortunately there is a grea 
 
366 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 tendency in ignorant persons to entertain this sort of 
 delusions." 
 
 fi But, dearest Edgar, why do you smile in that kind 
 of pitying, scornful way ? " 
 
 " My darling, I really find it difficult to discuss this 
 question seriously. It is so absurd. These are exactly 
 the sort of things that are so objectionable in Roman 
 Catholicism. The priests encourage the people in 
 these superstitions." 
 
 11 But now, just listen to me, dearest. ' Why is it 
 superstitious in these people to believe that when they 
 go with faith and ask of God to cure themselves or 
 their friends . . . ." 
 
 " Not God, the Madonna." 
 
 " But, dear Edgar, you know they believe that it 
 is only by God's power at the Madonna's request that 
 they are cured." She turned to Dominico, and asked 
 him in Mentonese — "Could the Blessed Virgin have 
 cured your mother without the help of her Divine 
 Son ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, Signora ; but what she asks Him to 
 do He never refuses." 
 
 " He says just what I said, Edgar; and I want you 
 just to tell me why is it now absurd to think that 
 miracles take place, when it is right to believe they 
 happened some hundred years ago ? " 
 
 " There is not the same occasion for them now ? " 
 
 " Well, dearest, it seems to me that there is great 
 occasion for them now, when there are so many in- 
 fidels and unbelievers. And how can we judge if they 
 are necessary or not ? How can we decide about that ? 
 The Roman Catholics say they have never ceased in 
 the Church." 
 
 " A belief in modern miracles is not an article of 
 faith with them." 
 
 « No, but they all, most of them at least, think they 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 367 
 
 do happen sometimes now. But whether they do take 
 place or not, what is there absurd in believing they 
 do ? The early Christians used to cure sick people 
 with handkerchiefs the apostles had touched, and laid 
 them in the streets that the shadow of St. Peter might 
 fall upon them." 
 
 " St. Peter was an apostle." 
 
 " But if the shadow of an apostle could work a 
 miracle, why not the image of God's mother ? or why 
 not the relics of His saints ? " 
 
 " I remember a discussion on that question some 
 years ago at Holmwood. I think Mr. Hendon took 
 your side of the argument." 
 
 " That is what he would be sure to do. He says, 
 it puts him out of all patience to hear people who say 
 they believe every word of the Bible, all the miracles 
 in the Old and New Testament — the story about 
 Balaam's ass speaking, for instance, and then laugh at 
 Roman Catholics for saying that miracles sometimes 
 happen now. It is so inconsistent. If God could 
 work wonders two thousand years ago, why is it ridi- 
 culous to think He does so now ? Please, Edgar, 
 please, tell me that you see some truth in what I 
 say ? " 
 
 Edgar smiled. " Well, Pussy, I will admit the 
 possibility, though I cannot believe in all these modern 
 miracles." 
 
 " Oh, I dare say there are often mistakes about them, 
 but I am glad you admit they are possible." 
 
 They had by this time arrived near Ventimiglia — 
 the old castellated towers frowned upon them from 
 their picturesque heights, and there they spent the 
 night at a very poor osteria, and were obliged to have 
 recourse to Ita's biscuits, their evening meal having 
 proved anything but satisfactory. 
 
 The day's journey from Ventimiglia to Bordighiera 
 
368 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 was not so pleasant as the preceding one. The sun 
 was hotter and the wind colder, the dust more con- 
 stantly annoying, and the deviations from the highroad 
 seldom practicable. Edgar looked weary, but nothing 
 would induce him to ride the donkey, or to own he 
 was tired. Ita was much occupied with the idea that 
 on the morrow they would pass through Spedaletti. 
 She had not yet mentioned to her husband her wish to 
 halt there, and to stroll about the place in search of 
 old recollections. She did not think he would under- 
 stand her wishing it so much. Yet nobody cared more 
 for old associations than he did. Nobody was more 
 attached than he was to particular places. But it did 
 not follow that he would sympathize with her feelings 
 of the sort ; he was not selfish, for the moment he saw 
 that an action was right or kind, he would never omit 
 to perform it, but he did not easily conceive that what 
 did not interest him could interest others. Ita, from 
 the first moment of their acquaintance, had entered so 
 fully into everything that was of importance and plea- 
 sure to him, that he had never realized that she could 
 have desires and inclinations apart from his. The 
 strongest love does not always insure that sympathy 
 will be shown when the person who feels it has what 
 is called in French un caractere entier, which does not 
 mean either a proud, or a selfish, or a self-sufficient 
 one, in the bad sense of the word, but implies a self- 
 concentration that makes everything circle round itself, 
 and fancies it sympathizes with others when it merely 
 accepts their sympathy. Ita had, on the other hand, 
 one of those natures which recoil, from a cold look 
 or word as others w T ould from a blow, and though very 
 impulsive she was also reserved from an instinctive 
 dread of the pain which anything like a repulse gave 
 her. She felt that Edgar would not care about the 
 faint reminiscences of the days of her infancy, and at 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 369 
 
 one moment she almost resolved to ride through Spe- 
 daletti without alluding to them. 
 
 In the evening, however, as they were walking in 
 the garden just outside the town, a famous one for its 
 fine palm-trees, she took courage, and said — 
 
 " I should like so much to stop to-morrow at Speda- 
 letti, and walk about a little there. It is the place 
 where I lived before Lady Emily adopted me." 
 
 " Do we go through it ? " Edgar asked. " I fancied 
 it was on the other side of San Remo. Certainly, we 
 can stop there if you wish it. Have you been there 
 since your infancy ? " 
 
 " We passed through it twice on our way to Genoa, 
 but as Lady Emily never spoke of the time before I 
 lived with her, I did not venture to say anything about 
 it." 
 
 " But what do you want to do there ? You cannot 
 remember anybody, I suppose ? Those old people who 
 took care of you are dead, you told me." 
 
 " Yes ; but I want to look at the cottage I lived in, 
 and perhaps I could make some of the people recollect 
 my being there." 
 
 II And what will be the use of that, my darling ? " 
 
 II I do not suppose it will be of any use," she an- 
 swered, pressing his arm against her heart, M but it 
 will be one of those strange pleasures we can hardly 
 account for." 
 
 " Then by all means we will stop there ; but I think 
 it very likely you will see nothing as you remember it. 
 Childish recollections are so confused." 
 
 They went to rest early, after enjoying a pink 
 sunset and a rising moon, which illumined with its 
 silvery light the low flat shore, and the fancied forms 
 of the feathery palm-trees. Nothing could be more 
 primitive than the accommodation to be found at that 
 time in the little towns on the Corniche road. The 
 
 Y 
 
370 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 food was insufficient and bad — the beds hard — the 
 pillows like stones, the odours unpoetical ; but they 
 were neither of them fastidious, and nothing of that 
 sort destroyed their enjoyment. 
 
 The next day, Ita awoke full of excitement, her 
 heart beating at the prospect of the halt they were to 
 make at Spedaletti. She could hardly think of any- 
 thing else. 
 
 " How dreamy you are this morning," Edgar re- 
 marked, when he had been twice obliged to call her 
 to look at a picturesque group of girls drawing water 
 at a fountain opposite their osteria. She started, and 
 came to the window. 
 
 " Is not the donkey saddled yet ? " she exclaimed, 
 as she perceived that patient individual standing in 
 the court, without any appearance that Dominico was 
 thinking of getting him ready for his daily work. 
 
 "Why are you in such a hurry?" Edgar asked, 
 forgetting that the coming day was an interesting one 
 to her. 
 
 She made no answer then, but a moment after- 
 wards she went to the breakfast-table, and said, " I 
 think I will put these eggs into my basket ; they are 
 already almost cold. At Spedaletti we shall probably 
 find nothing to eat." 
 
 " Oh, by the way, you mean to rest there. I advise 
 you to tell Dominico to let you know when we get to 
 it, for I should not be surprised if you did not 
 recognize the place." 
 
 Ita informed the donkey-boy of their desire, and 
 the party started. It seemed to Ita as if they creeped 
 instead of walked up and down the hills, and she 
 looked at every turn of the road with eager anxiety 
 to see if they were yet in sight of the little village. 
 
 11 Is that Spedaletti ? " she asked at last, as by the 
 eastern side of one of the sheltered and sunny bays 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 371 
 
 she saw a few houses close to the sea, and some 
 fisherman's boats on the sand. 
 
 "Si, Signora," Dominico answered. " But there is 
 no decent inn there," he added, shrugging his shoulders, 
 " and nothing to see at all." 
 
 " Do you know anybody there ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear no," he replied, contemptuously, " they 
 are all poverissima gente." 
 
 When they approached the first ruinous, miserable- 
 looking building, which bore that peculiar look of 
 neglect which belongs to very poor Italian villages, 
 he asked where they wished to stop. 
 
 "Here," she said, "I wish to get down here," and 
 she jumped off the donkey, and went to meet Edgar. 
 
 " What do you want to do, love?" he said. "Is 
 this the place ? Can I help you in any way ? " 
 
 " No, dearest," she answered, pulling out her watch. 
 44 Give me an hour all to myself; that is what I shall 
 like best. Suppose you go and sit and read, in that 
 empty boat in the shade of the larger vessel, while I 
 stroll about and speak to some of the people." 
 
 " Do not overheat yourself. Have you got the 
 umbrella ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 He bent down and kissed her forehead, and she 
 walked slowly on. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Ita's wish, though she had not mentioned it to Ed- 
 gar, was, in the first instance, to walk to the little 
 church where she had been baptized. She had a very- 
 distinct recollection of it and of the lights on the altar, 
 and the priest's vestments, and of having made, one 
 day, a sudden dart at a piece of orange-peel on the 
 pavement, and been roughly snatched up and replaced 
 on the bench. It was not far off, and she went there ; 
 but it was noon, and the door was locked. Two little 
 grated windows on each side allowed her, however, to 
 look inside. It was just as she remembered it, only, of 
 course, much smaller. Then she went to the nearest 
 house where any one seemed stirring, for most of them 
 were shut up like the church, almost everybody being 
 out at work. She found one woman washing, and 
 asked her if she had known Giovanni Piombo and his 
 wife. She spoke first in Italian, and was not under- 
 stood. Then she tried Mentonese with a little more 
 success ; but she could not get a positive answer. 
 " Sicuro, sicuro" the woman said ; but when she inquired 
 for the house where they used to live, she only got the 
 same reply, " Sicuro," and nothing came of it. 
 
 She wandered about the place, sometimes fixing on 
 one cottage and then on another, as the one she had 
 inhabited, but could not make out anything certain. 
 She almost cried with vexation, though she felt it was 
 foolish, and was just going back to the place where she 
 had left Edgar, when she saw a priest coming towards 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 373 
 
 the church. He was the paroco of Colla, a town on 
 the hill above Spedaletti, which belonged also to his 
 parish. 
 
 Ita took courage, and went up to him. " Excuse 
 me," she said, in Italian, " but will your Reverence 
 have the kindness to tell me whether you knew Giovanni 
 Piombo, a fisherman of this place, and which of these 
 houses he lived in ? " 
 
 11 Giovanni Piombo," the priest repeated, stroking 
 his chin thoughtfully. " Sicuro — but he has been dead 
 these ten years." 
 
 " I know he is dead," she answered ; " but where 
 did he and his wife live ? " 
 
 " A little way to the left, Signora — nearer the 
 Marina. It was a poor cottage then, and now it is 
 used as a shed by the men who mend the road. You 
 are not the first person who has made inquiries about 
 that poor defunto. A Signora came to see me some 
 time ago — I think, from Mentone — to ask about him, 
 and I have also had a letter from a lady in England. 
 Are you of that country, Signora ? " 
 
 "Yes," Ita answered, blushing a little. "I have 
 lately come from England." 
 
 " Oh, then, no doubt you must know her. If I had 
 her letter with me I should show it to you." 
 
 " Was the name Hendon ? " 
 
 ** No, no. It begins with a D. Dal — Dalass — that 
 is it." 
 
 " What did she want to know about Giovanni 
 Piombo? Excuse me for asking, but you said, just 
 now, you would have shown me the letter if you had 
 had it with you." 
 
 " And so I would. Can you come to my house at 
 Colla?" 
 
 " I am afraid I can't." 
 
 " Oh, then, I can tell you what is in it. She wished 
 
374 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 me to write to her the exact date of the day when 
 Piombo picked up at sea a child, whom an English 
 lady at Mentone afterwards adopted." 
 
 " And were you able to tell her ? " 
 
 " Not the precise date of the day, but the year and 
 the month ; for I baptized the child myself; and I sent 
 her the extract from the register." A sudden idea 
 struck the paroco. " Is it, by any chance, the Signora 
 Dalass I am speaking to ? " 
 
 " No — but . . . ." Ita stopped short. She was 
 afraid Edgar would not like her to tell the priest that 
 it was her he had baptized in her infancy. So she 
 began again. " No, I am not that lady, and I know 
 nothing about her." 
 
 11 Excuse me," the paroco rejoined ; " I fancied you 
 might be the Signora who wrote the letter." 
 
 " What place did she write from ? " 
 
 " Thomas Street, in London ; and there is a number, 
 too, and something else besides London, which I 
 forget." 
 
 11 Did you not say that another lady came from 
 Mentone to speak to you about Giovanni Piombo ? " 
 
 " Ah ! she was not a grand lady, that poor soul ; but 
 so good, so humble, so pious ! Povera donna ! she walked 
 on crutches, and looked very ill. She told me her 
 history. She had met with a terrible accident at sea, 
 a great many years ago, and been nearly drowned. 
 Her child was drowned, and she has never got over it. 
 She said she had been out of her mind for some years,, 
 from a blow she had received on the head ; and the 
 pain of the heart, too, she added. Poverina ! For a 
 long time she was in a hospital or asylum at Genoa.. 
 At last she got better, and returned to Mentone, her 
 native place. The people there told her that an 
 English lady had adopted a girl which Giovanni 
 Piombo had found in a boat at sea, and had taken her 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 375 
 
 away to England with her. So she must go and take 
 it into her head that this must have been her child, 
 and off she comes to me here to ask about it. But she 
 had no clear idea when she had lost her infant, or how 
 long she had been at the asylum, or of her own age. 
 Some of her relatives told her one thing, and others 
 differently. Her husband died, she said, just before 
 that unlucky voyage, and that had begun to unsettle 
 her mind. I am not sure that she is even now quite 
 right in the head. Perhaps the whole thing is a pazzia 
 — a delusion." 
 
 " Do you know if she is now at Mentone, and if so, 
 where she lives ? " 
 
 " Ah, no, Signora ; I cannot tell you. I never saw 
 her but that once. But it is strange that three differ- 
 ent persons should have come to me with the same 
 question. Can I do anything for you, Signora ? " 
 
 " No, thank you," Ita answered, for she could not 
 think at that moment what more she had to ask either 
 about Mrs. Dallas or the poor woman at Mentone. 
 She felt frightened at the idea that what she had some- 
 times in imagination sighed for, might actually come 
 to pass, that she might discover who she was. Since 
 her marriage she had ceased to crave for that know- 
 ledge, and the very idea of it now made her so nervous 
 that, after taking leave of the priest, she was obliged 
 to sit down a moment on the stone bench outside the 
 church to try and think calmly on what he had said. 
 A number of possible eventualities were passing 
 through her mind, and she, whose greatest fear was 
 always a perplexity, saw before her a future complica- 
 tion comprising some most difficult and painful 
 questions. Her susceptible conscience and almost 
 morbid tender-heartedness were already beginning to 
 reproach her for the sudden dread which she felt of 
 finding a parent in the poor woman the paroco had 
 
37 6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 mentioned, and the wish she was conscious of, that 
 no proof should be brought forward of it, if such 
 should be the fact. Was not this mean, unnatural 
 and wrong ? and yet do what she would, her heart 
 sank within her at the thought of such a discovery. 
 Then who could Mrs. Dallas be? Was it possible 
 that Mrs. Gerald had written under that name ? The 
 direction given in the letter threw no light on the 
 subject. 
 
 If there had been time for it she would have liked 
 to have gone to Colla, and asked to see the letter, but 
 Edgar was waiting and she could not tell him in a 
 hurry what she had heard. She must first think over 
 it. Perhaps if he had no objection, they might stop 
 there on their way back. 
 
 She slowly walked to the shore where she had left 
 her husband. All the pleasurable excitement of the 
 previous hours had vanished. The very beauty of the 
 view had lost its attractions. It seemed to her as if 
 there was a snare in its loveliness. England, Holm- 
 wood, the Vicarage rose before her, and she longed to 
 find herself at home — safe at home, she unconsciously 
 said to herself. The moral suffering that might be im- 
 pending on her almost seemed to her excited feelings 
 like a physical danger. It would be so dreadful if she 
 found a mother she should not be able to love. She 
 could not fancy anything more painful, and she was 
 angry with herself for dreading to discover that she 
 was the child of a poor woman. It would be so dif- 
 ficult to realize the relationship. There never was a 
 more sudden reaction. For the moment she disliked 
 the sight of the blue sea and the olive woods. She 
 had taken such a childish pleasure in the idea of see- 
 ing this place again, and now she was impatient to get 
 away from it. 
 
 Edgar was struck with her paleness. " Are you not 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 377 
 
 feeling well, darling ? " he said, looking anxiously in 
 her face. 
 
 " A little tired," she said, " but let us go on. 
 Riding," she added, forcing a smile, " is the best rest 
 after walking." 
 
 " Have you walked far ? " 
 
 " No, a very short distance." 
 
 " You had better have some luncheon ; sit down here." 
 
 She obeyed, and he opened the basket. She burst 
 into tears. 
 
 "What on earth is the matter, my dearest love?" 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 She hid her face in her hands. 
 
 "Who have you been talking to, Ita ? What non- 
 sense it was to stop here," he said, half-anxious, 
 half-provoked. 
 
 " I did not mean to tell you about it till I had 
 thought more, but I must, I cannot help it. I have 
 seen the priest of this place, or rather of Colla, there 
 on the height . . . ." 
 
 " Has he been talking to you about religion ? " 
 Edgar asked, his eyes flashing, and the colour rushing 
 into his face. 
 
 " Oh no, not a word, though it was he, indeed, 
 who baptized me. But I did not tell him who I was 
 .... Oh, Edgar, would you love me less if I turned 
 out to be the child of a poor Mentonese woman ? " 
 
 She again covered her face with her hands. 
 
 He answered very calmly, " My darling, if you 
 turned out to be the hangman's daughter, I might 
 regret the discovery, but I should not love you a bit 
 the less. But is this a sudden fancy you have taken 
 into your head, or have you heard anything that has 
 given you this idea ? " 
 
 " I have heard something, but it is very vague." 
 
 " Of one thing you can be quite sure, nothing of 
 
378 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 that sort could ever make a difference in my feelings 
 towards you. You did not think it could, did you, 
 you foolish little woman ? " 
 
 " It is very dear of you to say so," Ita said, looking 
 brighter. 
 
 " But what has this priest been telling you ? " 
 
 " A lady whose name he pronounced Dalass, I think 
 it must be Dallas, wrote to him some time ago to 
 inquire about the time when I was found and all 
 about me — me as a baby, I mean. By the way, I 
 forgot to ask him if she seemed to know my name and 
 where I was now. If you like," Ita added, hesitatingly, 
 " I could see him again and ask him ? " 
 
 " I do not see any use in it. Is that all ? " 
 
 11 No ; some time before a poor woman came from 
 Mentone also to ask about me. She had been out of 
 her mind for some years, after a shipwreck, or some 
 accident at sea, in which she had lost her baby, and 
 when she heard that I had been found in the way I 
 was, she thought I might be her child .... and, 
 Edgar, perhaps I am ? " 
 
 " Is that all ? " Edgar asked again. 
 
 "Yes; I think that is all." 
 
 "Then, my love, I advise you not to let your mind 
 dwell a moment on the subject. Any poor crazy 
 woman, whose child has been drowned on this coast, 
 might take the same idea into her head. It would be 
 as natural for her to do so, as impossible for others to 
 draw any inference from the facts." 
 
 " She only inquired, he said, and did not seem to 
 remember herself, anything distinctly about dates." 
 
 " Of course not. The notion is preposterous. But 
 I am sorry we stopped here. I am sorry we came 
 abroad. I am always afraid of your letting your mind 
 run on conjectures as to what it is not apparently 
 God's will you should know." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 379 
 
 " I think I ought to try and find out this woman at 
 Mentone when we go back. Should you mind ? " 
 
 "I think it would be foolish — still, if you wish it 
 . . . ." Edgar smiled ; this was a relief to her. She 
 felt so very nervous. 
 
 " Well," he said, gaily, " we will see about that. I 
 am tolerably certain I shall know at first sight if this 
 good woman is my mother-in-law or not." 
 
 " You know one cannot trust to likenesses." 
 
 " I do not agree with you there. I cannot remem- 
 ber ever having seen a daughter not like her mother in 
 some one point of face, figure, or voice." 
 
 " I am very glad that you do not object to my trying 
 to find out that poor woman. She is lame — walks on 
 crutches, the priest said. Though it is, as you say, 
 probably quite impossible to be at all sure about it, 
 I should like, in case, just in the most distant improbable 
 case, to do something to make her comfortable. I 
 could ask the Abate Giovanni to look after her. And 
 I should like to kiss her once, in case. I often kiss the 
 Italian poor people. It would not seem odd, and then 
 I could . . . ." 
 
 " Come, come, you have not found her yet," Edgar 
 said, laughing. " I do not object to your in cases, or 
 your kissing all the old women in Mentone, if you like, 
 provided you are sensible, and do not allow your 
 imagination to run wild, or else I shall carry you back 
 to England at once." 
 
 " Oh ! do not," she exclaimed ; " I shall be more 
 satisfied to see this poor woman. But I will not bore 
 you with any more talk about that." 
 
 She had some luncheon, and told Edgar that the 
 palms on the opposite side of the bay, and the dates she 
 was eating, put her in mind of Mrs. Heman's lines : — 
 
 " Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
 And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? ** 
 
3 8o MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 He answered that those she had in her basket had 
 been ripened by a more burning sun than that which 
 was then making the wavelets and the pale foliage of 
 the olive-trees glitter like silver. 
 
 As they rode up the hill which rises above Spe- 
 daletti, Ita went off into a burst of enthusiasm about 
 Mrs. Heman's poetry, and asked Edgar if he did not 
 think there was an unconscious Catholicism about it. 
 " I always think," she said, " that even when she 
 means to be a thorough Protestant, there is a spirit in 
 her which compels her to be Catholic. Don't you 
 remember, in the \ Forest Sanctuary,' that though she 
 wanted to make the Spanish apostate interesting, as if 
 in spite of herself, by far the most beautiful passage, 
 is the one where his wife, who has not lost her faith, 
 dies of a broken heart, while singing a hymn to the 
 Blessed Virgin ? " 
 
 " If she had lived twenty years later," Edgar an- 
 swered, M I have no doubt she would have been an 
 ardent advocate of the revival of Catholicism in our 
 Church." 
 
 Ita did not answer ; aijd, after a moment's silence, 
 he said, as he looked at her hazel eyes, which had al- 
 ways a peculiarly beautiful expression when unspoken 
 thoughts were passing through her mind, like light 
 clouds over the sky, " Not a penny for your thoughts, 
 but this wild heart's-ease for your dreams." 
 
 11 Ah," she cried, " heart's-ease is worth buying ! 
 Well, I was thinking — it was a thought, not a dream 
 — that most of our English modern poets, without being 
 Catholics, write almost as if they were. My three 
 favourite poems, for instance ; I can hardly believe 
 they were written by Protestants." 
 
 " Which do you mean ? Oh, of course, ' Evangeline,' 
 I suppose." 
 
 11 Yes, and then ■ The Lady of la Garaye,' and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 381 
 
 1 Guinevere,' the last of the Idylls, the most beautiful 
 of my three favourites perhaps, though I like ' Evan- 
 geline ' the best. I should like to have these three 
 poems bound together for my own particular self." 
 
 " Well, if you are very good, as we say to children," 
 Edgar said, laughing, " come next St. Margaret's Day, 
 I might perhaps, at a heavy pecuniary sacrifice, manage 
 to produce that volume." 
 
 " Oh, that will be too charming ! " After a pause 
 she said, " I am glad we are going to rest a whole day 
 at San Remo. I am sure you are very tired, though 
 you will not say so." 
 
 He was indeed, very tired and not feeling well ; but 
 energy with him supplied always the place of strength. 
 Towards five o'clock they reached the large old- 
 fashioned inn in the centre of the picturesque city of 
 San Remo, and had just time before dark to walk to 
 the end of the jetty, from whence there is a beautiful 
 view of the town and the amphitheatre of hills behind 
 it. They sat there, looking at the port full of little 
 fishing and trading vessels, and animated by the 
 variety of costumes which gives such life to Italian 
 scenery. Then they strolled through the narrow 
 streets, admiring the palaces, equal in some instances 
 to those of Genoa, and going in and out of the 
 numerous fine churches, which exhibit, like most of 
 those on the Riviera, a splendour of decoration which 
 takes travellers by surprise. 
 
 " Is it not a perfect mystery," Edgar exclaimed, as 
 his wife led the way to a narrow bridge across a torrent 
 edged by cactuses and aloes, "how the inhabitants of 
 small secluded towns, at a time when they had none of 
 the modern resources we possess, should have been able 
 to convey up steep ascents and along narrow precipi- 
 tous pathways the materials for such buildings and all 
 the wonderful treasures of art they contain." 
 
382 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 "Where there is a will there is a way, I suppose," 
 Ita said ; " and I should think they cared immensely to 
 have beautiful churches. But now look at the palm- 
 trees on the Piazza ! " 
 
 Edgar looked, admired as much as she wished, and 
 then they went home. 
 
 The next day, after a good night's rest, feeling re- 
 freshed, though not perhaps in quite as high spirits as 
 when they had started on their journey, they prepared 
 to ascend the long stony ascent which leads to the 
 Lepers' Hospital, a charitable foundation and relic of 
 old times, due to the Knights of St. Maurice and St. 
 Lazarus. Alas! that the names of those saints, the 
 badge of that Christian order, should be profaned as 
 it is in our days I 
 
 When they came out of this building, where every- 
 thing is indeed done to soften the misery of the most 
 afflicted, perhaps, of all God's creatures, but where the 
 sufferings humanity is exposed to are painfully conspi- 
 cuous, it was a relief to breathe the pure and soft air, 
 and ascend higher still to the magnificent sanctuary so 
 called, par excellence, which in the midst of its grand 
 terraces, adorned with cypresses and statues, and at 
 the head of its broad flight of steps, commands one of 
 the loveliest views of the whole coast, from Nice to 
 Genoa. 
 
 " What a strange inequality there is in human des- 
 tinies ! " Ita said, when, after looking into the church, 
 they wandered into the grove of ilexis at its back. 
 " Here we are, enjoying ourselves as much as is pos- 
 sible, travelling together through this beautiful country, 
 loath to leave each lovely spot we come to, and yet, on 
 the whole, longing for the day when we shall turn our 
 faces towards our own dear home — only sorry that 
 time and space do not allow us to combine two sorts 
 of happiness, two different kinds of lives in one ; and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 383 
 
 then are those poor creatures, with no hope of cure, 
 no prospect of change, day after day spent in lonely, 
 
 loathsome sufferings Oh ! how can people who 
 
 do not believe in a future state of existence help going 
 mad with the thought of the inequality in human des- 
 tinies ! " 
 
 " I believe there is less of it than you imagine. 
 There is such a large amount of secret suffering in this 
 world, especially of that which arises from peculiar 
 constitutions of mind or of body." 
 
 " But sometimes all miseries seem to come together." 
 
 " Not often, I think. My idea is that God does 
 not send to any one the trial that to their peculiar 
 nature would be most unbearable. Sorrows, seen at a 
 distance, appear to approach that point, but somehow 
 or other, they do not arrive at it. Suffering seems al- 
 ways to stop short of what would be overwhelming." 
 
 " I never read Marie Antoinette's history without 
 wondering how she could live through her trials. What 
 could have made them worse — more overwhelming ? " 
 
 " Remorse." 
 
 " Ah ; but remorse is not exactly a trial sent by 
 God." 
 
 " In a certain sense I think it is. Remorse is not 
 the same thing as repentance. To one person the 
 thought that he had done another an injury, the re- 
 membrance of a mean or cruel act of sin, would be 
 perfect torture ; whereas another person might truly 
 repent of having committed it, but not feel the keen 
 suffering I speak of." 
 
 " If, for instance, you had acted as Mr. Neville did 
 about his marriage, you would never have got over 
 the misery it would have caused you." 
 
 " Perhaps those who could not get over having acted 
 in a particular manner would never have been tempted 
 to do so." 
 
384 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Mr. Neville looks as if he had gone through much 
 suffering, but he seems happy now. What he could 
 not have got over, I think, would have been if he had 
 made his wife give up her religion for his sake, and 
 then she had died unhappy." 
 
 " Yes, with his present convictions, that would have 
 been very painful to him." 
 
 " One of the most terrible things, I think, that could 
 happen to one would be to kill somebody by accident/' 
 
 " Worse than on purpose ? " 
 
 " Oh, but I am talking of things that could happen 
 to one." 
 
 " I suppose we ought not to say of any crime that 
 it is impossible we should commit it. As it is only 
 God's grace, or the absence of temptation from our 
 particular circumstances, which keeps us from falling 
 into as bad sins as others." 
 
 Ita thought a little, and then said, " Well, I cannot 
 conceive under any possible circumstances that I could 
 kill anybody." 
 
 " Physically or morally speaking ! " 
 
 11 Both ; I am too great a coward, and too tender- 
 hearted." 
 
 " If you had been in Charlotte Corday's place, and 
 had seen in a list of people doomed to death by Marat, 
 the names of the persons you loved most in the world, 
 and that by stabbing him you believed you could save 
 them, might you not have been tempted to do so ? " 
 
 " Well, perhaps I should if your name had been on 
 the list, and I could have saved you. I had not 
 thought of such a possibility as that. Yes, I suppose 
 I could have done it. I once saw a woman cruelly 
 beating a little child. I think at that moment I could 
 have flown at her and stabbed her." 
 
 " You see, Pussy, you are not quite as safe from 
 that temptation as you fancied." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 385 
 
 " I know what would be the worst thing of all to 
 have done. It would be to have made somebody bad 
 who was once good, or prevented anybody from doing 
 what was right." 
 
 When Ita had said those last words, she blushed 
 deeply. The thought crossed her mind that Edgar 
 might think she alluded to his strenuous opposition to 
 her becoming under any circumstances a Catholic. 
 But she need not have been afraid. He was always 
 so firmly persuaded that whatever he did was right, 
 that the idea of a misgiving on that point had never 
 even occurred to him. 
 
 As they were walking back, and passing by a 
 little shrine with an image of the Blessed Virgin, Ita 
 ventured — it was a habit of her childhood — to lay a 
 bunch of wild flowers she had gathered on the wayside 
 altar. 
 
 "Will you have these?" Edgar said, offering her 
 some white hyacinths to add to her nosegay. She was 
 pleased, and to please him she repeated as they went 
 on the lines in the " Christian Year " — 
 
 "Ave Maria, Blessed Maid, 
 Lily of Eden's fragrant shade ! 
 Ave Maria, thou whose name 
 All but adoring love may claim." 
 
 To quote Keble's poetry was like a profession of 
 faith in Anglicanism. He smiled, and no cloud ob- 
 scured their enjoyment of that day. He had lost his 
 apprehensions. She had stifled her misgivings. There 
 was a truce at any rate between them and her soul, 
 and thus she wrote that evening in her diary : — 
 
 " I have had only once to-day one of those thoughts 
 that Edgar tells me to drive away as temptations. We 
 laid flowers together at the feet of the Blessed Virgin. 
 There is great sympathy between us." 
 
 z 
 
386 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 The following day was a Sunday, and this was her 
 record of it — 
 
 " After breakfast this morning we walked outside 
 the town. There is no English church here, and 
 Edgar said nothing about going to another. After 
 following the road some little time, we turned to the 
 right, and went up a steep paved ascent which brought 
 us to a villa which must have been once a very beauti- 
 ful place. Now the terraces and what was once the 
 garden are in a wild, neglected state, and the paint- 
 ings on the walls outside nearly effaced. We opened 
 a door and found ourselves in a little chapel, with two 
 altars in it, and everything arranged with the greatest 
 care. It looked as if it must have been once very 
 much cared for — all the smallest details were so pretty. 
 Edgar proposed to read the service there together as 
 we were quite alone. 
 
 " I should have liked better to read it, as we had 
 intended, out of doors in the wood. When I am in a 
 Catholic church I find it so difficult to pray without 
 thinking of what I must not think of. I cannot bear 
 to see him pass before the altar without kneeling, 
 when I know the Blessed Sacrament is there. He 
 used to do so when we first came abroad. He says 
 now he cannot make out if it is present or not in 
 foreign churches, and he seems annoyed when I tell 
 him. 
 
 " Afterwards we strolled for two or three hours in 
 the shade, for the sun was hot, and we were on the 
 side of a hill quite sheltered from the wind. The wild 
 flowers were beautiful, and the views on each side of 
 us charming. San Remo has not the grand purple 
 mountains or the bright look of Mentone, but it is 
 more like what I can fancy from prints and pictures 
 that Southern Italy must be. It has more streams, 
 and archways, and shrines, and the people look wilder 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 387 
 
 and darker. It makes me think more of past times. 
 There is a ruined tower on the opposite side of the 
 valley where we were, which looked as if a story be- 
 longed to it. The man who has charge of the villa with 
 the chapel, told us it was called the Torre di Sapia ; 
 he said the Sapias and the Borias — the Marchese 
 Boria is his padrone — were the two principal families 
 in San Remo. I wonder if there ever were a Romeo 
 and a Juliet who only met on Sundays at Mass in that 
 little chapel, but could see each other's windows across 
 the valley. I am sure there must have been some 
 romance or legend connected with that old tower. 
 There is not a pine or a cypress about it that does not 
 look as if it had a tale to tell. 
 
 " Just as we were thinking of walking back, the bell 
 of the chapel rang, and Edgar proposed to attend the 
 service. I am glad we did. The way of the Cross is 
 such a beautiful devotion, and these poor peasants 
 are so pious and good. He seemed pleased, and we 
 knelt like everybody else at Benediction. I asked him 
 if we could have stations at Holmwood. He always 
 likes me to make that sort of remark. ' In time, 
 perhaps,' he said. Ah me ! I must give one more look 
 at the Boria Palace, the orange-trees, and the palms in 
 the moonlight, and then go to bed. I wish the Italian 
 pillows were not so like stones, and the mattresses did 
 not rustle when you lie down ! 1 I must not lie awake 
 to-night thinking of what I heard from the priest at 
 Colla. If I did what I wish, I should try to see him 
 again to-morrow, but Edgar would not like it ; and he 
 is so good on that subject, that I must not annoy him 
 about it. If I should ever discover that I am that 
 poor woman's daughter, he would make me do exactly 
 what I ought. I can trust him entirely. He is more to 
 
 1 At that time, San Remo had not reached the height of civiliza- 
 tion with all its attendant luxuries, which it has now attained. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 me than any husband ever was to a wife, for I have 
 no one else in the world but him. I belonged to no 
 one till he took me to be his own." 
 
 The bells of San Ciro began to ring as church 
 bells are apt to do in Italy, at all sorts of unexpected 
 hours. Ita laid down to rest, but the sound kept her 
 awake, and thoughts would come into her mind which 
 she kept off in the day, but that haunted her often in 
 the silent hours of the night. Almost unconsciously 
 she murmured, " O Church of all lands ! O true and 
 mighty mother ! One, Holy, Catholic, Apostolic ! Meet 
 mother for one who never knew an earthly parent or 
 a native land! Why cannot I, why ought I not to 
 belong to you ? " 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 When after three days' journey under less favour- 
 able circumstances than before, as a change in the 
 weather had set in, and wind and rain succeeded to 
 dust and sunshine, Edgar and Ita found themselves 
 again at Mentone, the first thing they saw on the 
 drawing-room table of the villa were English visiting 
 cards. 
 
 " Only think of Lady Emma and Mr. Lorton being 
 here ! " Ita exclaimed. " I hope they have not left, 
 and that we shall see them." 
 
 She had cared very little to set eyes on that couple 
 when they were staying within a few miles of the 
 Vicarage. But it was different abroad. There is an 
 excitement and pleasure in meetiag English acquaint- 
 ances in a foreign country, whom at home we should 
 never have thought of going out of our way to seek. 
 Cold as we often are to one another, sympathy with 
 those whose mother-tongue compatriots with our own, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 389 
 
 lies very deep in our hearts. Edgar looked delighted, 
 and said, " I should have gone at once to see if they 
 are still at the hotel, but I am so tired ! " 
 
 He looked pale and exhausted, and threw himself 
 on the sofa as if hardly able to hold up his head. 
 
 " Shall / go ? But it is almost dinner-time. We 
 ordered it at six, you know. But I can send a note. 
 Perhaps they would come here this evenirg. When 
 people are travelling, they often do not mind a little 
 additional moving about." 
 
 She accordingly wrote this note : — 
 
 " Dear Lady Emma, — We are just this moment 
 returned from a journey on foot and donkey-back along 
 the Corniche. If you are not as tired as we are, per- 
 haps you' would pay us a little visit this evening. It 
 would give us so much pleasure to see you and hear 
 all your English news. If you are not inclined to 
 come out so late, we shall try to find you to-morrow, 
 immediately after breakfast, unless you would, indeed, 
 breakfast with us at ten. — Yours sincerely, 
 
 " Margarita Derwent." 
 
 When they were half way through their dinner, 
 Ita's little messenger returned and brought a verbal 
 answer. The Signore and the Signora would come be- 
 tween eight and nine o'clock. She liked showing the 
 villa to their English friends, and made a few changes 
 in the room to set it off to advantage, and even slipped 
 out to gather some roses, heliotrope, and geranium, 
 with which she made a wonderful bouquet for the time 
 of year. On the red Genoa table-cover, with the light 
 of the lamp shining upon it, her flowers looked beauti- 
 ful. It was provoking that the night was rather dark, 
 so that it was. not of much use to open the blinds — 
 shutters there were none — in order to exhibit the view. 
 Still the sea and the few lights here and there in the 
 
390 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 town were visible. She could not have fancied before- 
 hand that a visit from Lady Emma Lorton could have 
 given her so much pleasure. 
 
 " Do not, please, fidget about so much, darling," 
 her husband said, " I feel very sleepy ; and put a shade 
 over the lamp, it hurts my eyes." 
 
 He leant back in the arm-chair, and closed them 
 with a look of pain. Ita saw that he shivered. " I 
 am sure he has caught cold," she thought, with that 
 sinking of heart which those who watch a person in 
 delicate health know so well. The previous day had 
 been one of ceaseless rain, a hopeless drenching down- 
 pouring from morning to night, which, when it does 
 rain in Italy, is generally the case. They had not left 
 Bordighiera half-an-hour before it began. She knew 
 he was over-fatigued with walking, and might, there- 
 fore, all the more easily have caught a chill. Now she 
 almost wished they had not asked the Lortons to 
 come. She tried to read, but could not do anything 
 but watch Edgar, who was leaning back in his chair 
 half-asleep, but coughed now and then and looked 
 flushed. 
 
 Soon after eight o'clock the door-bell rang ; it was 
 not, however, the English travellers, but Mr. Neville, 
 who was asking if they were at home. When he came 
 in, Edgar roused himself and talked about their excur- 
 sion. When that subject was exhausted, he said, " I 
 suppose you know the Lortons. We were surprised 
 to find they were here. They are coming to see us 
 this evening." 
 
 " I met them at Grantley Manor last autumn. Then 
 they were the people I saw in the street to-day. I 
 could not make out their faces, they passed so quickly, 
 but I was sure they were English." 
 
 Edgar was a little annoyed that the Lortons should 
 happen to find Mr. Neville with them. He knew Lady 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 391 
 
 Emma thought he went too far in some things, and had 
 very unjustly accused him of Romanizing tendencies. 
 A foreign Abbe would not have signified, but to find 
 an English Roman Catholic priest, a convert, too, on 
 familiar terms with them, might rather strengthen that 
 impression. There was no help for it, however, and in 
 a short time the bell rang again, and this time Lady 
 Emma and her husband appeared. 
 
 The meeting was much more warm and cordial on 
 both sides than it would have been if they had fallen 
 in with each other in England. The two ladies actually 
 kissed each other. At the first moment Lady Emma 
 did not recognize Mr. Neville; but when he was named 
 she shook hands with him, and asked if he had heard 
 lately from Mrs. Walter Sydney. After they had an- 
 swered all the usual questions about their journey, and 
 said they were on their way to Rome, and going to 
 start early the next day, Edgar asked them if they 
 were pleased with Mentone. 
 
 " It is very pretty," Lady Emma said, " the scenery 
 is lovely; but I cannot imagine how you can live 
 here. There must be such a want of interest and oc- 
 cupation." 
 
 " Of course there is," Edgar replied ; " but unfortu- 
 nately Mr. Neville and I are both condemned to rest." 
 
 " The climate has done Edgar good," Ita said. 
 
 Lady Emma looked at him, and answered, " I should 
 not say he looked better than he did in England. 
 Hardly as well, I think." 
 
 " That is only because he is very tired to-day," Ita 
 replied. 
 
 " It is a mistake coming abroad for health," Edgar 
 said ; " what is gained in one way is lost in another." 
 
 " The people seem dreadfully poor here," Mr. Lorton 
 observed. " It is shocking to see women turned into 
 beasts of burden." 
 
392 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 "And the begging !" Lady Emma exclaimed. "It 
 is disgusting to be asked for sous by every child you 
 meet." 
 
 " Do you really think the begging here as bad as 
 that of the London beggars ? " Ita asked. " It is such 
 a good-humoured sort of thing. If Edgar threatens 
 them in play they run away laughing ; and it is only 
 very old people and children who beg here. In Lon- 
 don it is so dreadful to see those half-naked, crouch- 
 ing, shivering creatures, shuffling along the streets, 
 and speaking with that peculiar whine they all have. 
 Oh, Lady Emma, how can you think anything here as 
 bad?" 
 
 " You must know that my wife is fanatical about 
 Mentone," Edgar said. 
 
 11 London beggars are dreadful," Mr. Lorton ob- 
 served ; " but then nobody in his senses ever gives to 
 them." 
 
 " These people live in such shocking places," Lady 
 Emma said. " On our way to the cemetery I saw 
 some of the places they inhabit ; dens, only fit for 
 beasts." 
 
 " As far as that goes," Edgar said, " I suspect that 
 your standard of comparison is the average of cottages 
 on your father's or Mr. Lorton's estates. If you had 
 been used, as I have, to the dwellings of the poor in 
 St. Giles's or the Borough, you would not, perhaps, be 
 quite as much shocked with the places they live in 
 here. In point of misery I would back London against 
 any part of the world I have ever been in. They have 
 to work, no doubt, very hard here to live ; but there 
 is employment for every one, great industry, and the 
 most remarkable purity of morals. I have heard that 
 from you, Mr. Neville, and others also." 
 
 %t Yes ; early marriages and religious principles have 
 that effect here, just as they have also in Ireland." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 393 
 
 "But early, imprudent marriages are what we 
 strongly deprecate," Mr. Lorton said. 
 
 II Then you must accept the consequences of dis- 
 couraging them. Of course, in an over-populated 
 country, what is natural and right in itself becomes 
 difficult. But I have no business to praise the 
 Mentonese before Mrs. Derwent. She is eloquent on 
 the subject of the virtues and modesty of the women 
 and girls here, and she knows them better than I do." 
 
 " They are as good as bread!" Ita exclaimed, with 
 more earnestness than eloquence. 
 
 " Of course, we expect to find in a small place like 
 this," Lady Emma said, " greater morality than in 
 large towns. It is fortunate they are good, for they 
 seem very dirty and ignorant." 
 
 " Dirty ! " Ita indignantly exclaimed. " I assure you 
 it is no such thing. If you sit in the midst of the 
 poorest crowd at San Michele . . . ." 
 
 " Oh, come," Edgar exclaimed, "you are going too 
 far in your defence." 
 
 II I must come to Mrs. Derwent's assistance," Mr. 
 Neville said. 
 
 " I will back the cleanliness of a Mentonese congre- 
 gation against that of a London one, composed of poor 
 people." 
 
 " But in London who would think of going to such 
 a church ? " Mr. Lorton observed. 
 
 11 If you were here on a Sunday, Lady Emma," Ita 
 said, " you would see all the women and girls in their 
 neat petticoats and jackets, their hair so nicely done, 
 with a flower stuck behind the ear, instead of those 
 ragged shawls and bonnets out of shape, that look as if 
 they had been picked up in the gutter, which poor 
 people wear in England." 
 
 " Well, I am glad to hear it. You must know better 
 than I do. I only speak of my impressions." 
 
394 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " But why do you think them so ignorant ? " 
 
 " I have asked several of the children if they could 
 read, and they say no." 
 
 "Nor ever will, I expect," Edgar said, " till they 
 are annexed to France, which it is supposed, will be 
 the case some day. Not that I think they understand 
 your questions, Lady Emma. For they speak neither 
 French nor Italian. My wife has it all her own way 
 here, for she chatters with them in their dialect, and 
 then reports that all they say is right and charming. 
 But I do believe they are well instructed in their 
 religion." 
 
 "That is what I mean," Ita said. " They are not 
 ignorant in that way, though they cannot read. You 
 would never find here any one who had not heard of 
 God or of our Lord Jesus Christ, and they can all say 
 the Our Father and the Hail Mary." 
 
 " That is all very well as far as it goes," Lady Emma 
 said, "except of course . . . ." 
 
 She did not finish her sentence, out of civility to 
 Mr. Neville. 
 
 " But it is very sad they cannot read. There is not 
 a child in our village that does not go to school." 
 
 " On your own estates ? " Mr. Neville asked. 
 
 " Yes, and those I have ever had to do with. I give 
 up London. I am perfectly aware that there is dread- 
 ful vice and misery there, but in the country " 
 
 "Well, but in the country? S. G. O.'s letters give 
 a melancholy picture of the state of morality in the 
 rural districts and villages of his part of England. The 
 agricultural districts, as a whole, are not, according to 
 his account, superior in that respect to the towns." 
 
 " He is a very eccentric person, and rather given to 
 exaggerate," Lady Emma answered with a heightened 
 colour. 
 
 " Should you say Lord Shaftesbury's statements as 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 395 
 
 to the moral and religious condition of the poorer 
 classes in England were to be depended upon ? " 
 
 " I would not vouch for their correctness. But I see 
 what you are driving at, Mr. Neville, and, as I like 
 plain speaking, I will answer what I know is your 
 thought. You wish to prove that secluded places where 
 the people are ignorant — like here, for instance, or in 
 Ireland — remain free from vice when they belong to 
 the Catholic Church, whereas, if abandoned to Pro- 
 testantism, they become wicked." 
 
 " I would not speak in so strong or so general a 
 manner as that Lady Emma. I believe that there are 
 countries where Protestantism prevails — Sweden, for 
 instance — where amongst the poor purity of life still 
 exists, and faith in some of the principal doctrines of 
 Christianity." 
 
 "I have no sympathy," Lady Emma rejoined, "with 
 Protestantism. It has impeded, for many generations, 
 the work of our National Church, and prevented the 
 beneficial effect it would have produced on our poorer 
 classes had it been allowed free scope. It is an 
 incubus which the Church of England is gradually 
 shaking off, and we are beginning to reap the benefits 
 of the revival amongst us of a pure Catholicism. I 
 am quite willing to allow that your Church does a 
 great deal of good abroad, though you must not be 
 angry if 1 say that travelling on the Continent does 
 not incline one to join your communion, if indeed such 
 a thought could ever enter the mind of an Anglo- 
 Catholic." 
 
 11 In what way would it militate against such an in- 
 clination? " Mr. Neville asked. 
 
 Edgar and Ita were listening eagerly to this con- 
 versation.^ Mr. Lorton, who did not take so much 
 interest as lie appeared to do before his marriage in the 
 subjects which occupied his wife, took up " Galignani's 
 
395 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Messenger " with a look of resignation which expressed, 
 11 We are in for it now." 
 
 " Do you wish me to speak frankly ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Then in the first instance, the way in which so 
 many of the shops in France are open on Sundays, 
 and the workmen being employed as usual, is very 
 shocking." 
 
 " Is that, do you think, the fault of the Roman 
 Catholic Church ? There is an association composed 
 both of priests and laymen for the express purpose of 
 promoting the better observance of Sunday." 
 
 " Oh, really! But there ought to be laws, as with us, 
 to enforce it." 
 
 " That would depend on the government and the 
 nation, not on the Church." 
 
 " But if the bishops were really to interest them- 
 selves in the matter, and to petition the government 
 on the subject — the Bishop of Orleans, for instance, 
 who they say is such an influential person, such a 
 great preacher — they would obtain it." 
 
 Edgar, who knew a little more of the state of France 
 than Lady Emma, could not help smiling. 
 
 Mr. Neville answered, " I have no doubt the Bishop 
 would gladly try to obtain from the French Govern- 
 ment, that at any rate the public works of the country 
 should not be carried on on Sunday, but there would 
 be as little chance of his succeeding as there would 
 be of Cardinal Wiseman obtaining from Parliament 
 that the days of obligation in our Church should be 
 observed like Sunday." 
 
 14 Then I never saw anything so slovenly as the way 
 in which some of your services are conducted. The 
 boys who serve at Mass are sometimes so ragged, and 
 I have seen them laugh and look about them. Really, 
 Mr. Neville, it is difficult to imagine that they are 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 397 
 
 taught to believe in the doctrine of the Real Pre- 
 sence ! " 
 
 " Is it not very difficult, also, to conceive that we 
 are all taught, and do believe that we are constantly 
 and at all times in the presence of Almighty God. A 
 person who was told, for the first time, that this is an 
 article of our creed, might express, I think, the same 
 surprise if he watched even good people at every mo- 
 ment of their lives." 
 
 " Ah, but when engaged in an act of religious wor- 
 ship, children should learn to be reverent." 
 
 " They certainly ought ; but if you are scandalized 
 at their negligence and inattention at times, have you 
 not, on the other hand, been touched at seeing little 
 children coming by themselves into church to say an 
 unbidden prayer, and the devout way in which they 
 kiss a crucifix or a holy picture ? " 
 
 11 1 have not happened to see that. I can, of course, 
 only observe what comes under my notice. But there 
 are other things too. There is such an absence of 
 truth in Catholic countries ! " 
 
 " Is there ? A special one in Catholic countries ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it meets you everywhere. We had ordered 
 the other day a carriage, one-of the few that are to be 
 found here. It never came, and the coachman said a 
 Mrs. Ramwood, who is at the hotel, had gone out in 
 it, and kept him out beyond the time we had named. 
 But I asked her about it, and it turned out that she 
 had not been out in it at all." 
 
 Edgar did not quite like this form of attack on 
 the Catholic Church, and Mr. Neville said quite 
 gravely — 
 
 11 It is just possible that this coachman may not 
 have been a Catholic, though I do not mean by that 
 to imply that Catholics never tell lies nor make false 
 excuses." 
 
398 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Of course I know nothing about the man ; and I 
 do not say it proves anything — only it is the sort of 
 thing one meets with abroad." 
 
 " And never in England ? " 
 
 "Ah! but there is this difference — we do what is 
 wrong, but we do not pretend it is right. We do not 
 compound for sins as you do. We do not think we 
 can make up for them by almsgiving." 
 
 " And you suppose we are allowed to do so ? " 
 
 11 You say alms cover a multitude of sins." 
 
 " It is the Bible that says so." 
 
 " But you attach a particular meaning to those 
 words." 
 
 " Yes, we certainly do." 
 
 " Now, I had a French maid when I first married — 
 a Roman Catholic. She was not at all over-particular 
 about honesty. I do not say she was positively dis- 
 honest, but she went very near the mark. Taking 
 money from tradespeople, and all that sort of thing. 
 Well, she often gave money in charity, and I have no 
 doubt she thought she made .up in that way for her 
 want of strict honesty." 
 
 " Did she tell you so ? " 
 
 " No; but that is just the Roman Catholic spirit." 
 
 " My dear Lady Emma, you prove your assertion 
 by the statement of a fact, and then support that fact 
 by repeating your assertion. If it was impossible for 
 a person to restore money which they had defrauded 
 another person of, the best atonement in their power 
 might then be to give it to the poor ; but if restitution 
 was practicable, they would be bound to make it ; and 
 under no circumstances would they go on cheating 
 others, and suppose they were making up for it by 
 giving alms. If they made sincere confessions, they 
 would be told so. I have often had to restore money 
 to persons who had been defrauded of it, when those 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 399 
 
 who have confessed to me have acknowledged their 
 sin. At the same time, I must say that it was better 
 for this dishonest maid of yours to have given what 
 she did in alms, than to have spent it in other ways — 
 on her dress, for instance. It did not lessen her sin, 
 but perhaps the prayers of those she relieved might 
 have obtained for her the grace of repentance." 
 
 " I do not say she was positively, really dishonest." 
 
 " Then, if you have any doubt on the subject, she 
 
 may be supposed to have had some herself, and if so, 
 
 we may charitably hope she gave alms with a good 
 
 conscience." 
 
 " Still I cannot help thinking that Roman Catholics 
 who lead bad lives often give alms as a sort of set-off." 
 " No Catholic could think that almsgiving would 
 absolve him from the guilt of sin unrepented of and 
 persevered in ; but if he was sinning from weakness, 
 from inability to resist temptation, he might hope, as I 
 said just now, that alms might win him the grace to 
 overcome his passions." 
 
 " It disgusts one to see people do wrong, and then 
 give themselves the merit of charity." 
 
 " And is it only among Catholics that 3 r ou see it? 
 Have not Protestants, whose names were foremost in 
 all subscription lists — men who built chapels and sup- 
 ported Bible Societies — by their dishonesty, not cheated 
 one individual, but plunged into ruin and despair hun- 
 dreds and hundreds of helpless persons who had thought 
 their names and their reputation a sufficient guarantee 
 for implicit confidence ? " 
 
 " Those men must have been simply dreadful hypo- 
 crites, and have had no religion at all." 
 
 " I would not venture to assert it. They may have 
 had a vague idea of compensating by acts of muni- 
 ficence for their reckless conduct towards their vic- 
 tims." 
 
400 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " I suppose you think," Edgar said, " that we are 
 rather inclined, as a nation, to see the mote in our 
 neighbour's eye, and to overlook it in our own ? " 
 
 " Not exactly to overlook it. What surprises me, 
 on the contrary, is the way in which our public press, 
 and Englishmen in general, while on the one hand 
 they expose in unmeasured terms the social miseries 
 and moral evils at home, on the other hand assume 
 towards other nations the tone, not merely of lords of 
 humankind, as Goldsmith called them, but of its models 
 and guides, and preach to others as if we presented 
 the most perfect pattern of public and domestic virtue. 
 Thundering articles in the ' Times ' and other news- 
 papers proclaim to the world that the state of London 
 is disgraceful, that Hyde Park cannot be crossed with 
 safety after dark, and that women are attacked by 
 sturdy beggars even in the privileged region of Bel- 
 gravia ; that, on an average, four hundred persons dis- 
 appear in London every year, who are never heard of 
 again ; that the number of infants murdered nightly is 
 too startling to state ; and that daring robberies are 
 committed in mid-day in our streets. And then if, the 
 next day, the correspondent from Rome, for instance, 
 writes that it is not safe to drive to Frascati, or that 
 an Englishman has been robbed of his watch in an 
 hotel at Rome, there is an outburst of indignation 
 against the Pope's Government. ' What a dreadful 
 state of things ! ' ' How can it be suffered to exist ? ' 
 and so on." 
 
 " But everybody admits," Mr. Lorton exclaimed, 
 " that the Papal Government is the worst in Europe." 
 
 " So far from its being generally admitted, I could 
 bring a number of unprejudiced witnesses to the con- 
 trary. I am convinced that a person who would go 
 into the question fairly, and examine into the physical 
 and moral condition of the inhabitants of Rome and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 401 
 
 of London, would give a verdict in favour of the first. 
 I am not speaking now of the preference which any- 
 one may have for one form of government over another. 
 I have heard that when one of our most eminent 
 statesmen was asked on his return from Italy, ' Well, 
 are you converted ? Have you seen a miracle ? ' that 
 he answered, ■ I am not converted, but I have seen a 
 miracle — a people perfectly happy under what we con- 
 sider the worst government in the world.' In everything 
 that relates to the treatment of the poor, Rome can 
 challenge comparison with any city in Europe. Its 
 prisons are admirably managed. Even in the last 
 century, when ours were in a deplorable state, Howard, 
 the philanthropist, as he is called, found the Roman 
 ones well and humanly governed." 
 
 "I cannot believe," Edgar said, " that the union of 
 the spiritual and temporal power can be favourable to 
 religion." 
 
 "That is a separate question again, and though I 
 have a very decided opinion myself on that point, I 
 will not argue about it at this moment. What I am 
 contending for is simple equity. What I ask is, that 
 a robbery in Rome, or a murder, should not be con- 
 sidered as a proof that the Pope's Government is a 
 bad one, and the Roman population in a discontented, 
 disaffected state, when similar events elsewhere do not 
 lead to the same conclusions." 
 
 " But it is such a tyrannical Government," Lady 
 Emma exclaimed. " The other day, when we were in 
 Paris, Lady Charlotte Rosebank told us, that last 
 winter, in Rome, she was complaining to Cardinal 
 Antonelli that her hotel-keeper had charged her out- 
 rageously, and then been very impertinent. His 
 Eminence said, immediately, ' Why did not you let me 
 know ? We should have put the man into prison at 
 once.' " 
 
 A A 
 
4 02 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " 1 suspect," Mr. Neville said, " that if the story is 
 true the Cardinal was guilty of a jest, the point of 
 which the lady did not perceive. Those who are 
 loudest in the abuse of tyranny in the abstract, are 
 sometimes suspected of not being sorry to have it 
 exercised in their behalf. A government maybe ar- 
 bitrary and not at all tyrannical — the terms are not 
 synonymous." 
 
 " I agree with you there," Edgar said. " Great in- 
 justices are often perpetrated without any deviation 
 from the letter of the law. But to return to my great 
 objection ; I cannot reconcile in my mind the worldly 
 pomp of the Court of Rome with my ideas of Apostolical 
 simplicity." 
 
 " But there is not a prince in the world whose own 
 mode of living is so simple and economical as the 
 Pope's. As far as worldly pomp goes I cannot under- 
 stand that those who do not object to the Anglican 
 bishops living in palaces, to their wives driving about 
 in smart carriages, and their children inheriting large 
 fortunes, should take exception at the splendour of the 
 Vatican, combined as it has generally been with a very 
 great austerity and simplicity in the lives of most of the 
 Popes." 
 
 " Whatever may be said on that point," Mr. Lorton 
 said, " our strong feeling about religious liberty must 
 always make us look with dislike on the Papal Govern- 
 ment." 
 
 " There again," Mr. Neville exclaimed; "there is 
 one of those popular delusions prevalent I maintain in 
 England. One would think, by the tone always as- 
 sumed on that subject, that the most perfect liberty 
 and equality about religion existed under the British 
 Government in particular, and in Protestant countries 
 generally ; whereas, in the first case, we are only slowly 
 progressing towards it even in theory, and practically 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 403 
 
 poor persons who are not Protestants, paupers and 
 prisoners especially, have still to suffer much hardship 
 and injustice on account of their religion. As to 
 Sweden, Denmark, and some of the smaller States of 
 Germany, their laws against liberty of conscience are 
 far more stringent and rigorous than in any Catholic 
 country ; yet bigotry and intolerance are always spoken 
 of as connected with Catholicism and not with Pro- 
 testantism." 
 
 " But you cannot really mean that Protestants, and 
 especially English Protestants, have not been the most 
 strenuous supporters of religious liberty at home and 
 abroad." 
 
 " For themselves and their co-religionists certainly. 
 But I appeal to the history of Ireland. Has religious 
 liberty existed there ? does religious equality, without 
 which liberty can hardly be said to be a reality, even 
 now exist there ? " 
 
 " I am so tired," Lady Emma cried, " of hearing 
 Ireland always brought forward against us." 
 
 The colour rose in Mr. Neville's face, and he an- 
 swered nothing, for he felt that had he spoken at all it 
 would have been too warmly. 
 
 She suddenly recollected he was Irish, and was sorry 
 she had said what she had. " Of course," she added, 
 " there were dreadful persecutions in past times, and 
 I should never wish to defend them." 
 
 " I am the last person in the world," Mr. Neville 
 said, with a quivering lip, " who ought to attack per- 
 secutors, but the fatal experience I have had of the re- 
 sults of Protestant ascendency and pride in Ireland, 
 make me shudder when I think of them. But having 
 come here only to inquire after Mr. and Mrs. Derwent's 
 health after their journey, I have stayed beyond my 
 usual hour." 
 
 "Do not look at the clock," Ita said, "it partakes 
 
404 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 of the general ignorance at Mentone about hours. 
 Clocks never tell, and nobody knows here, what 
 o'clock it is." 
 
 " I really ought to have been at home long ago," 
 Mr. Neville answered, and got up to go away. 
 
 Lady Emma, as well as the Derwents, shook hands 
 with him, and when he had left the room, she said, 
 " He is very pleasing, so gentleman-like and refined. 
 One can understand his having been very attractive in 
 his youth, though not handsome. But Roman Catho- 
 lics are always on the defensive. You cannot find 
 fault with anything abroad without their immediately 
 beginning to attack England. It is so unpatriotic. I 
 have always observed that English converts lose all 
 affection for their own country." 
 
 " Qh, Lady Emma, do you think so?" Ita ex- 
 claimed. " Mr. Walter Sydney and his wife are such 
 thorough John Bulls." 
 
 " I suppose," Edgar said with a smile, " that people 
 who live in glass houses should not throw stones." 
 
 " But I do not like their picking up the stones to 
 throw them at us." 
 
 "It is a disagreeable mode of argument, certainly, 
 but a tempting one." 
 
 Ita had felt all the evening as if she would very 
 much like to throw a small stone, that would not have 
 hurt her much, at Lady Emma's head. She was so 
 angry at her speech about Ireland. To a generous 
 nature there is nothing more revolting than sneers at 
 those who have suffered at our hand. She was glad 
 that Edgar changed the subject by saying, "But 
 now do tell us some news. Have you been lately at 
 Carsdale ? " 
 
 " Yes, just before we left England, and to Holm- 
 wood one day. I saw Miss Derwent about three weeks 
 ago." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 405 
 
 " Looking as well as usual ? " 
 
 " Yes, the picture of health. She takes a great deal 
 of exercise now. Since you have been away she goes 
 more amongst the poor people, I fancy." 
 
 " I felt sure she would," Ita said. 
 
 11 1 am delighted to hear it," Edgar rejoined. " It 
 almost comforts me for being away. It will be so 
 good both for them and for herself. Did you see 
 Mrs. Gerald ? " 
 
 "No; from what Miss Derwent says, I should be 
 afraid she must be in a sadly nervous state. The least 
 thing agitates her. It is lucky your cousin does not 
 know what nerves are, for living alone with a person 
 in that state must be very depressing. She took me 
 to see your house ; she is making some alterations in 
 the kitchen-garden, adding a piece of land to it on one 
 side, and on the other making a connecting-link, as 
 she calls it, between the useful and the agreeable, that 
 is, the flowers and the vegetables. I think it will be 
 very pretty. I hope it was not meant as a surprise ; 
 if so, you must pretend not to have heard -anything 
 about it." 
 
 " I am sure she is arranging a sunny corner," Ita 
 observed. "You said one day that every kitchen- 
 garden ought to have a sunny corner for common 
 flowers." 
 
 " Yes ; I remember our talking about it. Annie 
 delights in gardening." 
 
 11 1 never in my life saw anybody work so hard. 
 And she carries such weights on her head. It is so 
 absurd. That is her great amusement just now. You 
 mentioned in one of your letters that the women here 
 have extraordinarily strong necks, and carry weights 
 which no ordinary person could lift up. So she prac- 
 tises this art or feat, and loads a washerwoman's 
 basket with a lot of things, which she brings in that 
 
4 o6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 way from her garden to yours. She insisted on my 
 trying. I could not keep what she had been carrying 
 for a minute on my head, which made her laugh. 
 What a grown-up child she is." 
 
 " Yes ; she has the simplicity of a child, with the 
 good sense of a woman." 
 
 " Does she sometimes see the sisters ? " 
 
 " I have not heard, but I should doubt her going 
 there often now. I suppose you have heard the report 
 about the Rolands ? " 
 
 " No ; he wrote to me some time ago, and said he 
 should have to tell me soon of something that would, 
 he feared, give me pain. I thought he had perhaps 
 been offered another living. If it was a good one, I 
 should be glad, though very sorry for ourselves." 
 
 " It is said that he is on the point of joining the 
 Church of Rome." 
 
 Ita was frightened at the expression of suffering 
 which came over her husband's face. He had been 
 looking ill all the evening, but now he was quite white. 
 
 " Roland ! Roland of all people ! " he ejaculated. 
 
 " It is a perfect infatuation," Lady Emma said. 
 " They have not a penny in the world. One child, 
 and another coming. And then it is so wrong — so 
 peculiarly wrong in one who has seemed so deeply 
 alive to his sacred obligations. I was perfectly 
 thunderstruck when I heard it from what I fear was 
 good authority." 
 
 Mr. Lorton got up and warmed his hands at the 
 fire. He no longer exactly re-echoed his wife's 
 opinions, as in the time of his courtship, and came out 
 occasionally with remarks by no means agreeable to 
 her. 
 
 "They will all end in that way," he said, " those 
 High Church people. It passes my comprehension 
 how in these days anybody can be such a fool as to 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 407 
 
 become a Catholic. I consider it simply as a proof of 
 imbecility. But clever people are such fools. They 
 ruin everything." 
 
 Ita could hardly help smiling. Lady Emma did 
 not smile, and said in a severe manner: "That is not 
 the way to look at the subject. It is a sin, not merely 
 a folly, to leave the Church of our baptism." 
 
 " I cannot believe it of Roland," Edgar exclaimed. 
 " And his wife — what of her ? " 
 
 " She is laid up on the sofa, expecting her confine- 
 ment." 
 
 "But, I mean, is she also shaken in her allegiance 
 to our Church? " 
 
 " Oh, I suppose so. I did not hear her particularly 
 mentioned. The Rolands were spoken of as about to 
 become Roman Catholics." 
 
 11 1 wonder if it is true ? " Ita ejaculated. 
 " He will write to me, of course, before he takes any 
 decisive step," Edgar said. " I thought they neither 
 of them looked as happy this year as they might have 
 done." 
 
 " I cannot imagine what is to become of them," 
 Lady Emma said. " I knew you would be shocked. 
 They were so near you at Holmwood, and were doing 
 so much good among the poor at Bramblemoor." 
 
 Ita felt the news very much. In some way almost 
 as much as her husband. Conversions to the Catholic 
 from the Anglican Church had hitherto generally been 
 rather a subject of secret rejoicing to her, but then 
 none had ever touched her so nearly as this. Since 
 her marriage she had become very much attached to 
 Eliza. They had had a common work and interest, 
 and Bramblemoor was very near her heart. Whatever 
 sympathy or spiritual consolation she had ever derived 
 from the services of the Church of England, were con- 
 nected with that place. It was not the same thing at 
 
4 o8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Holmwood. There she had known the greatest possible 
 happiness of another sort, but at Bramblemoor her soul 
 had for the first time received strong religious impres- 
 sions, and her distant, humble, reverential affection 
 for Edgar, at a time when she did not dream that it 
 would meet with requital, gave something sweet as well 
 as sacred to those recollections. It was very sad to 
 think of Eliza's departure ; and it seemed as if with the 
 Rolands another prop was giving way in her own faith 
 in the Anglican Church. 
 
 At the same time, for her emotions were not logical 
 — if indeed the two words can ever be used in juxta- 
 position — she was conscious of a strong sympathy with 
 the step they were about to take. It was like seeing 
 friends emigrating to another land ; like standing on 
 the shore, and watching them embark ; she bade them 
 mentally Godspeed, but it was with a heavy heart. 
 
 Edgar was so painfully engrossed with this piece of 
 intelligence that he could hardly reply to Mr. Lorton's- 
 comments on the articles he had been studying in 
 " Galignani's Messenger." Ita had taken Lady Emma 
 to the window to look at the view. A break in the 
 clouds had given the moon an opportunity of throwing 
 a stormy light on the rough sea, and the town was 
 visible beyond the dark masses of olive wood. After 
 admiring it for an instant, Lady Emma said, " How ill 
 your husband looks ! How can you let him take such 
 long walks,- and over-fatigue himself so dreadfully. He 
 is one of our most valuable men ; so Catholic in every- 
 thing, and at the same time such a thorough Anglican. 
 You really must take more care of him. Miss Derwent 
 says she is so afraid his eyes will get worse if his 
 general weakness increases." 
 
 To be lectured by Lady Emma about taking care 
 of Edgar, and to be told of Annie's anxiety, as if any 
 solicitude could equal her own, was so irritating that 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 409 
 
 Ita could not answer. She pressed her forehead against 
 the glass of the window and said nothing. 
 
 " I see he is quite cut up about the Rolands. After 
 doing so much for them as he has, it must be a great 
 disappointment. I never liked them very much ; I had 
 always a misgiving that there was something unsteady 
 about him. Rather a weak mind ; not a sort of person 
 one felt confidence in. Miss Derwent is more vexed 
 about it than can be described. She said that a great 
 annoyance of that sort might make Mr. Derwent posi- 
 tively ill. She could not imagine anything he would 
 mind more. Do you not think so ? " she asked, observ- 
 ing Ita made no reply. 
 
 " Edgar is not well this evening," she answered. 
 " I am afraid he has caught cold." 
 
 11 Then I am sure we ought to leave you. The best 
 thing will be for him to go to bed early. I hope you 
 do not let him write at night. Miss Derwent says he 
 hurts his eyes so much in that way." 
 
 Ita felt her heart swelling ; she did not say that 
 when he was too restless to sleep, she often sat by his 
 side writing for him, till her fingers ached and her head 
 throbbed, but she felt that if she was to see much of 
 Lady Emma, she should find it difficult to endure her, 
 and that she might even make her dislike Annie. Dis- 
 like Annie ! Could it be possible, she asked herself, 
 that such a thought had crossed her mind ! Annie, to 
 whom they owed everything. 
 
 At last Lady Emma told her husband that they 
 must go, and with a kiss rather less cordial than the 
 one with which they had greeted each other, the ladies 
 parted. Edgar took a candle when they were gone, 
 and left the room without making any remark on the 
 news they had heard. He slept badly, and in the 
 morning seemed feverish and ill. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Three days had elapsed since the visit of the Lorton's, 
 and since then no one had called at the Villa Hendon. 
 Edgar was getting gradually worse. He was evidently 
 very ill, and Ita began to feel that sudden terror of 
 encountering such a trial, far from home and friends, 
 which often abroad takes young people by surprise. 
 They have not pictured it to themselves till it has 
 actually come upon them. 
 
 Edgar was not much disposed at any time to see 
 a physican ; and an Italian one especially she knew he 
 would not hear of. He had been always more or less 
 delicate, but, since she had known him, never really 
 ill. She felt perplexed at her loneliness. His disin- 
 clination to cultivate the acquaintance of her Mentonese 
 friends had reduced her intercourse with them to the 
 exchange of a few formal visits, and among the Eng- 
 lish visitors, of which the number was comparatively 
 small at that time, she only knew the Nilsons and Mr. 
 Neville. She was not sorry when after going in and 
 out of her husband's room all the morning, and feeling 
 every hour more restless and anxious, she saw from 
 the window where she was standing in a listless manner 
 gazing absently on the sea, and wondering whence 
 help would come to her, Mrs. Nilson approaching the 
 gate, and then walking into the garden. She hastened 
 to the drawing-room, and rang the bell at once to tell 
 the servant to show her in. " It is very kind of you 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 411 
 
 to call," she said, going to meet her ; " I am very glad 
 to see you. Mr. Derwent is very unwell indeed ; what 
 ought I to do about a doctor ? Lady Emily had always 
 her own with her, and so I know nothing about the 
 physicians here." 
 
 Mrs. Nilson's calm, placid face contrasted in a re- 
 markable manner with Ita's agitated countenance. She 
 smiled, and said, " We are all homoeopaths, dear Mrs. 
 Derwent. So we have no experience about the allo- 
 pathic physicians. Dr. Mandrossi is reckoned the best 
 here, I believe ; but if you will allow me I will prescribe 
 for Mr. Derwent. I alwaj^s doctor myself, Mr. Nilson, 
 and the children. We have at home a homoeopathic 
 medicine-chest and Dr. Bell's book." 
 
 Poor Ita ! could she even have made sure of Ed- 
 gar's consent, she would have dreaded the idea of 
 entrusting him to Mrs. Nilson's management. With- 
 out expressly refusing the offer, she said, " I suppose 
 Doctor Mandrossi would want to bleed him ? " 
 
 " Certainly he would." 
 
 " But that is despairing, for he is the sort of person 
 that ought never to be bled ! " 
 
 " You had better try some aconite and mercury, 
 but I should like first to feel his pulse." 
 
 Ita said that if Mrs. Nilson would be so kind as to 
 wait a moment, she would go and see if her husband 
 was awake. He had not slept for three nights, but 
 sometimes dozed off in the day for a while. " Dearest 
 love," she said, going up to his bed, " as the salvolatile 
 and camphor have done you no good, I am sure we 
 ought to send for a doctor." 
 
 " My darling, I will not say as old Mrs. Sydney 
 used to do, that I would sooner die than be bled, but 
 as I am sure I should die if they bled me, it is useless 
 to see a man whose only idea of curing me would be to 
 produce his lancet." 
 
4 i2 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Then would you mind taking some homoeopathic 
 globules. Mrs. Nilson is here, and she says she knows 
 about them, and doctors all her own family." 
 
 Edgar smiled, and said, " Dear love, spare me Mrs. 
 Nilson and her globules." 
 
 Poor Ita did not feel inclined to smile. " But Ed- 
 gar, you really must do something ; you are not at all 
 well." She saw he was very ill. His hand was burn- 
 ing, and his breathing oppressed. " Do, darling, let 
 me send for Dr. Mandrossi, and I shall tell him you 
 must not be bled." 
 
 " No, my love ; get Mrs. Nilson to lend you her 
 globules and her book, and physic me yourself." 
 
 This was a bright idea, and Ita thought she would 
 try. So she went back to the drawing-room and said, 
 " You know, dear Mrs. Nilson, that men when they are 
 ill are not very manageable, and though my husband 
 thinks it very kind of you to have offered to prescribe 
 for him, he does not feel well enough to see a stranger. 
 I mean . . . ." 
 
 " I know what you mean," Mrs. Nilson said, with a 
 kind smile. " But what is to be done, will he see 
 Doctor Mandrossi ? " 
 
 " Oh no, he will not hear of that ; I was thinking 
 that if you could lend me your homoeopathic book, we 
 could see perhaps what he ought to take, and you 
 would give it me." 
 
 " Certainly. I will send the book to you directly, 
 and the medicine-chest with it." 
 
 " But I should like to consult with you as to the 
 quantities." 
 
 " I will bring it you myself." 
 
 " How kind you are," Ita said, with tears in her 
 eyes, " you are such a comfort to me." 
 
 " I hope you seek comfort, dear Madam, where only 
 it can be truly found." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 413 
 
 " I try," Ita answered, the tears running down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 Mrs. Nilson, who was a very gentle person, with 
 that peculiar placid manner and subdued voice which 
 belong to good people of the Evangelical school, took 
 her hand and said, " You do not rely, I hope, on your 
 own efforts ? " 
 
 11 Oh no. God alone can help me to bear this great 
 trial." 
 
 " You have, I hope, found the truth as it is in Jesus ? " 
 Mrs. Nilson asked, as she looked wistfully into the 
 young face which in sorrow, as in joy, never failed to 
 interest those who watched its expression. 
 
 " Found the truth ! " Ita thought. "No, she could 
 not say she had yet found the answer to the great 
 question, *■ What and where is truth ? ' " But she was 
 little inclined to argue at that moment, and so she only 
 said, " I hope I love our Blessed Lord, and I wish and 
 try to do His will." 
 
 Mrs. Nilson sighed. The reply did not quite satisfy 
 her ; but she, too, felt that that was not the time for 
 discussion ; so pressing Ita's hand, she said she would 
 go home at once, and soon return with the book and 
 the globules. 
 
 Ita went back to her husband's room, and sat down 
 by his bedside. He complained of great soreness in 
 the chest, and of a sharp pain in his side. There was 
 a painful look of excitement in his eyes, and a flush 
 on his cheeks, which betokened increasing fever. She 
 felt dreadfully helpless, and could only go backwards 
 and forwards from the bed to the window, eagerly 
 watching for Mrs. Nilson's return, and speaking little 
 words of endearment to Edgar, smiling about the 
 globules, and saying she was sure they would do him 
 good. He tried to smile too, but his sufferings were 
 great, and to speak was beginning to be an effort. He 
 
4 i4 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 asked Ita for a little crucifix he always carried about 
 with him. She brought it, and then, hearing the door- 
 bell ring, went to meet Mrs. Nilson. 
 
 " The fever is increasing," she said ; M his mouth is 
 so parched that he can hardly speak. His hands are 
 burning, and his breathing seems to me very short. I 
 am sure it is an inflammation of the lungs." 
 
 " You must give him some aconite." 
 
 It was well that there was some one with a steadier 
 hand than poor Ita's to shake the globules out of the 
 bottle and count them. 
 
 " There, take these three, dear Madam, to your dear 
 patient, and let us hope they will do him good ; and 
 as we must think of the poor soul as well as the body, 
 you might, perhaps, ask him if Mr. Nilson might come 
 and read to him. He would reckon it a privilege to 
 minister to a brother clergyman." 
 
 Ita felt convinced that Mr. Nilson's ministrations 
 would not be acceptable to Edgar ; but she said she 
 would ask him, and she carried away the medicine. 
 In a few minutes she came back and said, " He has 
 taken them ; he is much obliged to you, but he will 
 not trouble Mr. Nilson to come to him at present. If 
 he can attend to reading, I can read to him, you 
 know." 
 
 When she had given Edgar the message, he had 
 shaken his head, and, taking up the crucifix, he 
 whispered to her, " I would rather die, if it is God's 
 will I should do so, with this in my hand, than with 
 any human aid I can have here. If I should get worse 
 I may indeed wish to receive the Sacrament. In that 
 case I will let Mr. Nilson know. You can read to me 
 later a few verses of the Psalms." 
 
 " I hope," Mrs. Nilson said, " that the aconite will 
 produce sleep, as well as reduce the fever. I should 
 advise you to darken the room, and to leave Mr. Der- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 415 
 
 went quite quiet for a while. I will remain here if I 
 can be of any use." 
 
 Ita said she would be glad if she would, and, leaving 
 the door of the bed-room open, she came back and 
 sat down by her. It was a relief not to be alone 
 during those hours of anxiety. She hid her face in 
 her hands, and remained a moment silent. 
 
 " My dear Madam," Mrs. Nilson said, " this is in- 
 deed a time when you must feel the vanity of all 
 human helps." 
 
 " No, indeed," Ita answered ; " I think God is very 
 good in sending us human helps. Your coming to- 
 day, for instance, has been a great support to me. I 
 should have gone distracted if I had been quite alone." 
 
 " But what I meant is, that at such moments you 
 must, I think, realize that no creature can assist you ; 
 that you must .go to God alone and pray only to 
 Him, not like the poor deluded Papists, who kneel 
 before a crucifix, or cry to the Virgin Mary in their 
 troubles." 
 
 Ita had been feeling all that day the paralyzing 
 effect on the mind of an intense anxiety, complicated 
 by perplexity how to act. The power of praying 
 seemed for the time to have forsaken her. The heavy 
 weight on her heart seemed to keep it from rising to 
 God. Thoughts and words were both wanting. She 
 could only plod on with a sense of unspeakable misery, 
 and murmur, as she looked at a picture of the Blessed 
 Virgin at the foot of the Cross, which was in her 
 room, " Jesus, mercy ! Mary, pray for me! " She tried 
 to read, but could not fix her attention. The little act 
 of kissing a Cross she always wore was, however, a 
 tacit prayer. She could offer that up when all other 
 effort was impossible. " It is a time," she said, in an- 
 swer to Mrs. Nilson's question, "when nothing seems 
 a help but simply clinging to the Cross." 
 
4 i6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 "The Cross, not the Crucifix," ejaculated Mrs. 
 Nilson. 
 
 " What is the Cross if our Lord is not upon it," Ita 
 exclaimed. " Oh, I envy the poor peasants here their 
 simple faith. It is dreadful to come suddenly on such 
 a dark hour as this without knowing . . . ." She stopped 
 short ; she was beginuing to think aloud. 
 
 From where she was sitting, she could see Edgar. 
 He seemed asleep ; she went on tiptoe to see. Yes, he 
 was dozing. She came back and told Mrs. Nilson that 
 the aconite was taking effect. M Perhaps — perhaps he 
 will be much better in a few hours," she exclaimed, 
 with a sudden burst of hope. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Derwent," Mrs. Nilson whispered, 
 " I am so distressed at what you said just now. Allow 
 me to improve the opportunity, which may not recur 
 again, of asking you whether I am right in fearing 
 that, although belonging to our pure Reformed Protes- 
 tant Church, you hold some of the most grievous 
 errors of Popery. Did you really mean that you envy 
 the poor ignorant Papists ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do, because they know what they believe, 
 and we .... I, at least, do not." 
 
 "Oh! my dear Madam! how can you say so ? Then 
 it is evident that you have never found Jesus. You 
 have never seized on His merits ; never felt certain of 
 your salvation through the atonement. You do not 
 understand what it is to be justified by faith only, the 
 glorious doctrine which Luther and all the Reformers 
 preached." 
 
 " I know what Luther thought himself of the 
 Reformation. A clergyman of our Church wrote 
 down one day for me, what he called the Reformers' 
 opinions of the Reformation. I copied it into this 
 book." 
 
 Ita opened a drawer, and opening a Letts' diary, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 417 
 
 which she carried about with her, showed Mrs. Nilson 
 the following passages : 
 
 " ' The world grows worse daily. It is evident that 
 men are far more vindictive, more covetous, more des- 
 titute of all mercy, more immodest and unruly, and 
 far worse than they were under the Papacy.' — Luther, 
 Sermon, in Postill Evang. App., vol. i. Jena, 1600. 
 Advent. 
 
 " ' Formerly, when we were led astray by the Pope, 
 men readily followed good works ; but now all their 
 aim is to get everything for themselves, by extortion, 
 plunder, theft, falsehood, and usury.' — Luther, Sermon. 
 26 Dom. Post Trin. 
 
 " ' All the waters of the Elbe would not yield me 
 tears sufficient to weep for the miseries caused by the 
 Reformation.' — Melancthon, Epist., lib. iv., Ep. 100." l 
 
 Mrs. Nilson sighed deeply. "The opinions of men," 
 she said, " were little to the purpose. Read the Bible, 
 Mrs. Derwent, read it with prayer, and then you will 
 know what to believe and you will be made free from 
 the bondage of the law." 
 
 " We read the Bible every day, Edgar and I," Ita 
 answered ; " and we first say a prayer that we may 
 understand it rightly." 
 
 " That, dear Madam, may be only a formal practice. 
 The letter killeth, it is the spirit that gives life. It is 
 impossible that anybody can read the Bible with a 
 humble and devout spirit, and not come to a saving 
 knowledge of the truth. The divine simplicity of the 
 Gospel speaks for itself. Will you — will you read and 
 pray till the light shines upon you ? " 
 
 Ita was touched by the real earnestness of Mrs. 
 Nilson's manner. She sighed, and said, " I could 
 
 1 See " Innovations," a lecture delivered in the Assembly Rooms, 
 Liverpool, April 23rd, 1868, by the Rev. R. F. Littledale, priest of 
 the Church of England. 
 
 B B 
 
4 i8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 almost envy you also the firmness of your conviction 
 — that your belief is the true one." 
 
 " You may attain to it, my dear young friend." 
 
 Ita shook her head, and replied, " There are truths, 
 or rather duties, about which I do not yet see my 
 way clearly. But I, too, have some convictions which 
 I can never part with, and would rather die than lose." 
 
 Too harassed to carry on the conversation, she went 
 again to the bed-room, whither her eyes had been 
 continually wandering. Edgar was getting restless 
 again. He awoke, and asked for water. 
 
 " Ought I to try and get him to take some nourish- 
 ment ? " she asked, coming back to the drawing-room. 
 
 " Some arrowroot, I should think, could do him no 
 harm," Mrs. Nilson answered. " The only difficulty 
 is that some fevers ought to be fed, and others starved." 
 
 What was Ita to do ? She felt almost distracted. 
 Edgar was beginning to be light-headed. His answers 
 had not been quite coherent the last time she had 
 spoken to him. Her transient hope, that the globules 
 would work a cure, was passing away. By Mrs. Nil- 
 son's advice, she gave him, however, some more 
 aconite, and made out from the book, that six hours 
 afterwards something else might be administered with 
 advantage. 
 
 " But in six hours he may be much worse," she 
 said. 
 
 Antonia came in just then, and told her that Mr. Ne- 
 ville had called. She said she should like to see him, 
 and informed Mrs. Nilson he was coming upstairs. If 
 anything could have ruffled the mild placidity of that 
 good woman's countenance, it would have been that 
 announcement. She took off her spectacles, and moved 
 to a chair near the window. 
 
 On second thoughts, Ita thought she would go and 
 meet Mr. Neville on the stairs, and speak to him in the 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 419 
 
 dining-room. She told Antonia to sit in her husdand's 
 room, and fetch her if he called. 
 
 " How is Mr. Derwent ? " Mr. Neville asked, as he 
 met her. 
 
 She did not answer, but led the way into the dining- 
 room. When they were there, she said, "I am afraid 
 he is very ill, and I am almost out of my mind with 
 perplexity, as to what I ought to do." 
 
 11 About what ? " he anxiously asked. 
 
 " About seeing an Italian doctor or not. Either way, 
 I shall reproach myself. Mr. Neville, what do you 
 advise me to do ? " 
 
 11 I suppose you are afraid of their mode of treat- 
 ment." 
 
 " Yes — that terrible bleeding." 
 
 "What do you think is the matter with Mr. Der- 
 went ? " 
 
 "I think it is inflammation of the lungs. I have 
 been giving him aconite globules, which Mrs. Nilson 
 recommended. She is upstairs, but he would not see 
 her. Now I fancy that he is not quite himself. It 
 seemed to me, just now, that his mind wandered. I 
 should like you to come into his room for a minute, 
 only she would think . . . ." 
 
 " I can wait till she goes. I have nothing else to 
 do." 
 
 " Thank you. I should be very glad, because, if we 
 send for the doctor, you can speak to him for me about 
 not bleeding him." 
 
 " Go, and do not think of me till you want me. I 
 will sit here and say my office." 
 
 Ita thanked him again and went upstairs. She 
 found Mrs. Nilson and Antonia whispering at the bed- 
 room door. The former came to meet her. 
 
 " Antonia says that it is dreadful you do not see a 
 doctor. She thinks he is getting worse. I dare say 
 
4 20 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 it is no such thing. These sort of people are so easily- 
 alarmed. Do not look so frightened, dear Madam ; 
 but I really think the case is beyond our management, 
 and that you had perhaps better send for Dr. Man- 
 drossi. I am afraid I must go home now. Shall I tell 
 them as I go down to fetch him ? " 
 
 "Yes, if you please. Thank you so much for all 
 your kindness." 
 
 " Shall I come and spend the night with you ? " 
 
 " A thousand thanks ; but Antonia and I can manage 
 quite well, for this night, at any rate." 
 
 When Mrs. Nilson was gone, Ita went to tell Mr. 
 Neville that she had sent for the doctor. 
 
 " I cannot tell you how it frightens me," she said, 
 " after he so positively objected to it." 
 
 " I think you have done quite right." 
 
 " But if he comes and says there is danger, and he 
 must bleed him, what am I to do if he says he will die 
 without it ? " 
 
 Mr. Neville did not answer for a moment. 
 
 " Advise me," she said, with the impatience of in- 
 tense anxiety. He had the habit of raising his heart 
 to God before giving advice, and in this case he par- 
 ticularly felt the need of prayer. It would have been 
 cruel to refuse the counsel she asked, but to give it 
 was assuming a kind of responsibility. 
 
 " My advice to you is this," he said : " if I were you, 
 I would tell Dr. Mandrossi, who is, I have heard, a 
 good and sensible man, how completely the practice 
 of bleeding is given up in England, and that the phy- 
 sicians who have long known your husband's constitu- 
 tion, have particularly warned him against losing 
 blood. If, when he hears this, he still persists that it 
 is absolutely necessary to bleep! him, I should say you 
 must submit. I am supposing that Mr. Derwent is 
 not in a state to decide the question himself. We 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 421 
 
 cannot do more than our best. We must ask our 
 good and merciful God to direct us in a decision of 
 this kind, and then act in the simplest manner, 
 according to the circumstances in which we are 
 placed, and which He has ordained. Then whatever 
 the consequences may be, we shall be able to bear 
 them." 
 
 These words quieted a little Ita's nervous agitation. 
 " You have done me good," she said, " and now will 
 you speak to the doctor when he comes, and then 
 bring him upstairs ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 Ita turned back as she was leaving the room. 
 " Will you pray for me ; I cannot pray myself. There 
 seems a dark cloud between my soul and God. I 
 scarcely know what religion I belong to. All is doubt 
 and confusion. I can hardly utter a prayer." 
 
 " Try while you hold that little Cross in your 
 hand . . . ." 
 
 " Oh yes, that is the only thing that helps me ' at 
 all!'" 
 
 U Well, but try and say f Passion of Jesus, strengthen 
 me,' just those five words. Will you ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and now I will go and wait in his room." 
 
 Edgar had been much more ill for the last two or 
 three days than either he or his wife had any idea of, 
 and that evening he grew so much worse that, when 
 the doctor came, he said he was in great danger. 
 There was high fever and severe inflammation of the 
 lungs. He said he would certainly, under the circum- 
 stances, have bled any ordinary patient, and that if, 
 in twelve hours, an improvement did not take place, 
 he should feel himself in duty bound to resort to it as 
 the last chance of saving him. But he consented to 
 try, first, the effects of other remedies, and left all the 
 necessary directions for the night. Mr. Neville stayed 
 
422 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 in the next room, and now and then she came to tell 
 him how Edgar seemed. He was very agitated, almost 
 delirious for some hours, but towards morning his 
 breathing improved a little, and he dozed at times. 
 
 Towards five o'clock, just as light was dawning in 
 a cloudless sky, Ita came out of the bed-room, and 
 Edmund Neville was struck with the expression in her 
 face. It was quite different from what it had been 
 before. She said to him, " You must be very tired 
 and cold, I am afraid ? " 
 
 " Not at all," he answered ; " do you think he is 
 better ? " 
 
 " I am not sure. He is sleeping just now. Antonia 
 has just come in, and I will stay here a little while. 
 Mr. Neville, what do you expect ? Do you expect he 
 will recover ? " 
 
 " I hope so, yes ; I think I may say I expect it." 
 
 " You do not know how dreadful it would be if I 
 were to lose him now." 
 
 " I know, I know what misery it would be." 
 
 " No, you do not know what would make it so 
 terrible. It would not be because I love him so much, 
 or because, while other people have fathers and 
 mothers, and brothers and sisters, I have only him, 
 and that I should be quite alone in the world if he 
 were to die. It is not that I mean . . . ." 
 
 " It would be a great, an unspeakable sorrow," 
 Mr. Neville answered. " But one suffering you would 
 be spared, the worst of all — self-reproach. You would 
 not have that torment." 
 
 " I should," she said in a voice which startled him. 
 He waited for her to say more. She was hesitating 
 whether she should disclose the thoughts that had 
 been crowding into her mind during the silent hours 
 of that long night. 
 
 When the doctor went away, and she remained 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 423 
 
 fully aware that Edgar was in a very dangerous, 
 though not in a hopeless state, she had sat down by 
 his bedside, and looked at him, and thought that 
 perhaps this life, with all its hopes, its joys, and its 
 love, was about to end, and that for both of them in 
 that case there would be nothing real, nothing that 
 would signify, but the world to come. The sufferings 
 of thirty, forty, or even seventy years, seemed like 
 nothing by the light of that prevision — nothing to that 
 boundless space beyond these years on which he was, 
 perhaps, about to enter. And at the same time with 
 that light, an irresistible overwhelming consciousness 
 filled her soul, not only that she utterly disbelieved all 
 the illogical, far-fetched shifts and pretences of an 
 unreal Catholicism, but that she had a positive and 
 firm conviction that if there is a true Church and a 
 true religion in the world, it is the Roman Catholic 
 Church, and the Roman Catholic religion. 
 
 All the theories that she had tried so hard to accept, 
 all the sophistry of an artificial Church system, all the 
 delusions cherished against the daily evidence of their 
 unreality, melted away like snow in the fiery light of 
 one great, terrible fear. The passionate human affec- 
 tion which had kept her soul captive now took a new- 
 direction. It made her look on the question for her 
 beloved one's sake and her own, as if they were both 
 standing on the brink of eternity. Earthly suffering — 
 even an earthly parting, those terrible spectres which 
 had lately haunted her, lost their terrors in that hour. 
 By Edgar's side, Edgar, who was, perhaps, dying, one 
 thought alone was uppermost. Were they both in 
 earnest ? Could they both have stood before the 
 judgment-seat of God and have declared they were 
 sure — sure with the certainty of absolute faith — that 
 the Anglican Church was that Church, or was united 
 in faith with that one Church of which our Lord spoke 
 
4 2 4 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 when He said, " Thou art Peter, and on this rock I 
 will build My Church, and the gates of hell shall never 
 prevail against it." 
 
 Perhaps he might. She looked at the Crucifix lying 
 on his bed near his hand, and she felt that if God re- 
 called him whilst still outside what she now, with a 
 full conviction, believed to be the true Church of 
 Christ, she could hope, she might trust that the error 
 was involuntary, the delusion pardonable. But she ? 
 No, never again after that night could she plead ignor- 
 ance before men or before God. The voice had been 
 heard, the light seen, the veil of the Temple rent in 
 twain, disclosing the holy of holies to her trembling 
 gaze with awful distinctness. The very foundations of 
 her soul were shaken, but a new power also imparted 
 to it, a strength to welcome sufferings, if so be she 
 might win by it on his death- bed, if God so willed it, 
 or for his future life, if it was spared, the blessing con- 
 tained, now she knew it, in those words : " The true 
 faith." 
 
 Never had a greater change taken place in a 
 woman's heart, and yet in one sense nothing was very 
 different. Her love was the same, and her convictions 
 much what they had been before that night — only both 
 had risen higher than the hopes and fears of this world. 
 
 After the pause which had followed the utterance 
 of her reply to Mr. Neville's words of comfort, she 
 slowly and resolutely said, " If I had been honest, 
 courageous, true to God and to myself, instead of weak 
 and selfish in my blind love for him, who knows .... 
 Oh, Mr. Neville, I can never, never forgive myself if 
 Edgar should die not a Catholic ! " 
 
 Edmund Neville looked at her with great surprise 
 and emotion. " Are these feelings new ones ? " he 
 asked. " Have you been thinking for some time past 
 differently from your husband ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 425 
 
 Ita burst into tears, and answered, " I have still a 
 weak fear of telling you the truth, of saying what 
 would make him miserable when he is so ill, dying, 
 perhaps. But I know this is wrong. It must never 
 be again with me as it has been. God has shown me 
 this night that He will not be trifled with ; that truth, 
 when once seen, must not be resisted ; that on my 
 loved one may be visited my cowardly weakness. My 
 greatest anguish, since the doctor said he was in great 
 danger, has been that I hid from him my convictions." 
 
 " Then this is no sudden inspiration ? " 
 
 11 It is like a sudden light thrown on a dim colourless 
 scene. I cannot tell you more at present. I must go 
 back to him. But I am glad I have said this much 
 — that I have secured myself against my own weakness. 
 Whatever happens, whether by God's great mercy my 
 beloved one recovers, or if I lose him . . . Oh, my 
 God ! " — she stopped a moment, pressing her hand on 
 her heart — " I give you the right — I even wish you to 
 promise, Mr. Neville, that you will remind me of what 
 I have just said to you. There is nothing before me 
 now, either way, but trials so great that nothing could 
 exceed them, except that anguish I spoke of just now — 
 the not having told him the truth. If he recovers, 
 and you see me so happy that I might, perhaps, wish 
 to think this had all been a dream, remind me of that 
 anguish. Do not let me delude myself again. You 
 are God's priest, and now you know that I am a Catho- 
 lic in faith, heart, and desire, never let me deceive him ; 
 'and pray, oh, pray, if he lives . . . ." 
 
 The sound of Antonia's voice calling her startled 
 Ita, who rushed back to the bed-room. 
 
 Mr. Neville had sometimes thought she was nearer 
 the Church than her husband, but he had never spoken 
 to her about religion, and was astonished at this sudden 
 disclosure of her feelings. 
 
426 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 On the following day, Edgar was a little better. 
 Dr. Mandrossi could not say he was out of danger, but 
 he thought rather more hopefully of his case. The 
 fever had abated, and he was quite himself again. He 
 did not object to the attendance of the Italian phy- 
 sician, so long as he did not insist on bleeding him. 
 A compromise was agreed upon — leeches applied and 
 also a large blister. The succeeding night was bad, 
 but there was some improvement on the next day. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ita nursed him with a heart divided 
 between hope and fear, and a deep consciousness that 
 the careless, joyous phase of her life was over. The 
 future could never be like the past. She was very 
 calm and composed, and when she came out of the 
 sick-room to see Mr. Neville or Mrs. Nilson, who often 
 called to inquire how Edgar was going on, she spoke 
 to neither of them of religion. Her brief replies to the 
 latter's well-meant exhortations to improve the season 
 of affliction, convinced that lady that Mrs. Derwent 
 was in an unconverted state, and her poor sick 
 husband, it was to be feared, in no better condition. 
 
 One morning, two or three days after he had be- 
 gun to improve, Edgar called his wife to his bed-side, 
 and in a low voice, for the least exertion still brought 
 on violent fits of coughing, and his weakness was very 
 great, he said to her, " I do not know whether to ask 
 to receive the Sacrament or not." A wild, unfounded 
 hope crossed her mind, that perhaps in his illness a 
 change had come over him also, and, with a beating 
 heart, she knelt down by him, anxiously waiting for 
 his next words. " But on the whole," he whispered, 
 " I had rather not. You remember what the Lortons 
 told us ? " 
 
 Ita then recollected that Lady Emma had said that 
 the year before, when Mr. Nilson was going to ad- 
 minister the Sacrament to a sick person, he had begun 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 427 
 
 by delivering a short discourse, in which he warned 
 those present not to believe in the doctrine of the Real 
 Presence, and to beware of Romish and Puseyite errors 
 on that point. 
 
 Edgar looked anxiously into her face, and said, " I 
 could not, you know, endure that sort of thing now. 
 I had better content myself with spiritual communion." 
 
 Ita's heart sank within her. The momentary gleam 
 of hope was past. There he was, still very ill, though 
 better than he had been, and without spiritual consola- 
 tions, without the help of any ministrations that he 
 would accept, and within his reach were all the bless- 
 ings the Catholic Church gives to her children, if only 
 he could see it. 
 
 " Would you like," she asked, with a faltering voice, 
 " to see Mr. Neville ? He comes very often to inquire 
 about you." 
 
 " No ; I am too ill to see any one," he answered. 
 
 " You need not speak to him ; but I thought, dear- 
 est, he might be, perhaps, a comfort to you as he is a 
 priest." 
 
 " No ; I am afraid of his speaking about his Church. 
 I will not see him, but thank him for his kindness." 
 
 A few more days elapsed, and then all immediate 
 danger was at an end, though Edgar remained so weak 
 that Ita was very anxious as to the effects of this ill- 
 ness on his general health. One morning, after she 
 had given him his breakfast, he asked if there were 
 any letters for him. She tried to persuade him to put 
 off looking at them, but he insisted on her fetching 
 them. He sat propped up by pillows, his face looking 
 so wan and white, now that the light shone fully into 
 the room, that she was frightened at the alteration in 
 his looks. 
 
 " Give me my spectacles," he said, as he broke the 
 seal of one of the letters. He tried to read, but could 
 
428 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 not discern a word. He laid down the glasses and the 
 letter, and exclaimed, " It is as I feared. I cannot see 
 at all to read. I am all but blind now." 
 
 Ita threw her arms round his neck, half-sitting on 
 the bed, and said, " It is only just now, because you 
 are so weak." 
 
 He turned his pale face towards her, and answered, 
 " My own darling, I have long been prepared for this. 
 You must not grieve about it," he added, as he felt a 
 hot tear fall on his hand. He did not know all the 
 anguish of the heart against which his head was 
 resting. 
 
 " Read those letters," he said. 
 
 One of them she saw was from Mr. Roland. By 
 taking them all up at once, and shifting her position, 
 she managed to withdraw it from his sight. She read 
 aloud one from his mother, with very little news or 
 interest in it ; and then opened one from Annie. It 
 began by giving accurate details as to several matters 
 of business connected with the parish, and then went 
 on to describe the various improvements she was 
 making m their house and garden. Glancing down the 
 page, she saw the following passage : — 
 
 " Mr. Roland has given up his living. I may as 
 well mention it, as everybody by this time knows it. 
 I would not believe it till it actually happened. Of 
 course they intend to turn Roman Catholics. He is 
 gone to London, and Eliza and the baby also, I do 
 not know where. I believe Lord Carsdale wishes to 
 consult Edgar about the living, whom he shall give it 
 to. There is a nephew of Mr. Pratt, whom he was 
 thinking of — a very good man he says ; but he is not 
 of your way of thinking, so I suppose you would not 
 like it." 
 
 Ita skipped the whole of this paragraph, and went 
 on with what followed : — 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 429 
 
 " I do not want you to come back a day sooner than 
 is good for Edgar, but I shall be very glad when you 
 do return. Aunt Gerald gets more and more nervous 
 and fidgety, and frets at your being so long away. If 
 Mentone is doing Edgar good you must stay there ; 
 but I hate the very name of the place. 
 
 " Just say in your next letter if Edgar would like 
 the new carpet in his study to be green : two different 
 shades — a light sprig on a dark ground ; or would he 
 like blue better ? You know I was determined to get 
 rid of that hideous red thing, all covered with ink spots. 
 I have bought a sewing-machine for you, and one for 
 myself." 
 
 " Does not she say anything about the Rolands ? " 
 Edgar asked. 
 
 Ita hesitated. 
 
 " Tell me directly," he quickly said ; " is it true what 
 the Lortons told us ? " 
 
 She had no option now but to read to him what 
 Annie had said. She could not keep her voice steady, 
 and as she finished burst into tears. 
 
 11 It is dreadful," he murmured. " The betrayal of a 
 sacred trust ; the abandonment of such great hopes ; 
 the misery, the scandal . . . ." 
 
 " Oh, dearest Edgar, try not to think of it just now. 
 You are getting so flushed ; you will bring on a fit of 
 coughing." 
 
 He was worse all that day. Towards evening he 
 exclaimed, " I cannot understand that Roland should 
 not have written to me. Common good feeling ought 
 to have made him do so." 
 
 Then Ita thought it best to say that there were some 
 other letters, and one from him amongst them. 
 
 " And why on earth did you keep it back ? " 
 
 " I want you so much to be quiet." 
 
43 o MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Nonsense, my love. Do you think I have thought 
 of anything else all the afternoon ? " 
 
 " That is just the reason. You will make yourself 
 ill." 
 
 " Darling Ita, there is one point on which we must 
 come to an understanding. I am blind, or very near 
 it. You are my eyes — my second self, my sole reliance, 
 my support. Even with the best intentions, you must 
 never deceive me — never keep back anything from me. 
 It would deprive me of a confidence which is every- 
 thing to me now." 
 
 Ita opened Mr. Roland's letter, and, with as steady 
 a voice as she could command, read as follows : — 
 
 " My dear Mr. Derwent, — The great kindness I 
 have received at your hands, and my deep and sincere 
 regard for you, impose on me the duty to inform you 
 myself of what I know will grieve you, and put an 
 end, I fear, to our friendly intercourse. I allude to 
 my giving up the living of Bramblemoor with the in- 
 tention of joining the Roman Catholic Church. It has 
 not been, as you will easily believe, without a long and 
 painful struggle that I have come to this determination. 
 I may say with truth that, in some ways, it would 
 have been easier to me to meet death than to have 
 taken this step. But I think you will so far agree 
 with me that when once a man is convinced that he 
 cannot with a good conscience remain in the Church 
 of England — that when he can no longer believe it to 
 be the Church, or any portion of the visible Catholic 
 Church of Christ — that at the cost of any sacrifice, he 
 is bound to leave it. 
 
 " This I am about to do. I will not speak of the 
 sufferings which this step involves. They are many 
 and acute, but God will help us to bear them. My 
 wife desires her kindest love to Mrs. Derwent. One 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 431 
 
 of the greatest trials of this moment is the separation 
 from such friends as you and Ita have been to us. — 
 Believe me most faithfully yours, 
 
 " T. Roland." 
 
 Edgar said nothing for a few instants. His com- 
 pressed lips and the tension of his face showed he was 
 making efforts to keep down emotion. Ita did not 
 venture to make any remark. At last he said, " I wish 
 I had not cared so much for that man ! I respected 
 and loved him more than anybody almost ; but this 
 act of his separates us altogether. Do not talk to me 
 about them ; it is too painful a subject. Give me a pen 
 and paper. Oh, I forgot that I cannot see to write. 
 Write for me — " 
 
 " Dear Roland, — I am too ill to write myself. I 
 dictate this to my wife. You forsake the Church of 
 England ; our friendship is at an end. I cannot keep 
 up any intercourse with one who insults his spiritual 
 mother and mine, and deserts her in her sorest need. 
 The strongest affection I am capable of feeling could 
 not survive such a blow. Except by chance, we shall 
 not meet again in this world. 
 
 " E. Derwent." 
 
 "What are you adding?" Edgar asked, as he ob- 
 served that Ita was writing on. 
 
 " This," she said, looking up ; " ' Edgar is much 
 better — quite out of danger.' " 
 
 " Anything else ? " 
 
 " Yes ; ' God bless you both.' " 
 
 Her husband answered nothing. She folded, sealed, 
 and sent the letter. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 It was full three weeks before Edgar could do more 
 than get up for a few hours in the day, and sit by the 
 window during the hours of warmth and sunshine, 
 screened from the glare of the sea by a green curtain. 
 But not even when his strength returned did his eyes 
 improve much. He could not attempt to read or 
 write ; Ita did everything for him, and his dependence 
 upon her was complete. 
 
 Mr. Neville came sometimes to see him, but they 
 never talked of anything bordering on controversy ; 
 even with his wife he spoke less of religion than here- 
 tofore. She read to him, and played and sung to while 
 away the time. He was very patient ; never com- 
 plained ; but it was a stern sort of patience that 
 seemed to deepen the natural reserve of his character. 
 
 He insisted on Ita's going out every day beyond the 
 terrace walk of their garden, where she would have 
 liked to remain within call. He knew that exercise 
 was good for her, and was not sorry to be left some- 
 times to his own melancholy thoughts. 
 
 She always went in the same direction, through the 
 old gateway into the Via Lunga, and then up the steps 
 that lead to the parish church. Every day she prayed 
 there a long time, as close as she could to the altar ; 
 in that great Presence which makes a Catholic church 
 different from every other place in the world. 
 
 One evening, as she was coming out of San Michele, 
 she saw Mr. Neville advancing towards her. She 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 433 
 
 went to meet him, and they sat down for a moment on 
 the low wall above the Piazza. 
 
 11 1 am glad I have fallen in with you," he said ; 
 " for I have just been to wish your husband good-bye. 
 I am going back to England to-morrow. Can I do 
 anything for you ? " 
 
 "Yes," she said, the colour rising in her cheeks, 
 and her eyes fixed on the ground. " Yes, you can pray 
 for me." 
 
 " I do so," he answered, " every day of my life. I 
 have not forgotten the promise you required of me." 
 
 " Thank you," she said ; " but there is no need of 
 reminding me. What I felt that night I still feel; 
 what I meant then I now mean. It was not a burst of 
 excited feelings, of transient enthusiasm." 
 
 " I was afraid it might be. You have quite made up 
 your mind then to act up to your convictions." 
 
 " Quite ; I have not wavered about it once since the 
 day when Edgar was so ill. There is a passage in Dr. 
 Newman's book, ' Loss and Gain,' which I often think 
 of now. He speaks of the deep peace and serenity 
 of mind of a person who has been received into the 
 Catholic Church, and he says that it is like the stillness 
 which almost sensibly affects the ears when a bell 
 which has been long tolling stops, or when a vessel, 
 after much tossing at sea, finds itself in harbour, and 
 that it throws one back on the memory of one's earliest 
 years ; that it is as if one was really beginning life 
 again. But that the happiness .of childhood is nothing 
 to it. I already begin to understand this. Is it not 
 strange, Mr. Neville, that any one can feel as happy 
 as I do since I took that resolution, and yet suffer so 
 terribly ? " 
 
 " About your husband, you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes, that part of it is worse than death. I cannot 
 conceive how I can bear it ; sometimes the aching of 
 
 c c 
 
4 34 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 my heart is so acute when I think of the suffering I 
 shall cause him, that I almost expect it will really 
 break." 
 
 There was a moment of silence, and then Mr. 
 Neville said, " It is seldom that such peace as you 
 spoke of just now is felt before the final step is taken. 
 Before people are actually received into the Church I 
 have often observed that up to the last moment they 
 suffer very much, and are still full of doubt and agita- 
 tion. As a rule, peace comes afterwards." 
 
 " I suppose God gives me this peace and this joy 
 in believing, because He knows how great my suffer- 
 ing is ; and then also, perhaps, because my mind is so 
 entirely made up. I would ask to be instantly received 
 into the Church if it was not that at this moment Edgar 
 is so weak, that any agitation might bring on a relapse. 
 I have been thinking what I had better do. He de- 
 pends, you know, so entirely upon me. If, when we 
 are in England, and I have taken the final step, he 
 should think it right .... he is very much in earnest 
 . . . . He thinks it, you know, a very wicked thing to 
 leave the Church of England . . . ." She stopped, and 
 then added, conveying without expressing her thought, 
 " Annie would be near him." 
 
 Mr. Neville was deeply moved. The words of our 
 Lord came into his mind — I have not found so great 
 faith not in Israel." There was something very touch- 
 ing in that calm, courageous resolution to do what was 
 right, come what would of it, and the clear apprecia- 
 tion of a terrible, impending trial, in a person of Ita's 
 character, and as yet unsupported by the strength to 
 be found in the Church. 
 
 It was impossible to look at her and to have seen 
 and watched her during her husband's illness, and 
 not to have been struck by the feminine tenderness 
 and childlike sweetness of her nature and her intense 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 435 
 
 affection for him. But her resolution was inflexible, 
 because with the spirit of a martyr, though she might 
 writhe under the agony of giving him pain, and 
 shudder at the thought of being banished from his side, 
 she would not shrink from paying the price she had 
 offered when he was in danger of death, to obtain for 
 him the gift of faith. 
 
 "You are a valiant woman," Mr. Neville said, 
 pressing her hand as he rose to take leave of her. 
 " To those whom God calls to make great sacrifices, 
 He gives when they are true to Him more than 
 common courage." 
 
 A sweet smile passed over Ita's face as she an- 
 swered, " I am as weak as water, but too great a 
 coward to dare to trifle with God's mercies. I wonder 
 when and where we shall meet again. Give me your 
 blessing." 
 
 Mr. Neville blessed her, and said, " I suppose all 
 you have said to me on this subject is strictly con- 
 fidential ? " 
 
 " Yes," she replied. " I should not wish any one to 
 know of it before I can tell Edgar." 
 
 Then, after shaking hands, they walked away in 
 different directions. 
 
 As Ita was descending the steps again, and about 
 to turn into the street, she passed a woman walking on 
 crutches, whose appearance attracted her attention. 
 She was dressed in black, and had on a plain white 
 cap. Her face was very pale, but its expression so 
 calm and sweet, that she could not help stopping to 
 look at her. There was something at once serene and 
 melancholy in her large dark grey eyes and gentle- 
 looking mouth. Her hair was quite grey, though she 
 did not seem very old — not more than fory-five or 
 forty-six, apparently. Ita thought she was coming up 
 the steps, and drew back, as if to make room for her, 
 
436 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 but the lame woman shook her head with a smile, 
 which seemed to imply that she would have liked to 
 have gone that way if she could, and then she walked 
 down the street, and through the archway towards the 
 Via di Brea, 
 
 Ita was suddenly possessed with the idea that this 
 might be the woman whom she had heard of from the 
 priest at Colla, who had lost her child in a shipwreck, 
 and whom she had so much wished to see. Edgar's 
 illness had driven the subject in a great measure out of 
 her mind — at any rate, prevented her from making any 
 inquiries about her. She looked at her watch, and 
 seeing that it was yet more than half an hour before 
 the time when she would be expected at home, she 
 followed the person who had engaged her attention to 
 the Church of the Black Penitents, as the old Francis- 
 can church is now called. She saw her kneeling, with 
 her crutches laid by her side, in an attitude of pro- 
 found devotion, quite motionless, as if she saw and 
 heard nothing about her. Ita was obliged to come 
 away before she had made the slightest movement. 
 Her whole being seemed absorbed in prayer. 
 
 All the evening, even whilst she was reading to her 
 husband, the thought of this woman was running in 
 Ita's head. And the next day, when she went out 
 walking, she stopped at the Abate Giovanni's house, 
 whom she met just coming out. 
 
 " Ah, bravo ! " he exclaimed, when he saw her. 
 " Then the Signore Derwent is much better, as the 
 Signorina can leave him." 
 
 " Yes," she answered, in Italian ; " he is much 
 better, and he insists on my taking a walk every day." 
 
 14 He does right," the Abate answered ; 44 and now 
 we have got, at last, fine weather again." 
 
 After a little more conversation about Edgar's ill- 
 ness, Ita said, " Can you tell me the name of a person 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 437 
 
 dressed in black, with a white cap, who walks on 
 crutches, whom I met yesterday in this street ? " 
 
 11 An elderly woman ? " 
 
 " Not very old, but with grey hair, and a very nice, 
 pleasing face." 
 
 "Oh, yes — povevina ! Her name is Mariana. She 
 is very poor, very good, and always praying. Some 
 people say she is not quite right here" he added, 
 touching his forehead ; " but I wish we were all as 
 mad as she is, if we were one-half so good. I do not 
 think she has ever been mad at all ; but the loss of 
 her child, and a fright and a blow on the head in an 
 accident at sea, a great many years ago, when she was 
 coming from Florence, where her husband died, made 
 her lose her memory, and she has never quite recovered 
 it since. She wanted to see you, but I told her not 
 to trouble you. She has not been to your house, has 
 she ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! I never saw her till I noticed her in the 
 street yesterday." 
 
 " Ah, I thought not. She is so good and obedient. '• 
 
 " But I should like to know her. Where does she 
 live ? " 
 
 " Here, in the Via Lunga ; the last house but one to 
 the left, near the gateway. Take care how you go 
 down the stairs. It is so dark till you get to the land- 
 ing place." 
 
 Ita determined to go there at once. She felt a little 
 nervous, but very anxious to talk to Mariana — to 
 examine her features, and to hear as much as she 
 could recollect or tell of the circumstances attending 
 the loss of her child. She might say something that 
 would put it out of the question that she herself could 
 be that child ; and Ita could not but feel that this 
 would be a relief, though at the same time she could 
 not have been contented to have put away the idea of 
 
433 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 such a possibility without having examined into it. 
 She went, therefore, straight to the door the Abate 
 had pointed out, and groped down a very dark stair- 
 case. 
 
 When she got to the bottom, she called out, two or 
 three times, " Mariana ! " and soon heard the sound of 
 crutches. The door opened, and the lame woman ap- 
 peared. She smiled as she recognized the lady who 
 had offered to let her pass the evening before, and in- 
 vited her into her very small, but clean and cheerful 
 room. All the furniture in it consisted of a poor pallet, 
 a chair, and an alterino, on which were spread out her 
 little devout treasures. She placed the chair for her 
 visitor, and sat herself on the edge of her wretched 
 bed. Ita made some remark in Mentonese, at which 
 Mariana seemed surprised. 
 
 " So, you speak our language," she said. " So much 
 the better, Signorina. But, do you know, I had almost 
 forgotten it when I came back here last year ; for so 
 many years I spoke nothing but Italian." 
 
 " And where have you been so long away ? Are 
 you not a Mentonese ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I married very young, and went to 
 Florence with my poor husband, and we lived there 
 till a fever carried him off, about two years after we 
 married." 
 
 11 And then . . . ." 
 
 " Then I have been many, many years in a hospital 
 at Genoa, with the good nuns. I was for some time 
 out of my mind. My head was so bad. When I 
 spoke, people said I talked nonsense, and perhaps I 
 did. I am never sure even now whether I am dream- 
 ing or remembering, but the good God knows. I am 
 like poor Gian, the dear good idiot boy, who is always 
 in the churches. But people are kinder to me than to 
 him. Everybody is good to me." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 439 
 
 " You have had great sorrows ? " Ita said, gently- 
 taking her hand. 
 
 " Truly I have ! " Mariana answered, and she looked 
 at the sea in an earnest, wistful manner. " First, I lost 
 my husband. Lorenzo died — he was a good youth. 
 I am sure he is in Paradise ! Happy him ! poor me ! 
 I was coming home with my bambina — the prettiest 
 creature, Signora ! The English lady who was in the 
 ship with us used to stroke her cheek, and say, ' Cosi 
 vezzosa ! ' She did not know much Italian, but she 
 always said that ' Cosi vezzosa ! ' She had a baby also, 
 but not so fine a child as mine. She was as good a 
 Signora as ever lived, that English lady. She gave 
 me some of her child's own clothes for my bambina. 
 The night before the accident she herself put a clean 
 night-gown on the creatura . . . ." 
 
 Mariana stopped. Her mind was wandering back 
 to the past, and seemed for a moment abstracted. 
 
 Ita was looking at her intently, wondering whether 
 some secret instinct would speak to her heart, if by 
 some strange possibility this was her mother. " And 
 what happened that night ? " she gently asked. 
 
 " Who knows ? " Mariana answered. " I had a 
 dream about it once, after I had been a long time in 
 the hospital. When first I was there I was always 
 asking for the bambina, and they told me that if I had 
 ever had one she was drowned in the sea, for that the 
 ship I was in had struck against another in the dark, 
 and that almost everybody had been lost ; but I could 
 not remember anything about it. The last thing I re- 
 collected was the English lady putting the night-gown 
 on the bambina. But one night as I was lying awake 
 in my bed near the window, looking at the sea — but 
 perhaps I was asleep and dreaming, I am not sure — I 
 fancied I was standing at the top of a ladder and a 
 great noise going on around me, and people screaming ; 
 
44Q 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 and then I thought I gave the bambina to somebody 
 who was holding out his arms. It all passed through 
 my mind, just as if it was happening then, and I was 
 very ill again afterwards, for I do not know how long. 
 At last I got better, but I did not wish to leave the 
 hospital, and the sisters were glad to keep me. I 
 helped them to nurse the other patients. They thought 
 I was not quite right in the head, because I forgot 
 things. Not what I had to do in the hospital, but 
 things that had happened before I came there. I 
 could not tell them the name of Lorenzo's father, or 
 they would have written to him. I did not want to 
 come back to Mentone without Lorenzo or the bam- 
 bina. I liked better to stay with them. They were 
 so good, and there is such a beautiful chapel where I 
 could always go when they did not want me. But 
 when the sisters were sent away I had to leave 
 too." 
 
 Ita had been eagerly listening to every word Mariana 
 uttered, and thoughts were crossing her mind with the 
 rapidity of lightning. Was it Piombo who had re- 
 ceived Mariana's child into his arms ? Was the scene 
 she had described a sudden return of memory recalling 
 what had really happened, or a mere dream, or a hallu- 
 cination. As far as she had ever heard it was in a 
 boat drifting at the mercy of the waves, that she had 
 been found lying. The paper at the villa said so, and 
 she remembered sitting on Mr. Hendon's knees, and 
 hearing him say to Lady Emily, " You should have 
 called her Moisina." 
 
 " And you used to sit by the side of your poor little 
 baby's cradle and sing her to sleep ? " she said to 
 Mariana, thinking this picture might awaken latent 
 recollections, and she was not mistaken. 
 
 A faint colour rose in the poor woman's cheek, and 
 she answered, " These poor arms were her only cradle. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 44I 
 
 She never left my bosom till I gave her into those 
 other arms that took her away. I hope she is with 
 God in Paradise. But, O Santissima Madre ! if she is 
 on earth, let me see her before I die." 
 
 Ita could not restrain her tears, and raised the thin, 
 wan hand she held to her lips. Still she did not feel 
 what she thought she ought to feel, considering the 
 possibility which she was mentally contemplating. 
 
 " How do you live, dear Mariana ? " she asked, after 
 a pause. " Who takes care of you ? " 
 
 " Good souls," she answered, with her sweet smile. 
 " One gives me a penny, another a bit of bread. Shia 
 Teresina bought me this black gown. I can do a little 
 needle-work and earn something that way. I want 
 very little." 
 
 "You know the priest at Colla ? You went there 
 last summer ? " 
 
 " Yes ; when I came back to Mentone they told me 
 that the English lady who used to live here had adopted 
 a child, who had been found by one Giovanni Piombo, 
 of Spedaletti. I thought, Signora, that perhaps she 
 might be my daughter ; but the man was dead, and the 
 lady gone away to her own country. Then this winter 
 people said that the Signorina was here, that she was 
 married, and I wanted to see her. I felt as if I should 
 know at once if she was my Lucia. But Pre Gian 
 said I was not to think of it. That it could never be 
 proved, and a poor foolish creature like me should not 
 go and trouble a lady with my mad fancies. Pazienza, 
 he is a good, holy man, and he knows best. If I was 
 sure she was my child, I would not say so. I should 
 only look at her as she walked by, and perhaps kiss 
 her hand, as I would any other lady's. If only I could 
 know that the creatura was in Paradise, or a good 
 Christian if she is alive ! Jesus and His Holy Mother 
 bless her ! " 
 
442 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Ita hesitated whether she should tell her or not 
 that she was Lady Emily's adopted daughter, but she 
 put off, at all events for that day, doing so. " Was it 
 in that accident that you received the injury that has 
 made you lame ? " she asked. 
 
 " The sisters said so. They thought I must have 
 hurt my hip as well as my head. I was taken out of 
 the water quite insensible." 
 
 " Have you any relations here ? " 
 
 11 No ; I was an orphan and an only child. I had 
 an uncle, but he is dead. Everybody here thought I 
 was dead too. And so they did at Florence, I believe. 
 When I came here, they called me the Ghost, and 
 then the Pazzarella." 
 
 " And now the Santarella," Ita said, fondly stroking 
 her hand. 
 
 Mariana smiled. "That is the worst mistake of all," 
 she said. 
 
 Ita glanced round the room to see what would be 
 the most acceptable present she could make to Mariana. 
 It struck her that there was nothing scarcely but a 
 straw mattress on the poor bedstead. 
 
 "Do you not want a coverlet and some sheets?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " There are other poor creatures that want them 
 more than I do," was the answer. 
 
 " But none to whom I should so much like to give 
 them," Ita replied, caressingly. 
 
 Mariana drew her to herself and kissed her with 
 that simplicity which belongs to the poorer class in 
 Italy. Ita thought as she returned the embrace how 
 terrible, in many cases, would be the idea of a mother 
 in that rank of life ; but there was in Mariana a gentle- 
 ness and a refinement which prevented that feeling. 
 But at the same time she could not at all realize the 
 possibility of the fact, or experience any of the emotion 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 443 
 
 which the slightest doubt on the subject she thought 
 ought to produce. 
 
 Before going away, she tried to discover the date of 
 the accident, which had been so fatal to the poor wo- 
 man, and the name of the hospital at Genoa where 
 she had spent so many years. But it was difficult to 
 get any definite answers from her as to those points. 
 She seemed to have forgotten her own age, and the 
 names of almost all the persons she had known. Her 
 mind had retained certain images and recollections, 
 but there was no sequence in her ideas. 
 
 " Where have you been to-day, little woman ? " 
 Edgar asked when his wife came in. 
 
 11 To see a poor person," she answered, and then, 
 after a little hesitation, added, " the person I heard of 
 at Colla. I have found her out." 
 
 "Well, and what is she like?" he asked with a 
 smile, which showed how little importance he attached 
 to her surmises. 
 
 " She is a very nice woman — almost a saint, the 
 Abate Giovanni says, but I do not feel at all as if she 
 could be my mother." 
 
 " I should think not, you silly child. Has she not 
 partly lost her memory ? I dare say the whole story 
 is an imagination." 
 
 "No, I do not think that," Ita answered; and as 
 she was taking off her bonnet, and standing before the 
 glass, she said, half to herself, " I do not think I am 
 at all like her." 
 
 Edgar laughed. 
 
 " But you know, dearest, there is just a possibility, 
 and I must try and do something for her. I could not 
 be happy without." 
 
 Edgar threw his arm round his wife as she leant 
 against his chair, and said, " By all means. But do 
 not get wna -t the French call an idee fixe on the subject." 
 
444 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Oh no, indeed. I really do not feel as much as 
 I fancy I ought to do about it ; only I am so sorry for 
 her, and in a peculiar way, because of her having had 
 that sort of sorrow. I am going to ask Antonia to 
 come with me into the lumber-room." 
 
 " Is there such a place in the house ? " 
 
 " Yes ; all sorts of things used to be stowed away 
 there. I .have not been into it yet. I think I may 
 find there things which we shall never want that I can 
 give to Mariana — that is her name. May I do what I 
 like about that?" 
 
 " Certainly ; and let me know, too, if there are any 
 things that you wish to take to England, that we may 
 consider how to send them ; for I warn you that I 
 expect soon to be well enough to go home. And I do 
 not want to stay here a day longer than I can help," 
 he added to himself. 
 
 This announcement produced a number of conflict- 
 ing feelings in Ita's heart. Joy that he thought him- 
 self getting well ; dread of the long journey ; fear of 
 what must happen when she returned to England, 
 joined to the desire for it, a desire growing every day 
 more like the thirst of the hart panting after the water- 
 springs. 
 
 She made no comments on his remark, but said 
 she would proceed at once to the lumber-room with 
 Antonia. She wanted to find out if there was any 
 spare bedding. Not much to her companion's satis- 
 faction, she seized upon a blanket and a bed quilt 
 which she said would serve her purpose, and insisted 
 that a pair of sheets should be added to them, and the 
 whole made into a parcel. There was one large box 
 in a corner of the room, which she proceeded to 
 examine. It contained a variety of the sort of articles 
 that grow out of use in a house in the course of some 
 years. Worn-out table-covers, old cushions, pieces of 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 445 
 
 unfinished canvas-work, faded balls of worsted, sundry 
 copy-books, some of her own old toys, a backgammon- 
 board, a box of ivory chessmen. At the bottom of the 
 case was a rather large parcel, half tied up in brown 
 paper which Ita drew out and began undoing. " Do 
 you know what this is ? " she asked Antonia. 
 
 "Yes, yes," the old woman said, looking a little 
 embarrassed. " I remember, Miladi ordered me to put 
 that parcel by — at the time when the Signorina was 
 brought here." 
 
 " When I came here, do you mean ? " 
 
 11 Yes, Signora. She told me it was the clothes the 
 Signorina had on when II Piombo found her." 
 
 Ita's heart beat very fast. She wished to open the 
 parcel alone. So leaving Antonia to make up the 
 one she intended for Mariana, she took the other to 
 her bed-room, where she locked herself in, and then 
 with trembling fingers cut the string, and unfolded 
 the contents. There was a red shawl with a blue and 
 black border and a child's flannel gown, night-gown, 
 and night-cap. On these she saw the initials A. D. 
 It is difficult to describe the emotion with which she 
 looked at these things grown quite yellow with time, 
 and on those letters, which seemed a connecting-link 
 with those to whom she owed her birth. She might 
 never know more than she did then ; but there were 
 the initials A. D. They were something to think of, 
 to dream about. Her impulse was at once to take 
 those things to Mariana and find out if she recognized 
 them. If she did — if they were the clothes her child 
 had on at the time of the accident .... There could 
 be no doubt then of her identity ; though, indeed, she 
 might only fancy they were the same. Her memory 
 was evidently not to be relied upon. Ita was ashamed 
 and vexed to feel how much she dreaded to discover 
 the truth. She hesitated whether she should, in the 
 
446 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 first instance, show the clothes and initials to Edgar. 
 But the dinner-bell was ringing ; there was no time for 
 it at that moment, and she was afraid that it would 
 over-excite him to talk about it in the evening. It 
 might prevent his sleeping. There was nothing to be 
 done till the next day ; but it was very difficult not to 
 be silent and abstracted. Edgar remarked, once or 
 twice, that she was not attending to what he said, and 
 playfully reproached her for it. He was in better 
 spirits than usual. With the eager longing for change 
 which often follows a severe illness, he was looking 
 forward to their homeward journey. Ita wished him 
 to stay till April, as the doctor advised ; but he 
 wanted to go sooner. It was then about the middle 
 of March. 
 
 After dinner he asked her to play to him. This 
 was a positive relief. She could think while her 
 hands were running over the keys, or drawing from 
 them sounds more than ordinarily expressive, for the 
 excited feelings which were flushing her cheeks, and 
 making her heart beat, seemed to influence her playing. 
 Thoughts came one after another into her mind in 
 quick succession. She recollected what, at the first 
 moment she had seen the clothes had not struck her, 
 and that was, that Mariana had said that the English 
 lady, on board the ship with her, had given to her 
 child some of her own baby's clothes. There was an 
 equal chance then of her being one or the other of 
 those two infants. Involuntarily she inclined to the 
 supposition that she was the unknown lady's child. 
 Her fancy conjured up the image of the young mother 
 who used to caress Mariana's baby, and say, " Cosi 
 vezzosa," and she worked herself up into a belief that 
 that must have been her mother. The shawl in which 
 she had been wrapt up had evidently been a valuable 
 one — more valuable than a poor woman could have 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 447 
 
 possessed. After all, that shawl might possibly be 
 identified. The initials A. D. would also be a clue. 
 " A. D.," she repeated to herself two or three times, and 
 then the name Annie Derwent came into her mind, 
 without, at first, awakening any particular idea. 
 
 She had never heard anything about Annie's 
 parents, except that they had been drowned on the 
 coast of Italy ; that she was saved, and that Mrs. 
 Gerald had brought her up. She did not even know 
 where the accident had happened. She thought it was 
 near Nice, where she knew Annie had lived with her 
 aunt when she was a little child. She played on, and 
 thought on ; and the initials, and Annie's name, kept 
 running in her head. And then, naturally enough, 
 Holmwood also. Her first acquaintance with it, and 
 with Annie, and then the day they had gone over the 
 house and looked into Mrs. Gerald's room, and at the 
 picture of Annie's mother — its likeness to herself. . . . 
 Mrs. Gerald's violent emotion when she saw her dressed 
 like that picture. . . . her strange capricious behaviour 
 to herself. . . . 
 
 " Why do you stop playing ? " Edgar asked. " Go 
 on, if you are not tired, darling." 
 
 " I shall soon come back," she said, and throwing a 
 shawl over her head, she went out on the terrace, feel- 
 ing that she must be alone for a moment. That she 
 must pursue this new strange bewildering thought, and 
 put together the evidence that was rushing on her mind. 
 It caused her a strange sensation, that seemed to thrill 
 through her from head to foot. It was such a startling 
 possibility. It almost seemed wrong to think of it — 
 for if .... if she was the real Annie Derwent, she 
 ought to be where Annie was. But it could not be. 
 No ; it was impossible. How could she even think of 
 such a thing. And yet it would account so exactly for 
 that likeness and for Mrs. Gerald's manner to her. 
 
448 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 And then, that Mrs. Dallas writing to the priest at 
 Colla for particulars respecting dates and initials. 
 That might be a feigned name. She remembered that 
 Mrs. Gerald had asked her, before she was married, the 
 village where she had lived when she was a little child, 
 and what town it was near ? Then came the remem- 
 brance that she had always thought Annie like the 
 girls of Mentone. She had told her so the first day 
 they had met. If there was anything in all this, Annie 
 was perhaps Mariana's daughter. The more she put to- 
 gether these surmises, the greater grew her agitation ; 
 for there was the shawl. If Mrs. Gerald saw that shawl, 
 possibly she might know it again. But perhaps it ought 
 never to be shown to her. Perhaps she ought never to 
 breathe to any human being that this idea had come into 
 her head. Yes ; she must tell Edgar. And yet it would 
 put him in a difficult position. She did not know if 
 he had ever heard of her likeness to Mrs. Derwent's 
 picture. She should hardly like to tell even him that 
 she had conceived this idea, and was secretly dwelling 
 on it. There were questions she longed to ask him, 
 and indirectly, even that evening, if she managed well, 
 she thought she might lead him to talk of Annie's 
 parents, without giving him any notion of what she 
 was thinking of. 
 
 She went back to the pianoforte, and played a little 
 longer. Then after tea was brought in, she took up 
 her work, and sat down by him. She spoke of several 
 things one after another, and at last mentioning Nice, 
 she said, in an apparently careless manner, though her 
 heart was beating fast, and her mouth quivering with 
 nervousness — 
 
 " Was it not near Nice that Annie's parents were 
 drowned? " 
 
 " No ; near the Gulf of Genoa ? " he answered. 
 
 There was a pause, and then she asked — 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 449 
 
 " Is Annie like what her father was ? " 
 
 " I do not remember him well enough to say. I was 
 very young when he died." 
 
 " Did you ever see her mother ? " 
 
 " No ; not that I know of." 
 
 " Then Annie has not known her parents any more 
 than I have mine? " 
 
 " No ; not to remember them. She was only a few 
 months old when they were drowned." 
 
 " How was she saved ? " 
 
 " A sailor, I believe, swam with her to the shore. 
 Now, love, will you read the article on the Eastern 
 Liturgies in the ' Christian Remembrancer ' — the 
 number the Lortons left here ? " 
 
 She read, but every minute seemed an hour ; she 
 longed intensely for the silence of the night ; and when 
 that was come, and she was lying awake restless, but 
 fearing to move lest she should awaken Edgar, she 
 longed as intensely for daylight and for morning ; and, 
 when she was up, and at breakfast, it seemed as if it 
 would never be over. Edgar was not looking well. It 
 was a pouring wet day, and this always told upon him. 
 He complained of headache, and seemed disinclined 
 to talk. It was impossible, she felt, to bring forward 
 then a subject which, though he was always kind when 
 she touched upon it, was not an agreeable one. Her 
 unknown birth and parentage were not a trial to him, 
 but any question of a discovery on that point he 
 evidently shrank from. She would have liked to have 
 shown him the things, and drawn his attention to the 
 initials. If he did not make any remark, and did not 
 seem struck with the coincidence, she would say no- 
 thing more, and try not to think about it. But he had 
 lain down on the sofa with his eyes closed, and she 
 felt that was not the moment to force upon him this 
 conversation. 
 
 D D 
 
450 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Ought she to pay Mariana another visit, and should 
 she show her the clothes ? She was not sure if it was 
 prudent, but the impulse was too strong, she could not 
 resist it. When, therefore, her usual hour for going 
 out had arrived, she sallied out in her water-proof 
 cloak, and with a large umbrella, carrying under her 
 arm that strange parcel, which had become to her as 
 a portion of her life, and a boy following her with the 
 larger one, which contained her presents to Mariana. 
 She felt almost as if she should faint when she reached 
 the bottom of the stairs, and opened her door ; but the 
 poor woman's kind smile and gentle greeting quieted 
 her agitation. She sat down by her side, took the 
 bundle from the boy, and sent him away. When she 
 undid it, Mariana said it was too much — the things 
 were too good for a poverella like her. 
 
 " May God reward you ! " she added, fixing her 
 large grey eyes on Ita with a look of grateful affection. 
 
 " Were they like Annie's eyes ? " Ita asked herself. 
 She was not certain, the expression was so different. 
 There was the same sudden lighting up in them when 
 she smiled, but that is so often seen in Italian faces 
 that it did not tell much. She could not make sure 
 there was any likeness. Something there was in the 
 shape of the face, perhaps a little alike. At last she 
 took courage, and trying to speak without betraying 
 emotion, she said, " I want you to look at these things 
 which I have brought with me. I want you to tell me 
 if they are like those your poor little child had on at 
 the time of the accident. Look at that mark." 
 
 Mariana's lips quivered ; her hand trembled as she 
 took hold of the little thin yellow garment ; large tears 
 Cell from her eyes upon it. 
 
 " This is my bambina's night-gown," she said, press- 
 ing it to her heart, " the one the Signora gave to her. 
 Is she alive ? Where is she ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 451 
 
 Ita, with flushed cheeks and dimmed eyes, answered, 
 " I do not know, dear Mariana ; nor do I know if we 
 can ever find out. Listen to me. I want you to attend 
 very much to what I am going to say." 
 
 " May the Blessed Virgin help me to do so," Mari- 
 ana replied ; and then, pressing the night-gown to her 
 lips, she kept exclaiming, " bambina mia ! figlia mia ! 
 cosi cara — cosi vezzosa ! " 
 
 Ita almost despaired of fixing her attention. 
 
 " Mariana mia," she said, " do you remember the 
 name of the lady who gave this night-gown and her 
 other clothes to your bambina ? " 
 
 " Oh no ! Signora, I remember nothing — and names 
 least of all." 
 
 " But you remember these letters," she said, point- 
 ing to the initials. 
 
 " Yes, yes," Mariana repeated, still kissing the little 
 night-gown. 
 
 I 1 Do you remember this shawl ? " Ita asked, much 
 agitated, for the answer might have confirmed or de- 
 stroyed her own surmise. 
 
 Mariana looked at it, and shook her head. " No, 
 Signora. No, I do not remember that shawl." 
 
 " Was your bambina wrapt up in a shawl when you 
 gave her to the man who took her away ? " 
 
 Mariana pressed her hand to her forehead. " Per- 
 haps ; I cannot tell ; my head gets confused when I try 
 to think. I remember a number of people pushing by 
 me, and screaming fearfully. They were trying to get 
 into a boat, and then there was a cry that it was sink- 
 ing, and they pushed up the ladder, and scrambled 
 back into the ship." 
 
 " Did the boat go down ? " Ita anxiously asked. 
 
 Mariana sighed. " I do not know, Signora. It all 
 seems to me like a dream. But oh, where did you get 
 this night-gown ? " 
 
452 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " It was wrapped up in a parcel with that shawl, 
 and these other things." 
 
 " And where did you find the parcel ? " 
 
 Ita hesitated a little, and then she said, " They be- 
 longed, Mariana, to the child the English lady you spoke 
 of adopted — the baby Giovanni Piombo found at sea." 
 
 " Then she is my Lucia ! " Mariana exclaimed, seiz- 
 ing the night-gown and pressing it to her heart. 
 
 " Listen to me," Ita said. " Listen to me quietly, 
 dear Mariana." 
 
 " How can I be quiet ? " the poor woman exclaimed, 
 with some wildness in her manner. But while Ita was 
 looking at her anxiously, she saw a change come over 
 her face, and heard her murmur, " My good God, I 
 will be quiet. Help me — I am a poor creature. Give 
 me grace to wish for nothing but that Thy holy will 
 should b.e done ; " and then taking Ita's hand between 
 both hers, she said, " Speak now, Signora." 
 
 Trying hard herself to command her feelings, Ita 
 began in a slow and as distinct a way as she could to 
 explain to Mariana that her child and the English 
 lady's child must have both been lost the same night ; 
 that both of them must have worn night-gowns marked 
 A. D., but," she added, her voice trembling as she 
 spoke, " this shawl in which was wrapped up the child 
 whom Giovanni Piombo found, seems more likely to 
 have belonged to the English lady than to you." 
 
 " Ah, yes ! " Mariana exclaimed sadly, " I never 
 could have had such a shawl as that. Then I suppose 
 my Lucia was drowned. The other child I mean ? 
 You have never heard of her ? " 
 
 Ita was silent for a minute, and then she said, " I 
 know nothing about her, but if, if I were ever to find 
 out that she was alive, and where she was, and if she 
 was happy and a great lady — such things have hap- 
 pened sometimes — would you wish me . . . ." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 453 
 
 " Oh no, do not speak to her of the poor Mariana ; 
 she would not be glad to hear of her. But if you ever 
 find my child, tell me that she is alive and happy, or 
 write to Pre Gian to say so, and if she should come 
 to Mentone, let me know of it, that I may watch for 
 her and see her pass along the street and see her face 
 before I die. And when I am dead, then you can tell 
 her that there was a poor woman called Mariana, who 
 had lost her daughter Lucia when she was a baby, 
 and who prayed for her, that rich lady, night and 
 day .... because the good Jesus had put it into her 
 heart to do so. But if, when you find her, my child 
 is poor and afflicted, and has no one to care for her, 
 then send her to me, my beautiful treasure, and I will 
 beg for her and love her as no one else can do." 
 
 Ita knelt down by the side of the poor woman, who 
 possibly was her mother — possibly Annie's mother, at 
 any rate a childless mother and a very forlorn one — 
 and throwing her arms round her neck, tenderly em- 
 braced her. 
 
 Mariana suddenly asked her, " Are you, Signora, the 
 child the English lady here adopted ? " 
 
 Ita hesitated an instant, and then said she was. 
 
 Mariana did not utter a word, but changed colour. 
 
 Ita looked up, and said, " Am I like any one you 
 remember ; " her bonnet was thrown back, and her 
 eyes, her soft beautiful eyes were fixed on Mariana. 
 
 " You are very like an angel," the poor woman said, 
 " but not like any one else I can think of." 
 
 Ita was disappointed. 
 
 " Pre Gian said I was not to trouble you with my 
 foolish ideas, or else now I know that you are the 
 Signora at the villa . . . ." 
 
 " But Pre Gian did not know I should come and 
 speak to you myself, and show you these things. What 
 did you wish to say ? " 
 
454 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " I was thinking that my Lucia had on her little 
 shoulder the mark of an accident, which she met with 
 when she was three months old, and which the doctors 
 said would always remain, a terrible deep cut. If I 
 could see .... only .... Oh no ... . forgive me ; you 
 know if it was so, no one but you and I would ever 
 know .... but I ought not to have asked." 
 
 Ita had turned pale. If the mark did exist, however 
 faint the trace might be (and it might have escaped 
 her notice and that of others) a doubt could hardly 
 remain. But this time she did not hesitate — her gown 
 was opened — her muslin habit shirt removed. "Look," 
 she said to Mariana, her heart beating violently. 
 
 Mariana gazed intently on the white ivory shoulder, 
 and then said gently, " It is not there ; " and in a mo- 
 ment she added, as if the idea had slowly come into 
 her mind, " then I think you must be the English 
 lady's child." 
 
 The colour rushed into Ita's face. " But you do 
 not see in me any likeness to her ? " 
 
 Mariana paused, looking somewhat bewildered. " I 
 cannot remember her face," she said at last ; " I know 
 her voice was very sweet and so is yours, and she was 
 good and so are you." Then, once more, turning to 
 the little night-gown, as if there was a connection be- 
 tween it and her lost child, she asked if she might 
 keep it. 
 
 Ita felt grieved. It went to her heart to refuse the 
 request ; but she could not part with one of the most 
 important relics of her infancy. Taking a little cross 
 from her neck, she put it into Mariana's hand, and said, 
 " I must ask you, cara, to accept this instead, and when 
 you look at it, pray for me." 
 
 Her heart was very full. She feared Mariana 
 looked fatigued and overwrought. She feared having 
 said too much or too little. Still she did not see how 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 455 
 
 she could have avoided it, except by not speaking to 
 her on the subject at all. Anyhow, she longed to be 
 alone and think over what had passed between them. 
 So, taking a most kind leave of her, she went up the 
 dark stairs, and found on reaching the street that the 
 rain had ceased. There was even a gleam of sun- 
 shine. 
 
 As she recapitulated on her way home, the result 
 of Mariana's incomplete recollections, it seemed on the 
 whole, at all events, very improbable that she should 
 be her daughter. The mark on the shoulder might, no 
 doubt, have disappeared, and she might have forgotten 
 the red shawl, or somebody else might have wrapped 
 her up in it ; but all the probabilities were on the other 
 side, and that other side in consequence, assumed in 
 her mind more and more importance. Mariana would 
 hardly have imagined what she had said about the 
 boat, which a number of people had rushed into and 
 then hastily escaped from. The boat supposed to have 
 sunk might have been carried off by the waves, and it 
 was not impossible she might have been accidentally 
 left in it. As she had been found alone in a boat not 
 very far from the spot, it was not an unlikely supposi- 
 tion that it might have been that very one. 
 
 How strange it would be, she thought, to go back 
 to Holmwood and to see Mrs. Gerald and Annie again 
 with this idea on her mind, this extraordinary surmise 
 haunting her at every turn. Should she ever have the 
 courage to speak of it to Edgar ? Would he wish to 
 pursue the inquiry ? And that mark on the shoulder ! 
 if Annie should have it ! But by this time it would 
 probably be hardly perceptible even if it had ever 
 existed. These doubts were almost more than she 
 would be able to keep to herself, and yet she could 
 hardly fancy mentioning them to her husband. At 
 first sight it seemed such a wild supposition, and there 
 
456 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 would be so much that would complicate all their 
 relative positions. What would Mrs. Gerald feel if the 
 suspicion crossed her, and had it perhaps crossed her, 
 and would she ever open upon it to her or any one 
 else ? 
 
 It was fortunate for Ita that she had been inured 
 from her earliest years to habits of silent reserve. It 
 made it easier for her now to bear the trial of these 
 oppressive secret thoughts. 
 
 When she came into the room Edgar said, " There 
 are letters from England — one from Annie ; read to me 
 what she says." 
 
 Ita glanced anxiously over the closely-written sheet 
 to see if there was anything meant for her alone, and 
 then read aloud the following letter : — 
 
 " My dear Ita, — I am still very anxious about 
 Edgar. At one time I was so miserable that I can 
 hardly bear to think of it. Those horrid telegrams 
 frightened me so. Once I almost lost all hope, and 
 did not know what to do. Nobody gave me any com- 
 fort. I could not go those days to the Vicarage — I 
 could not bear it. Now I have got your letter, and 
 know all about it, I feel happier. The last telegram 
 did, indeed, say he was out of danger ; but then it left 
 me in the dark as to what his actual state was. I am 
 so afraid about his eyes. It is very bad not to be with 
 him when he is so ill : but he has you. That is my 
 comfort ; I am sure you are a very good nurse, only 
 too afraid of contradicting him, I think. (Edgar 
 smiled, and Ita too.) I want to know what are your 
 plans. If Edgar is well enough to travel, I suppose 
 you will come home soon. How dreadful the doubt 
 about the bleeding must have been ! You were very 
 courageous to withstand the doctor. You have more 
 courage than I have — of one sort of courage, at least. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 457 
 
 I am not so afraid of cows and wasps as you are. 
 Edgar has just the wife I always wanted him to have. 
 I should hate you if you were not such a dear, loving, 
 perfect wife to him. I love you both very, very dearly. 
 " After I had received your last comforting letter, I 
 went to the Vicarage and began again working in the 
 garden. I am contriving something that will make 
 Edgar's sitting-room very comfortable, and as you say 
 his eyes are weaker since he has been ill, I am putting 
 green blinds into all the rooms. It would amuse you 
 to see how busy I am. Aunt Gerald has left off teasing 
 me about paying visits and asking people here. I do 
 not want to see anybody. Mrs. Sydney called last 
 week. I told her that Mr. Neville had been very kind 
 whilst Edgar was ill. She seemed very much pleased. 
 She is a nice person, and I daresay Mr. Neville is a 
 good sort of man, but I wish they were not Romanists, 
 I dislike Roman Catholicism more than ever. I think 
 part of Edgar's bad health is owing to fasting and all 
 that sort of thing, and the bad air where he lived in 
 London before he married. I never wish to go to 
 London again, or ever to leave Holmwood. Edgar 
 used to say in former days that I did not care for it 
 enough. He could not say so now. Tell him I dote 
 on every blade of grass in the park, and every cabbage 
 in the kitchen-garden, and that I have taken root here 
 as if I was myself a plant. I was reading the other 
 day some lines of Cowper's. Yes, I sometimes read, 
 though you would hardly believe it. I like his poems 
 better than anybody else's. 
 
 ' Time was when 'twas enough 
 To fill the ambition of a private man, 
 That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, 
 And Wolf's great name compatriot with his own.' 
 
 These lines put such a ridiculous comparison into my 
 
458 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 head : I thought it was enough to fill the ambition of 
 a woman to have such a place as this, and such a 
 Vicar in her parish as Edgar, not to speak of such 
 a dear little Vicaress as you in the bargain. Dear 
 me ! I hope you will both be very happy when this 
 letter reaches you ! — Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 " Annie Derwent." 
 
 " I am sure Edgar must have been dreadfully hurt 
 and grieved about the Rolands. I cannot think of 
 them with any patience. The blow, coming, too, just 
 as he was beginning to be ill." 
 
 Ita saw this postscript in time to omit it. 
 
 Edgar said, " That dear good Annie ! It does 
 please me so much to hear of her increasing delight in 
 Holmwood. I sometimes think that there are blessings 
 we do not sufficiently dwell on. Suppose she had been 
 poor, and you a rich heiress, how impossible it would 
 have been that I should have given her up and 
 married you ; and how miserable we might all have 
 been!" 
 
 He took his wife's small hand in his and raised it 
 to his lips, saying at the same time, " My own little 
 pearl of the sea ! " These were favourite words of 
 his, and they had always sounded like sweetest music 
 in Ita's ears. They showed how he loved her all the 
 more for her nameless birth ; how he valued the un- 
 known flower he had treasured in his heart. But now 
 they seemed fraught with a very deep and serious im- 
 port. However her own secret surmises might pursue 
 the faint light which had dawned on the obscurity of 
 her origin, what he had said a moment before seemed 
 as if it must for ever seal her lips — yes, even to him. 
 " How miserable we might all have been ! " The words 
 fixed themselves in her mind. She thought how miser- 
 able it might one day be in her power to make them 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 459 
 
 all if a further clue to the mystery was found ! She 
 recoiled from the very idea of such an act. But would 
 it not also be very hard to go through life, shutting up 
 in her own heart a suspicion which might possibly be- 
 come a conviction. Would it be right never to tell 
 Edgar of it ? That was a grave question, and how 
 was she to resolve it, for to no one but him could she 
 whisper it. Yes, a day would soon come when, with 
 entire security and a confidence deeper than that of 
 any human friendship, she could seek light and guid- 
 ance on that point. But when that day arrived, how 
 would she and Edgar stand in regard to one another ? 
 That doubt was casting a dark shade over the whole 
 of her future. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Edgar Derwent and his wife left Mentone towards 
 the end of April, but did not arrive in England till the 
 beginning of July. Their intention had been to spend 
 only a fortnight on the way, and they had allowed, 
 they thought, sufficient time for rest at different places. 
 This was necessary for Edgar, who was still very weak, 
 and the heat which had suddenly set in had tended to 
 exhaust him. They resolved, in consequence of this 
 premature summer, to cross the Alps, and to go home 
 by Switzerland and the Rhine. They were warned 
 that the first week in May was too early for the pas- 
 sage of the Splugen, but Edgar was bent on seeing 
 that pass, and chose to assume that the year was an 
 exceptional one. They stopped two or three days 
 at Genoa, and Ita looked with a keen interest on 
 the bay and the sea outside it, trying to picture 
 to herself the scene on the night of the collision, 
 which, twenty-three years ago, had suddenly sent 
 
460 MRS, GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 so many human beings into eternity, and amongst 
 them those whom she was beginning secretly to think 
 of as her parents. 
 
 She had never found courage to utter a word on that 
 subject to her husband since the day that she had read 
 to him the letter Annie had written after his illness, 
 and heard his comments upon it. She did tell him of 
 the things that she had found in the lumber-room 
 at the villa, and mentioned that the clothes were 
 marked with an A and a D. 
 
 " Indeed ! " was all he said ; and when she asked if 
 he would like to see them, he begged her not to 
 take the trouble of fetching them, in a tone which 
 indicated he did not at all care about it ; and, more- 
 over, that the subject was not a particularly agreeable 
 one. To a sensitive nature like hers, it was impossible 
 to force it upon him. Some persons might have done 
 so, and produced the things, and insisted on showing 
 them to him, without waiting for encouragement. 
 But this would have been simply impossible to Ita. 
 She took refuge in silence, and with a heart feeling 
 somewhat bruised and sore, laid at the bottom of her 
 trunk the little parcel so precious to her, which he had 
 not even thought it worth his while to look at. 
 She did not ascribe this indifference to a want of 
 affection on his part. She believed, and was right 
 in believing, that he loved her deeply and ardently, 
 but it was not in his character to enter into the 
 feelings of others, and therefore without any fault 
 of his own, he often gave pain where he did not 
 intend it. 
 
 On another occasion she tried to lead him to speak 
 of Mrs. Gerald. She described how wayward her con- 
 duct had always been towards her, and then timidly, 
 and with a beating heart, related the scene which had 
 taken place when Annie had dressed her like Mrs. Der- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 461 
 
 went's picture. He answered that his aunt's temper 
 had always been rather uncertain, but he was not sur- 
 prised at her having been annoyed that day, for she 
 never could bear the pictures in her room to be looked 
 at or mentioned. It was thoughtless of Annie, who 
 ought to have known this, to meddle with them ; and 
 then he changed the subject to what interested him 
 much more, viz., an article in the " Guardian " on the 
 use of incense in churches, and the answer to it he 
 intended to write. After these two attempts she kept 
 to herself every thought connected with the new sur- 
 mise which was almost constantly in her mind. 
 
 At Milan they made another halt, and then having 
 engaged a voiturier, performed their first day's journey 
 to Chiavenna, the little town on the Italian side of the 
 Alps, where travellers generally sleep before crossing 
 the Splugen. It lies embosomed in a bower of Spanish 
 chesnuts, and a beautiful waterfall dashes down the 
 rocks at a short distance from the inn. They walked 
 there and sat down on a bank near the emerald and 
 purple pool, where the foaming waters lose themselves, 
 watching the spray and enjoying the refreshing sound 
 of the rushing flood. 
 
 " Look at that dog-rose ! " Ita exclaimed, " is it not 
 beautiful ? it seems so fragile and delicate, with its 
 pink flowers almost touching that boisterous torrent ! 
 Does it not bend over it as if in love with its fury and 
 its joy. You remember Coleridge's lines about a 
 waterfall ? " 
 
 " Yes," Edgar replied ; " and your thought might be 
 turned into a poem, only you must say an eglantine, 
 not a dog-rose." 
 
 " True ; in this case the common name is not the 
 prettiest. Generally it is so." 
 
 " But I cannot admire anything now on this side of 
 the Alps," Edgar exclaimed. " I pine for the mountain 
 
462 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 air ; it seems as if a northern breeze would give me 
 new life. I had rather be bathed in clouds than in 
 sunshine just now." 
 
 Ita breathed an inaudible sigh ; she had been as- 
 sured that it was imprudent for a delicate person to 
 cross the Alps so early in the year, but it had been 
 impossible to dissuade him from it. He thirsted for 
 the mountain air like a person in a fever for a draught 
 of cold water. He saw that she looked pensive, and 
 to dispel her anxiety said, " When I look at these 
 snowy summits they seem to me the hills whence 
 cometh my help." 
 
 Ita glanced at the sunny plain, the smiling villages, 
 the deep blue sky of Italy, and the awful mountains 
 rose before her like a vision of coming sorrow ; but as 
 usual, she acted by what was both with her an impulse 
 and a principle, " never to give useless pain." It was 
 too late to urge delay, so she smiled and said the 
 beautiful sunset promised well for the next day, and 
 seemed to share his delight at the thought of the 
 morrow. It rose that morrow beautifully clear and 
 bright, and in their open carriage the drive was deli- 
 cious to the foot of the mountain, and winding through 
 the umbraged roads perfumed with the blossoms of the 
 Spanish chesnuts, they began the ascent ; Edgar, in 
 high spirits, enjoying every step of the way, and she 
 sympathizing as usual with him with real genuine 
 pleasure at first, but soon beginning to feel, with a 
 sinking heart, after three or four hours' ascent, the in- 
 creasing sharpness of the air, though the intense sun- 
 shine still mitigated its temperature. 
 
 They walked a little now and then, but when he 
 returned to the carriage, she was always anxious lest 
 he should not be wrapt up enough. Laughing some- 
 times, or a little impatiently, he rejected the cloaks she 
 wished to add to his already warm coat. The dark 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 463 
 
 blue gentians and the lovely rose of the Alps now 
 began to show their bright hues in the midst of the 
 sparkling snow. Higher and higher, endlessly almost, 
 the winding road seemed to lengthen, as they ascended ; 
 down far below them were lying the rich masses of 
 foliage they had traversed that morning, and now they 
 entered upon the regions of Alpine solitude. Then 
 the clouds appeared, and gradually invaded the whole 
 sky. Soon the air became so rarefied that Edgar 
 began to cough, and as they turned the last corner 
 before reaching the top of the pass, the weather com- 
 pletely changed — a cold piercing wind coming from 
 the north, blew in their faces with a keenness that 
 made Ita shiver, not with cold, but with fear. 
 
 " Cover your face," she exclaimed. " Edgar, cover 
 your eyes, and let down the glasses." They pulled 
 down the front part of the carriage, but through the 
 ill-adjusted framework the wind made its way, and 
 as they stopped at the refuge a wild hurricane was 
 blowing, and snow beginning to fall. The horses were 
 to rest there some time, and they got out. Through 
 the passage of the rude inn a cutting blast made its 
 way. 
 
 Edgar, when he sat down by the fire was looking 
 white and coughing. He tried to talk cheerfully, but 
 he felt as if the wind had gone through him, and when 
 he went to the window to look at the wild scene, the 
 sight of the snow hurt his eyes so much that he was 
 obliged to shield them with his hand. He then con- 
 sented to wear a shade, which he had rejected before. 
 But when they set out again, and the weather im- 
 proved a little, and they approached the Via Mala and 
 the sources of the Rhine, he insisted on taking it off, 
 and he would open the carriage. The sun was then 
 shining and the air less cold, but no longer like the 
 balmy breezes of Italy. Now and then through the 
 
464 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Alpine gullies a chilling wind came sweeping over the 
 fir-trees or whistled among their branches; and there 
 was more fury and less joy in that sound than in the 
 roar of the torrent. Even the pretty chalets and the 
 green meadows, speckled with cattle and dotted with 
 flowers, though lovely in their way, had none of the 
 glowing beauty of the fair towns and smiling scenery 
 of the South. 
 
 They were too tired to push on that night, and slept 
 at a small village hostelry at the foot of the mountain. 
 A blazing fire of fir-branches greeted their arrival, and 
 a supper of chamois and salmon-trout was soon pro- 
 vided for the tired travellers. But Edgar was too 
 weary, and Ita too anxious, to eat. Before going to 
 bed, he asked for some rose-water to bathe his eyes. 
 He had not done so for several weeks — indeed, they 
 had been so much better, that he had begun to read 
 and write again a little. 
 
 " Do they pain you ? " she asked. 
 
 " They burn like hot coals," he said ; " but I dare 
 say it is only the effect of the cold air. They will be 
 better to-morrow." 
 
 The next morning he called his wife to his bedside. 
 " My own love," he said, " I cannot see at all." 
 
 She trembled from head to foot, but answered, " It 
 is only a cold." And when that day, and the next, 
 and many more days passed, and the darkness settled 
 on his eyes, and for the time being he was, to all in- 
 tents and purposes, blind, she tried to cheer him by the 
 words, "It is only a cold ; it will not last." 
 
 They travelled on through Switzerland, and crossed 
 the lakes of Wallenstadt and Zurich, and passed 
 through scenes of wondrous beauty with something as 
 like despair in their hearts as can be felt by those who, 
 in the midst of deepest sorrow, believe in God, and 
 cling to Him. He could not, and she would not, 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE 465 
 
 look at the beauties of earth and sky. He held 
 her- hand almost constantly, and she hardly took 
 her eyes off his pale face and sightless eyes. His 
 deep depression, and the efforts he made to fight 
 against it, told on his strength, and he seemed to 
 grow weaker and weaker each day of that long, 
 tedious journey, with its slow progress and long halts. 
 
 What an abyss there seemed between their first 
 journey and the present one ! Ita could hardly 
 believe she was the same person that had travelled 
 so joyfully by his side six or seven months before. 
 Now, the sky, the trees, the flowers, seemed to insult 
 her misery ! Edgar was very good, very patient, 
 but not generous — no, not generous — for he kept 
 dwelling on her being his only hope, his only comfort, 
 his only support — his eyes, his life, his heart. Sweet 
 words, which might have stilled her anguish, and 
 mixed even a strange joy with her trial, if they 
 had been one in faith — if he had not once uttered 
 that dreadful sentence, that he would separate from 
 her if she became a Catholic. They kept ringing 
 in her ears, giving an ominous and sad meaning 
 to his words of reliance, trust, and endearment. The 
 more she lavished upon him of tenderness and care, 
 the more he reiterated what she felt to be adjurations 
 never to obey the voice of conscience, never to cease 
 to act a lie. 
 
 Oh, if she could have been blind instead of him ! 
 If she could be the helpless, the dependent one — close 
 for ever her eyes to the light of day, and throw herself 
 on his mercy ! Then she would be free to plead 
 her own cause, to claim her right to free action. 
 She would not have feared to be blind if she had 
 been a Catholic, and Edgar would still have cherished 
 her. She could imagine a blessed life even with 
 that dark veil between her and the light of day. 
 
 E E 
 
466 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 She would still hear the music of the wind, of the 
 running streams, of the joyous birds, and, above 
 all, that of his voice. The perfume of the flowers, 
 the soft air in the summer, his gentle caresses, the 
 delight of hearing him read, and the Church — the 
 Catholic Church — pouring into her heart its treasures 
 of consolation, of hope, and of holy melody; would 
 not all that be happiness — would not that be a light 
 more beautiful than that of day ? She prayed 
 ardently — prayed with a passionate desire that she 
 might be blind and he might see, and sometimes 
 almost persuaded herself her prayer would be heard. 
 
 As they were approaching Basle, on their way to 
 Strasburg, where they were to embark on the Rhine, 
 an idea suddenly entered her mind like a ray of hope. 
 She had heard of a famous oculist at Heidelberg, Dr. 
 
 , and she asked Edgar to stop there and consult 
 
 him. He began by refusing. He preferred going 
 straight to London, and seeing an English oculist. But, 
 on the following day, however, as they were in the 
 steamer, gliding down the broad river, Ita shading his 
 head from the glaring sun, and never speaking of the 
 scenery unless he asked a question about it, he heard 
 her sigh. 
 
 " If it would be a comfort to you, dearest," he said, 
 in a low voice, " we will stop at Heidelberg, and see 
 this famous man. I really believe that I am afraid of 
 hearing his opinion. But this is folly ; it is better to 
 know the truth, and make up our minds to bear it." 
 
 The suspense of the intervening days was difficult 
 to endure. After arriving at Heidelberg, they had to 
 wait some time before an interview with the eminent 
 oculist could be obtained, so great were the demands 
 on his time. At last the day and hour were fixed. 
 On the evening before, Edgar and Ita sat at the window 
 of the hotel, vainly trying to catch a cooling breeze. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 467 
 
 The weather was prematurely hot for the time of year, 
 and there was thunder in the air. His languor was 
 excessive, and even her powers of exertion seemed to 
 fail. It would have been a relief to be alone some- 
 times, or to stroll out and go into a church. But she 
 could not bear to leave him, even for a moment ; and 
 if she could have done so, they were no longer in a 
 region of open churches and Catholic altars. No visible 
 token of religion met the eye, and nothing spoke of 
 God on week-days in this Protestant land. 
 
 11 And if he is to be always as he is now," she 
 mused, " what is to become of us ? It was bad enough 
 to glance, even in thought, at the idea of his thrusting 
 her from him when he was comparatively strong and 
 well ; but now .... Shall I see him led to church by 
 another, and go my own way alone ? Who but I could 
 read or write his letters ? Who but me could he ever 
 trust ? Who but I would work and live for him as a 
 second self ? " The thought of Annie crossed her mind, 
 and an emotion of wild jealousy mingled with those 
 heart-rending questions. No mean, common jealousy, 
 but something like despair at the idea that she might 
 be driven from him, and the forsaken Annie minister 
 to his helplessness, and tend him in his grief. Yet she 
 almost clung to it, even while it broke her heart. 
 Anything better than to think of him alone even 
 though it should be his .own desire. Her lips uttered 
 no sound — no sigh escaped her ; but her hands were 
 clasped together with an intensity that betokened 
 the terrible struggle in her heart. She looked at those 
 eyes that could not see her, with an imploring tender- 
 ness which no words could have expressed. She thought 
 of the blind persons our Lord had cured. She pra) r ed 
 that Edgar might see, and then she would accept every 
 other trial. After a long silence on both sides, he said, 
 " Ita, come here." 
 
468 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 She went and knelt down by his chair, with her 
 head bent on his hand. 
 
 " You are crying ? " he quietly said. 
 
 She kissed his hand without answering. 
 
 !' Ita, my own," he whispered, " we must accept this 
 trial with resignation, if it should be God's will it 
 should continue." 
 
 " Oh, I could, I could ! " she exclaimed, " if. . . ." 
 
 " If what, love?" 
 
 " If I was sure you would never. . . ." She was 
 going to say, " part from me ; " but could not utter the 
 words. 
 
 Purposely or not, he hastened to say, " No ifs, my 
 darling. We must accept all God wills." 
 
 " Oh, but he could never will that," she exclaimed, 
 answering her own unspoken thought. 
 
 "lhope," Edgar said, " I am resigned to every- 
 thing He may ordain." Then stopping, as if he had 
 suddenly guessed her meaning, he added, with strong 
 emotion, " Except what I am sure will never happen ; " 
 and then drawing her close to himself, he whispered, 
 " to your forsaking me." 
 
 She said nothing. What could she say at that 
 moment ? But she looked at the dull leaden sky, 
 darkening with a rising storm, and, as if trying to 
 see beyond those heavy clouds, silently breathed the 
 prayer, " Oh, my Lord, let not my trial be greater 
 than I can bear." 
 
 And God never does thus try His children. As their 
 day so is their strength. If Edgar and Ita had been 
 doomed to hear the next day a sentence which would 
 have confirmed their worst fears, even as they were 
 situated, even with all the additional bitterness which 
 their mutual position would have lent to the trial, His 
 upholding arm would have carried them through that 
 terrible ordeal, and given to each what each would 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 469 
 
 have needed. But it turned out otherwise ; better 
 than they had almost dared to hope. The next day- 
 came, as all days come, whether longed for or dreaded, 
 and the hour arrived which they looked upon as the 
 crisis of their fate. After a long, weary waiting in the 
 outward chamber of the great man's audience-room, 
 they were summoned to it ; Edgar's eyes carefully 
 examined ; his previous and present state of health 
 minutely inquired into ; the circumstances of over- 
 fatigue, recent illness, exhausting heat, and sudden 
 change to piercing cold ascertained, and then the 
 oculist said — 
 
 " Well, now, I'll tell you what : use the prescription 
 I shall give you, and go and spend a month at Spa, 
 and take care not to catch cold, and I'll warrant it 
 you'll see as well as I do by the time you have finished 
 a course of the waters there. Weakness and a cold, 
 sir — nothing, madam, but weakness and a cold ; " and 
 sitting down, he wrote directions and a prescription. 
 
 Ita had gone away to the window. The tears were 
 running down her face like rain — bright great tears full 
 of J03', and beautiful, like the rain-drops after a storm. 
 
 They travelled from Heidelberg to Spa with lightened 
 hearts, almost in gay spirits. And it was a happy month 
 they spent in that quaint place, almost the oldest of all 
 watering resorts — that pretty valley amongst the heath 
 and gorse-covered hills, where the air and the water 
 are both like crystal, pure, bright, and sparkling, and 
 strength seems to breathe out of every spring and 
 every bush. 
 
 The doctor's previsions were soon justified. Soon 
 Edgar's sight began to return. Soon he was able to 
 walk and to ride ; colour returned to his cheeks more 
 even than in the South, and vigour to his frame. 
 When at the end of five weeks, they embarked at 
 Ostend, and then from the steamer caught sight of the 
 
47Q MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 white cliffs of England, he felt happier, as well as in 
 better health, than he had done for years. Ita was 
 deeply thankful ; her heart overflowed with gratitude 
 that once again a dark and bitter grief had been 
 spared them. But she measured more fully than ever 
 by the light of the mercy shown to her the obligations 
 it enforced. The beautiful old French words, " Fais 
 ce que dois advienne qui pourra," seemed stamped on 
 the future, from which an overwhelming trial had 
 passed away, and she felt more than ever bound to 
 redeem the pledge she had given by her husband's bed 
 of sickness, and renewed by his side during those 
 recent long days of anxious misery. 
 
 Edgar had a great power of believing everything he 
 wished ; and though he had perceived plainly enough 
 that Ita had lost all faith in the Anglican Church since 
 she had been abroad — and, in truth, he was not much 
 surprised at it, considering what she had seen and 
 heard in English chapels on the continent — he made 
 no doubt that, once at home, and surrounded by her 
 old interests and occupations, she would settle down 
 into a good Churchwoman. There was always at the 
 bottom of his heart the feeling that it was impossible 
 she could act independently of him with regard to re- 
 ligion — that she would never make up her mind to do 
 so. He not only loved his wife, but he thoroughly 
 appreciated her. He valued in Ita the qualities he was 
 deficient in himself. Though in some ways a proud 
 man, though possessed of a great confidence in his own 
 judgment, he was not vain. He was quite aware that 
 Ita excelled him in sweetness of temper and generosity 
 of character. He felt, to his very heart's core, the 
 beauty of her perfect unselfishness. Perhaps he con- 
 sidered this as a peculiarly feminine virtue, but did not 
 admire or love it the less on that account. It was his 
 high estimate of that, her peculiar merit, that made 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 471 
 
 him inwardly exclaim, whenever a misgiving arose in 
 his mind, that she wished to become a Roman Catholic, 
 " She could never be so selfish." How few even of 
 those who think they know what faith is, understand 
 that it is something too real and too sacred to be 
 adopted or renounced at will, and that its requirements 
 must necessarily be absolute ! Edgar thought his wife 
 could not be so selfish as to act up to her convictions, 
 and inflict upon him such acute sorrow. Had she been 
 less unselfish he would have known more of her secret 
 sufferings, and more correctly estimated the strength 
 of her convictions. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon of a July day that Mrs. 
 Langdon drove to the London Bridge Station, to meet 
 her son and his wife. They all came back together to 
 Lowndes Square, where they were to spend two or 
 three days. Edgar was delighted to be in London 
 again ; and though Ita did not share this feeling, and 
 though the red chimney-pots and dingy rows of small 
 houses which present the first aspect of London on 
 that side to travellers from abroad, seemed to her 
 rather depressing, and the noisy streets unattractive, 
 she took care not to betray this impression. She en- 
 joyed her husband's pleasure, and said to his mother, 
 " Does he not look well ? " 
 
 " Well, yes, pretty well, I think," Mrs. Langdon 
 answered ; " but I do not like the look of that green 
 shade over his eyes." 
 
 " I can take it off now," Edgar said. " This plea- 
 sant London twilight does not overpower a weak 
 sight." 
 
 " So you are glad to be in London again," his mother 
 joyfully exclaimed. 
 
 " More, more than glad," he replied. " People say 
 1 Life is life in those sunny climes ; ' I feel life is life in 
 these dear foggy streets." 
 
47^ 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " And you, Margaret, are you pleased to come back 
 to England ? " 
 
 Mrs. Langdon had not got into the habit of calling 
 her daughter-in-law Ita. Whether the unusual name 
 by which she was addressed had failed to catch Mrs. 
 Derwent's ear, or that she wished not to answer the 
 question, did not clearly appear ; anyhow, she went on 
 coaxing Mrs. Langdon's little dog, who occupied the 
 fourth place in the carriage, without raising her head. 
 He had taken the instinctive fancy to her which every 
 living creature was apt to do. 
 
 "You will stay with us some days, I hope," Mrs. 
 Langdon said to her son, without noticing her 
 daughter-in-law's silence. 
 
 " Till Monday, if you like to keep us till then," 
 Edgar answered. " I wish to spend Sunday in London, 
 but we must soon go to Holmwood. Both Mrs. Gerald 
 and Annie are anxiously expecting us." 
 
 " Mrs. Gerald is very ill, I hear." 
 
 Edgar and Ita both started. 
 
 " Have you heard that lately ? " he asked. 
 
 " About a week ago, Miss Derwent was in town for 
 one day, and called on us. She appeared very uneasy 
 about her aunt's health." 
 
 " Perhaps we ought to go at once," Edgar said. 
 
 " Oh, dear no. I am sure she is not in any imme- 
 diate danger. Miss Derwent said so. The doctors 
 think she may live a long time yet. You must not 
 disappoint us by going before Monday. Indeed, we 
 cannot hear of it, and I have accepted an invitation to 
 dinner for you both for Saturday." 
 
 " Have you ; and pray where ? " 
 
 " At Lord and Lady Carsdale's. You will meet 
 there your old friend, Mr. Hendon, Margaret." 
 
 " Oh, is he in London ? I shall be very glad to see 
 him." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 473 
 
 " Poor Aunt Gerald ! " Edgar ejaculated. I did not 
 know she was so ill. Is she really, do you think, not 
 likely to recover ? " 
 
 " Well, I really don't know. Miss Derwent said the 
 doctors were puzzled about her case. She is dreadfully 
 nervous. What a pity it is when people are nervous. 
 I hope you do not suffer from nervousness, dear 
 Margaret ? " 
 
 "I am quite well," Ita said; but she could hardly 
 have asserted with truth that she did not suffer from 
 nervousness, for ever since her arrival in England she 
 had felt an inward agitation, that made her hands cold, 
 her cheeks hot, and caused her to start at the least 
 noise. 
 
 That day at dinner the conversation was kept up 
 principally by Mr. Langdon and Edgar. Their two 
 wives were chiefly occupied with watching and turning 
 the course of conversation, when it veered towards 
 dangerous subjects. There could not be two persons 
 more unsuited than Mrs. Langdon's husband and her 
 son. Not only did they on most points differ in 
 opinion, but their characters and habits of mind were 
 essentially opposed and irritating to one another. 
 There was a shade of solemnity in Edgar's manner, a 
 slight inclination to lecture others, and lay down the 
 law, which provoked those not predisposed in his 
 favour. His handsome face — his earnest and expres- 
 sive countenance — his gentleness and kindness, made 
 up, in the opinion of most people, for those little 
 defects which were never glaring nor obtrusive, but 
 just happened to be those which particularly provoked 
 Mr. Langdon. He thought his step-son pompous and 
 dictatorial, and he met the heavy ammunition of his 
 earnest and energetic arguments with a volley of light 
 sarcasms and jests, which tried beyond measure 
 Edgar's patience. Their peculiarities reacted recip- 
 
474 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 rocally on their tempers, and Edgar was never half 
 so consequential, or Mr. Langdon half so flippant, as 
 in each other's society. 
 
 For some time, by dint of good management on 
 the part of Mrs. Langdon and her daughter-in-law, 
 none but the safest subjects were discussed, and they 
 thought all danger of an encounter had blown over, 
 when at dessert all at once Mr. Langdon began on 
 what they all felt to be une question brulante. 
 
 " So your friends the Rolands have turned, as the 
 poor people call it." 
 
 There was a dead silence. 
 
 Then Edgar said, in a very grave voice, " It is very 
 sad." 
 
 "And pray why is it sad?" Mr. Langdon asked. 
 14 They are now openly what they were in secret before. 
 They have told the truth and shamed the devil, as we 
 used to be advised to do in old days. They are 
 honest, voila tout." 
 
 Edgar's colour rose, and his eyes assumed the pe- 
 culiar expression which his mother knew betokened a 
 storm. She said, in a way intended to be soothing — 
 
 14 You know, my dear boy, that Mr. Langdon has 
 never been able to understand about Church principles, 
 and how Protestants can be Catholics . . . ." 
 
 44 My dear mother," Edgar began, in a deprecating 
 tone ; but in the meantime Mr. Langdon burst forth — 
 
 " Church principles — Church fiddlesticks ! I can 
 understand Protestant principles and Catholic princi- 
 ples, but not the principle of being both at the same 
 time. Just because a set of young fellows at Oxford 
 wanted to have a Catholic Church of their own, and 
 would not make use of the long-established one which 
 had served the purpose since St. Peter's time, they 
 must needs try and turn our poor old respectable 
 Protestant Church of England into something she 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 475 
 
 never was, poor dear ! and never was meant to be, 
 and make her play her new part, awkwardly enough 
 at times, I fancy. I sometimes sit and laugh at the 
 thought of what old George III. would have said 
 if any one had told him the Church of England was 
 not Protestant ! " 
 
 " I really cannot enter into an argument on this 
 subject," Edgar exclaimed, " in the tone which you 
 use. It is far too important a one, especially for a 
 priest of the Church of England." 
 
 Mr. Langdon's eyes twinkled with an amused ex- 
 pression. " I beg your pardon," he said. " I fancied 
 that when you married, you had given up that Popish 
 idea of being a priest. Pray, Mrs. Derwent, has he 
 converted you to the via media religion. Is that its 
 name now ? " 
 
 Ita made no answer, and did not raise her eyes from 
 her dessert plate. 
 
 Mrs. Langdon, in despair, gave the signal for with- 
 drawal. It was dangerous to leave Edgar and her hus- 
 band tete-a-tete, but worse to remain and be present at 
 any further discussion between them. 
 
 When she and Ita were seated on the sofa in the 
 drawing-room, she said to her, " I am so annoyed at 
 the way Mr. Langdon will go on talking before Edgar, 
 as if on purpose to provoke him. I was afraid he 
 would begin about the Rolands, though I had told him 
 it was a sore subject. But now, my dear, seriously, 
 quite between ourselves, it is really of great conse- 
 quence that dear Edgar should not go into extremes. 
 I have never been against his Puseyite ideas up to a 
 certain point, you know ; indeed, I often go myself to 
 the daily service at St. Paul's, and I should not object 
 to see twenty lighted candles on the altar. I have no 
 prejudices on the subject, but it would be a real mis- 
 fortune if these opinions were to stand in the way of 
 
476 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 his future preferment. If he will keep clear of ex- 
 tremes, he may, with his talents and advantages, rise 
 very high in the Church. I assure you I have heard 
 many people say that he is just the sort of person 
 who might one day be a bishop. You see, my dear, if 
 you should have a family, your present means would 
 not be at all sufficient to make you comfortable. I 
 know Miss Derwent says she does not intend to marry, 
 but that is a sort of thing one cannot reckon upon." 
 
 " Oh no, certainly not," Ita exclaimed, glad there 
 was one point on which she could entirely agree with 
 her mother-in-law. " We wish her very much to 
 marry." 
 
 " And most likely she will do so ; but that just 
 proves what I say. Good prospects in his profession 
 should not be lightly thrown away ; and you can have 
 no idea, my dear, how much going into extremes inter- 
 feres with a clergyman's chances of preferment. And 
 then one never knows what those opinions may lead 
 to ... . These poor Rolands ! I was horribly vexed 
 that Mr. Langdon mentioned them ; but really, my 
 love, it is a terrible case. They have actually not 
 bread enough to eat ! " 
 
 " Is it as bad as that ? " Ita said, deeply shocked. 
 
 " Of course, nothing can be worse. How is a man 
 of forty to live and support a wife and two children ? 
 It is too late to turn to any other profession." 
 
 " Eliza has been confined ? " 
 
 " Yes ; she has had another little girl about six 
 weeks ago. It is impossible to conceive anything more 
 unfortunate. She is far from strong, and Jane tells me 
 they cannot afford to keep a servant. It is ruin — per- 
 fect ruin. But one thing you see leads to another, as 
 I was saying just now. That is why I am so anxious 
 that Edgar should not commit himself to extreme 
 opinions . . . ." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 477 
 
 " But if they are his opinions, dear Mrs. Langdon ? " 
 
 " Then let him moderate them, and draw back from 
 extreme acts as many others have done. I assure you 
 that a wife can do a great deal, in these cases, in a 
 quiet, unobtrusive manner, just by putting in a word 
 at the right time, and showing how much she dreads 
 her husband going too far. I have always looked to 
 your influence as the means of preventing Edgar's 
 doing anything rash. That was my great comfort 
 when he married." 
 
 The candid admission that she wanted comfort at 
 that moment almost made Ita smile. Wishing to change 
 the subject, she said, " I really think Edgar is getting 
 much better." 
 
 " He looks pretty well, on the whole," her mother- 
 in-law answered. " If you can only keep him from 
 working too hard till he gets quite strong again ! He 
 used to say that you were worth three curates. I do 
 not know what he could do without you always at his 
 elbow. But I wonder why they do not come upstairs. 
 I am afraid it must be very bad for Edgar to argue 
 and excite himself. I think I had better ring for tea, 
 and let them know when it is ready. If you are not 
 too tired to play and sing, it would prevent their talk- 
 ing, and Mr. Langdon likes it so much." 
 
 Ita was just as anxious as her mother-in-law to 
 stop any more conversation about religion. So, as soon 
 as her husband and Mr. Langdon came into the draw- 
 ing-room, she went to the pianoforte and sung some 
 French and Italian songs. 
 
 " I hope you have not forgotten all your English 
 songs," Mrs. Langdon said. " I must have my 
 favourite ' Ruth.' " 
 
 " I cannot sing that," Ita murmured, turning over 
 the leaves of her book to find something else. 
 
 " But I have got the music here, if you have 
 
478 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 forgotten it," Mrs. Langdon officiously exclaimed, and 
 placed before her daughter-in-law words, which seemed 
 to her, written in letters of fire. During the first 
 months of their marriage it had been Edgar's delight 
 to hear her sing them. They sounded to him like a 
 pledge of her devotion to him, and fidelity to his 
 Church. He attached a particular meaning to Ruth's 
 adjuration, and his wife used to utter it with an 
 earnest pathos, which suited, he thought, her position 
 and his own. She was, in one sense, an alien from his 
 own land. She had been baptized, conditionally, 
 at least, in a foreign communion, and he loved to hear 
 her say, " Thy people shall be my people, and thy God 
 my God." Ita knew he liked this piece of music 
 on account of these words, and she also had once been 
 conscious of some vague feeling of the kind. The last 
 time he had heard them from her lips was on the day 
 at Mentone, when he had been seriously alarmed 
 at what he called her Romish tendencies, and had 
 tried, by the strong expression of his own feelings, 
 to crush them in the bud. Since then she had put 
 this song aside, and her husband had not asked 
 for it. Now, however, with the music-book open 
 before her, she was obliged to comply with Mrs. 
 Langdon's request, and began, in a faltering voice, 
 which gradually became steadier, the well-known 
 strain. Edgar's eyes were fixed on the newspaper 
 in his hand, but he listened eagerly to that sweet 
 voice and to that old familiar air. It might be only 
 his fancy, but though she sang as earnestly as ever, 
 there seemed to him a different accent — a different 
 spirit in the way in which she pronounced the words. 
 Once they had sounded like the cry of a heart cleaving 
 with a blind worship to the object of a human love, now 
 they rose like the expression of the most ardent desire 
 that can inspire an immortal soul — that of winning 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 479 
 
 to its own faith one dearer than life itself. The words 
 had assumed another meaning in her thoughts. There 
 were but one God, one people, and one Church, for 
 Edgar and herself. She could never turn back. The 
 light was on before. There was hope, at that moment, 
 in her face and in her voice. He instinctively felt that 
 she was calling on him to follow her ; no longer follow- 
 ing him with trembling footsteps along the shadowy 
 path of uncertainty and doubt. In spite of himself, 
 he felt it. He tried to stifle the thought ; but it 
 crossed his mind in that instant like a ray of light, 
 soon quenched, however, by a determined act of the 
 will. He was glad when the notes died away in his 
 ears, but the echo they left behind in his mind did not 
 subside as speedily. 
 
 No one asked for another song. Ita was very tired, 
 and went early to bed. When Edgar had also left 
 them, Mr. Langdon said to his wife, " That daughter- 
 in-law of yours, Mrs. Langdon, is one in a thousand. 
 One of the greatest darlings I ever saw." 
 
 " I hope she will always make Edgar happy," Mrs. 
 Langdon answered, with a sigh. " She is a good little 
 thing, and I like her very much. Still, it is a great 
 pity he did not marry his cousin." 
 
 " What, that dull piece of goods ? Of course, it 
 would have been the right thing-; but, for my part, I 
 am glad he fell in love with the mermaid. I only hope 
 they will not turn Papists, and he become a monk and 
 she a nun." 
 
 " You do not mean that clergymen and their wives 
 do that when they secede, or whatever it is called." 
 
 " Of course they do. What else could happen ? " 
 
 " But the Rolands have not ? " 
 
 " Only wait a little and see." 
 
 " Then it is still worse than I thought." 
 
 In spite of the experience which the whole course 
 
480 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 of her married life should have given her, Mrs. Lang- 
 don had never yet learnt not to understand literally 
 her husband's assertions. 
 
 The next day Edgar took his wife to see a house of 
 charity, where an Anglican Sisterhood carried on vari- 
 ous works for the benefit of the poor, which he used to 
 be greatly interested in before his marriage. He thought 
 she would be favourably impressed by the Catholic ap- 
 pearance of this convent, the beauty of the chapel, and 
 the piety of the sisters, and as they visited the whole 
 of the building, accompanied by the superioress and 
 the chaplain, he anxiously watched Ita's countenance. 
 He was not wholly disappointed, nor yet quite satisfied 
 with the effect it seemed to make upon her. Now that 
 she had lost all belief in the Catholicism of the Church 
 of England, this display of its outward forms gave her 
 more pain than pleasure. She admired the good works 
 of the nuns, but there was something artificial and un- 
 real in their studied imitation of the religious life, 
 which she thought repulsive. The expressions in use 
 among the so-called Anglo-Catholics grated on her ear. 
 
 At that time Mass, Benediction, Confession, were 
 words which even in Sisterhoods were not in use. The 
 bold innovations of the present day were not thought 
 of, but there was an advance in that direction — the 
 Puseyites were feeling their way, and approaching to 
 the point the Ritualists have now reached. They took 
 advantage of every doubtful expression in the Prayer- 
 book which would sanction some new development, 
 and called Roman practices by Anglican names, thus 
 creating a phraseology that reminds one somewhat of 
 Talleyrand's view of language : " La parole a ete 
 donnee a l'homme pour deguiser sa pensee." * 
 
 This effort to disguise what they dared not avow, 
 
 1 " Language was given to man to enable him to conceal his 
 thoughts." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 481 
 
 was conspicuous in all the arrangements of the convent, 
 and Ita was glad to get away from the chapel and the 
 parlour where the superioress, the clergyman who 
 directed the home, and Edgar, conversed in this strain, 
 and to go to the sick wards, which were beautifully 
 arranged. A large crucifix and several holy pictures 
 hung on the wall. The image of our Blessed Lady 
 was not to be seen there, but as they passed afterwards 
 near the oratory of the sisters, Ita caught a glimpse of 
 a pretty statue surrounded with nosegays of flowers. 
 She glanced at her husband. He avoided meeting her 
 eyes. He had so often spoken with severe disapproval 
 of the devotion of Roman Catholics to the Blessed 
 Virgin, that he did not like to be called upon at once 
 to express a different opinion or to blame the Anglican 
 Sisters. But the truth was that a change had taken 
 place in his own mind on the subject, and he took an 
 opportunity of whispering to his wife as they walked 
 through the passage that led to the hospital, " I hope 
 the day may come when prudence will permit us to 
 pay that homage in public to the Blessed Virgin which 
 devout hearts in our Church offer up in secret." She 
 sighed — the time was past when such hopes could 
 satisfy or quiet her soul. 
 
 As they passed through the long room occupied by 
 the patients, one poor woman, apparently in a decline, 
 whispered to the young sister who was giving her a cup 
 of tea, that she would like to speak to the lady who 
 was going through the ward. 
 
 This was conveyed to the superioress, who kindly 
 stopped and asked Ita if she would gratify the sick 
 woman's desire. "She is a foreigner," she added, "an 
 Italian, who has been here some weeks." 
 
 Ita complied with the request, and standing by the 
 bedside, said in a gentle voice, " Are you very ill ? do 
 you suffer much ? " 
 
 F F 
 
482 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Yes," the woman answered in English. " I am so 
 weak. I have no strength left at all. I did think I 
 should get strong here with the good food and wine, 
 but it does me no good. I will go away. I will die at 
 home." 
 
 " Have you any friends in London ? " 
 
 " Yes, one daughter. She has been married many 
 years to an Englishman. I am myself an Italian." 
 
 " You speak English very well for a foreigner." 
 
 "I learnt it when I with my husband kept an hotel 
 at Florence ; our house was always full of English 
 people. When he died I lost all I had, and came 
 here." 
 
 Ita bent down her head close to the poor woman, 
 and whispered, " Are you a Roman Catholic ? " 
 
 " Yes," she eagerly replied in the same tone ; and 
 then added, " They say they are of the same religion 
 here — all Catholics. That is all very well ; it may be 
 so, but I want to see one of my own priests. I will 
 go home to-morrow." 
 
 " I dare say they would send for a Roman Catholic 
 priest, if you asked them." 
 
 " Ah, but I had rather go home. I shall never get 
 well. I should not like to die here." 
 
 " Where do you live ? " 
 
 11 At 15, Little North Street, Manchester Square. 
 Will you come and see me there ? " 
 
 " I am only in London for a day or two. I hardly 
 think I can find time to call on you. But perhaps I 
 could ask somebody else to do so." 
 
 Ita was moving away. The sick woman laid her 
 hand on her arm, and detained her. " Excuse me," 
 she said, " but will you tell me your name ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Derwent." 
 
 " Derwent ! Ah, there it is ! You are just like what 
 she was at your age — the lady I knew — the lady who 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 483 
 
 was drowned with her husband in the Gulf of Genoa. 
 Are you their daughter ? " 
 
 " No," she answered, blushing deeply, " I am their 
 nephew's wife. I married Mr. Edgar Derwent. You 
 knew, then, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Derwent ? " 
 
 " Certainly I did. But you are so like her ! " 
 
 " I have been told that I am like her picture." 
 
 " Do come, Ita," Edgar cried. " We are going to 
 the schools." 
 
 "Will you come and see me?" the sick woman 
 eagerly said. 
 
 " I will try," Ita answered, as she hurried away to 
 join her husband. She would have given anything to 
 stop with the poor woman, and, when she had left her, 
 remembered that she had not asked her name. The 
 superioress, however, told her that it was Ranolfi. 
 
 It was difficult to fix her mind on the exhibition of 
 copy-books and needlework, which she was called 
 upon to admire, and even on the evolutions in the 
 infant school, which she usually enjoyed very much. 
 At last everything was over, and they went to the 
 door where Mrs. Langdon's brougham, which she had 
 lent them for the day, was waiting. 
 
 " I shall walk home," Edgar said. " You can do 
 your shopping, and on your way back leave our cards 
 on the Carsdales." 
 
 Ita had been wishing, ever since her arrival in 
 London, to tell him that she wanted to call on Eliza. 
 Now, with desperate courage, as she was getting into 
 the carriage, she said so. A cloud passed over his 
 face. He hesitated. She added, " Your mother says 
 she has been very unwell since her confinement, and 
 they are so ill off. I really must go and see her, 
 dearest." 
 
 " As you please," he coldly replied, and walked away. 
 
 " Do as you choose," are words which sometimes 
 
484 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 leave a heavy weight on the hearts of those to whom 
 they are addressed. But Ita had no doubt that it was 
 right to go and see Eliza, unless her husband had 
 particularly forbidden it. So, availing herself of the 
 ungracious permission, she told the footman that she 
 wished to be driven to number four in a little narrow 
 street behind Manchester Square. 
 
 When they arrived there, the loud rap at the door 
 seemed out of keeping with the humble appearance of 
 the house. The girl who opened it said Mrs. Roland 
 was at home, and showed Ita up to the third story, 
 where she found Eliza in a very small and badly- 
 furnished room, arranged, however, with that attempt 
 at comfort and prettiness which betokens the habits of 
 one accustomed to a different sort of abode. She was 
 looking ill, though the colour that rushed into her face 
 when her friend came in, disguised its paleness. Her 
 baby was in its cradle, and her little girl, Ita's god- 
 child, sat playing on the floor. 
 
 " Oh, dearest Mrs. Derwent," she exclaimed, " I am 
 so glad to see you ! I hardly thought you would come. 
 Will you sit down here ? " she added, making room for 
 her on the black horse-hair sofa. " How is your hus- 
 band ? " 
 
 " A great deal better, thank you. And How is Mr. 
 Roland ? " 
 
 " Not very well. He suffers much from his head- 
 aches. Meggy, come here and kiss your godmother." 
 
 The little thing got up with difficulty, and made a 
 bad walk of it to the sofa. 
 
 " She is not strong on her legs," her mother said, 
 taking her up on her knees. 
 
 " She is not so rosy as she used to be," Ita answered, 
 as she kissed the little girl. 
 
 " That is the only hard part of it," Eliza said, in a 
 low voice. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 485 
 
 " Their being ill, you mean ? " 
 
 " Meggy is not ill. It is only the change, the want 
 of air and exercise, that makes her weak ; but my hus- 
 band is really out of health . . . ." 
 
 " And you, dear Eliza ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am pretty well." 
 
 There was a moment's silence ; then she said, 
 " Eliza, you have gone through this great change. Tell 
 me, have you found it what you expected ? " 
 
 " No, not what I expected. To the last moment 
 I fancied I should still feel some doubts and misgivings 
 after I became a Catholic, but I have never done 
 so. From the first moment, everything has seemed 
 to me real, true, natural ; and as regards the inward 
 life, the life of the soul, perfect contentment and hap- 
 piness." 
 
 " Then you are glad you changed . . . ." 
 
 " Yes, glad indeed. It makes up for all past and 
 present sufferings . . . ." 
 
 " Dearest Eliza, you have had much to go through." 
 
 " A good deal, in one way and another. Sometimes, 
 when I think of Bramblemoor, of the view from the 
 back window of our house over the common, and of 
 the feeling of the air, with the smell of the fir-trees, it 
 gives me a faint sensation I can hardly describe. But 
 it does not last .... and I would not be there again 
 as we were, trying to persuade ourselves we were 
 Catholics, and leaning wearily on that shadow of a 
 Church that gave one no support or help. ... It is 
 like a bad dream to look back to it. My husband 
 feels just as I do. We wonder together, sometimes, 
 how we could be so long deceived by our ardent 
 wishes .... He is very good, very patient." 
 
 " How strange it seems to look back to the time 
 when you were such a thorough Anglican, and your 
 arguments with Annie." 
 
486 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Yes ; nobody can say that we did not try to be- 
 lieve in the Church of England. Indeed it was almost 
 a matter of life and death to us." 
 
 Ita pressed her hand, and said inquiringly, " You 
 mean . . . . ? " 
 
 " Why, dear Ita, I do not see, humanly speaking, 
 how my husband can support us and live. He does 
 some copying for a lawyer, but this brings in very 
 little, and he is often over-tired. I try to earn some- 
 thing by needlework, but with two children and no 
 servant, there is little time for it." 
 
 11 Have you no servant at all ? " 
 
 " No, not the shadow of one," Eliza answered, with 
 a smile. " Sometimes I get a charwoman for the day ; 
 you know we are quite — quite poor. But you must 
 not look so unhappy, Ita ; it is wonderful how one 
 bears things that seem terrible to look forward to. I 
 could not help thinking during my last confinement of 
 the time when this child was born, and all your tender 
 care of me, the luxuries I had, and all that Annie sent 
 me. How different it was ; but yet I was happy — so 
 thankful we had not delayed our conversion till after 
 my confinement." 
 
 " The last days at Bramblemoor must have been the 
 worst part of it. Last days are always so sad." 
 
 11 They were very sad; you know Annie would not 
 see us before we left." 
 
 " When we went to Italy you did not think of tak- 
 ing this step ? " 
 
 " No ; Mr. Roland used sometimes to speak to me 
 — he had done so for sometime — of the possibility that 
 it would come to that. I tried to shut my eyes to it, 
 but I believe that at last I saw even more strongly 
 than he did, that we could not remain as we were. 
 He worked so hard that he had not as much time for 
 thinking as I had. However, when it came to the 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 487 
 
 point we were perfectly agreed. Is Mr. Derwent as 
 angry with us as ever ? " 
 
 " He never mentions you, but I saw yesterday when 
 Mr. Langdon alluded to the subject, that he still feels 
 it very much. Eliza, the clergyman at the home in 
 
 Street said yesterday that nobody has an idea of 
 
 the regrets that converts feel, though they have not 
 courage to go back." 
 
 " Did he ? " Eliza answered, with an amused smile. 
 " I wonder how he gets his information on the subject. 
 The Rev. Mr. Bennet, in a sermon he published some 
 time ago, spoke of the cruel disappointment experi- 
 enced by converts to the Church of Rome, and adds, 
 ' they never tell us of these feelings.' One cannot help 
 asking: How then is their existence known ? I was 
 so afraid that Mr. Derwent would not let you come to 
 me ; I am so glad he did not prevent it." 
 
 Eliza's eyes were filled with tears ; Ita's were over- 
 flowing. She remembered all Eliza's former delight in 
 her little home at Bramblemoor, which they had all 
 combined to make a perfect cottage residence ; her in- 
 tense love of country life ; her charities to the poor ; 
 her little feasts for the school-children ; her walks over 
 the common with her own little girl in search of black- 
 berries and thistledown ; and then looked on the dingy 
 walls, the wretched, low houses opposite, the absence 
 of comforts, the pale children, and then of what Mrs. 
 Langdon had said, that sometimes they actually wanted 
 bread. Could this be literally true ? She could not 
 go away without trying to find out. 
 
 " Dear Eliza," she said, " you will not mind my 
 asking you . . . . ? " she paused. 
 
 " If it is anything about religion, dearest Ita, I 
 would rather you asked my husband than myself . . . ." 
 her voice shook with emotion. " I am so afraid of 
 urging you to what, if once you see it plainly, you 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 must act upon : I fear you have not courage to do so. 
 Perhaps, too, though this is wrong, I am also afraid of 
 what you may have to suffer . . . ." 
 
 11 I was not just then thinking of myself," Ita an- 
 swered, " what I wanted to say just now when you 
 spoke of sufferings was this, have you been, are you 
 ever in real want ? ' ' 
 
 Eliza's lip quivered. " I had rather not speak of 
 that. I should only give way." 
 
 " Oh, but do not give way — do speak out," Ita. im- 
 petuously exclaimed. " You were always too reserved. 
 Has it come to what I said. Dear Eliza, now at this 
 moment, would this sovereign be of any use .... to 
 buy something for baby," she added, trembling, lest 
 her offer should wound. 
 
 " Thank you so much," Eliza said, smiling ; " it will 
 buy us food. Yes, it is a great blessing — a great relief. 
 My husband could not get any copying last week, but 
 he will have some to-morrow. Dear Ita, you never 
 gave an alms that was more thankfully received." 
 
 " But do not your parents know this ? and Jane ? 
 Have they quite forsaken you ? " 
 
 " No ; they come to see me sometimes — Jane, at 
 least, and I go and see my father and mother. They 
 are not unkind, but they think we must abide by the 
 consequences of the step we have taken. And then I 
 do not let them know quite how bad it is. They would 
 only be more angry with my husband. They say it is 
 dishonourable after marrying me to have thrown up 
 the means of existence." 
 
 " Well, I should have thought everybody, however 
 they might regret the result, would respect you for sac- 
 rificing all earthly considerations for conscience' sake." 
 
 " The tone of the Anglican papers," Eliza said, 
 11 sometimes makes one smile on this subject. The 
 other day, when literally we did not know where we 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 489 
 
 should get wherewith to exist, if my husband did not 
 obtain some employment, and he did not know where 
 to turn for it, I met with a passage of this sort in one 
 of those papers : ' Let them go, those who will not bear 
 the heat and burthen of the day ; who will not fight 
 and suffer for the Church. Let them seek ease, com- 
 fort, and sunshine in a foreign Communion, while we 
 struggle on in faith and patience.' I could not help 
 thinking, not only of ourselves, but of others still worse 
 off than we have yet been." 
 
 " Are there many such ? " 
 
 " So many that those who would and do try to 
 help them, are almost in despair, and the number in- 
 creases, of course, every day ! Thank God for it ; yes, 
 thank God for it, in spite of all this suffering. The 
 case of married Anglican clergymen is, of course tem- 
 porally speaking, worse than any other." 
 
 " What a variety of trials there are in the world," 
 Ita exclaimed. 
 
 " You would think so, indeed, if you lived in London. 
 It is in itself a trial to see so much misery that you 
 cannot relieve. Oh, the amount of it that comes 
 across one every day, and the hardening of heart that 
 seems almost inevitably to ensue ! If we had heard at 
 Holmwood or Bramblemooor of a family with two or 
 three sick persons without a bed to lie on, and children 
 crying for food, how horrified we should have been. 
 Here we know that such are to be found at every 
 corner and turn of this terrible London." 
 
 " I always thought you a courageous woman, Eliza. 
 Now I think so more than ever." 
 
 " Do you ? Why ? " 
 
 " Because you look so calm, while I can hardly bear 
 the idea of what you go through." 
 
 " You do not yet know the blessings which soften 
 the trials," 
 
490 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Perhaps more than you suppose of both," Ita 
 said, rising to go. 
 
 Eliza looked at her earnestly. She was surprised 
 to see so little apparent struggle in her mind. She 
 did not know that the struggle was in one sense past, 
 though the keenest suffering was to come. 
 
 " Do you know anyone," Ita said, as she was going 
 towards the door, " who would look after a poor Italian 
 woman, who is going back to her home in this neigh- 
 bourhood to-morrow, from the hospital in Street ? 
 
 I think some of your friends would be interested in 
 her ; for she leaves that place on account of her reli- 
 gion. Not that they are illiberal, I believe, towards 
 Roman Catholics ; but she wishes to die at home." 
 
 " I will go and see her myself," Eliza said, " and 
 if she wants assistance I will speak of her to others." 
 
 " I shall be so glad if you will, for I promised to ask 
 some one to visit her." 
 
 With a parting kiss Ita took leave of her friend. 
 As she was driving home her thoughts ran painfully 
 on Eliza's poverty, and the little she could do to re- 
 lieve it ; for she had exhausted her slender means be- 
 fore leaving Mentone in providing for the payment of 
 a small pension to Mariana. Her mind kept dwelling 
 on the surrender so simply made of all the comforts, 
 and almost the necessaries of life, by Eliza and her 
 husband ; and on the strength of the convictions which 
 had forced it upon them. As she was crossing Hyde 
 Park on her way back to Lowndes Square, she was 
 delayed by the crowd of carriages ; the contrast be- 
 tween the dingy little rooms near Manchester Square 
 and that brilliant scene struck her forcibly. While 
 she was slowly following the string, Jane, Eliza's 
 sister, passed in a smart carriage, and dressed in the 
 extreme of the fashion. Their eyes met ; they smiled 
 and bowed. Jane had married a rich banker, and had 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 491 
 
 a house in Grosvenor Place. There was another con- 
 trast ; another mystery to such a heart as Ita's. One 
 sister wealthy and prosperous ; the other .... She 
 thought of the grateful tears which had flowed when 
 her own poor little offering had been made. Of course, 
 Jane did not know the extremity of Eliza's poverty ; 
 but she must see the absence of all comforts in her 
 poor abode. But then, again, Eliza had chosen her 
 own fate. No pity was due to her. Her relations 
 turned away from the thought of her trials like the 
 Pagan judges did from those of the martyrs who would 
 obstinately meet the wild beasts, or plunge into a 
 furnace, sooner than deny their faith. " It is their 
 own fault." This sentence hardens hearts which would 
 naturally, perhaps, compassionate the sufferings of 
 others. 
 
 " If they choose to bring up their children Roman 
 Catholics, it is their own doing if they starve," Eliza's 
 father sometimes said ; and that remark relieved him 
 from any troublesome feelings of responsibility. 
 
 Ita mused on these things as her equipage made 
 its way through the thickest of the crowd in Hyde 
 Park Corner, and when she reached Lowndes Square 
 it was time to dress for the dinner at Lord Carsdale's. 
 
 In the twilight of a summer evening, about twenty 
 people were waiting for the announcement of dinner 
 in Lady Carsdale's drawing-room. Ita and her hus- 
 band were amongst the number, but she at least knew 
 no one there except her old friend Mr. Hendon, who 
 to her great satisfaction, took her down to dinner. On 
 her other side was a young man she had never seen 
 before, whom, however, she guessed, by his likeness 
 to Lady Emma Lorton, to be one of her brothers. As 
 she was seated at the corner of the table, the conver- 
 sation was carried on for some time between her two 
 neighbours and herself; but when Mr. Cars turned 
 
492 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 round to speak to the lady on his other side, she and 
 Mr. Hendon began to talk of Holmwood. He asked 
 if they were soon going there, and said he had heard 
 that Mrs. Gerald had been looking forward anxiously 
 to their return. 
 
 " Have you seen her lately? " Ita asked. 
 
 11 Yes, last Saturday, and I own I was struck with 
 her looking very ill. There is such a restless expres- 
 sion, something so keen and over-eager in her coun- 
 tenance ; she always had it to a certain degree, but it 
 has very much increased lately." 
 
 " Does she go out driving as usual ? " 
 
 " I did not hear. Miss Derwent said it was very 
 difficult to induce her to leave her room. She asked 
 me to go and sit with her. I had not been for many 
 years in that room. I was surprised at her making me 
 look at the pictures of the late Mr. and Mrs. Robert 
 Derwent. She told me to draw aside the curtain 
 before them. I thought she had never been able 
 to bring herself to speak of them. How strangely 
 like the portrait of the lady is to you ! " 
 
 " And how extraordinary it is," Ita thought, "that 
 twice in the same day this likeness should have been 
 mentioned to me ! " And not being inclined to let the 
 subject drop, she said, " You mean the one with the 
 turban ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it is a charming picture. There is something 
 in the expression of the mouth like the picture of the 
 Cenci, and you have it too. It is not at all like 
 Miss Derwent, though she is very handsome also in 
 her way — very much improved this year. She is 
 grown thinner and paler, which becomes her, I think ; 
 she wanted fining down. And are you going now 
 to settle at the Vicarage for good and all ? " 
 
 " I suppose so ; at least if Edgar is well enough 
 to remain in England next winter." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 493 
 
 " Did you enjoy yourself abroad ? " 
 
 11 Very much till he fell ill. I often thought of you 
 at Mentone. It was such a pleasure to see all our 
 favourite spots again." 
 
 " Ay, ay, our old hunting fields — the nooks and 
 corners — where we found the first anemones, and the 
 tulips, and your dear periwinkles. Stay, was it not to 
 Capo Martino we went for the early crocuses ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; and then the orchids in the Mentone 
 valley. Do you remember the day we walked all the 
 w T ay to Castellar ? " 
 
 " Did we, indeed ? I know you used to take me 
 long distances, especially when you wanted some par- 
 ticular flower. How have the old people kept up the 
 garden of the Villa ? " 
 
 " Pretty well. Francis is getting old. By the way, 
 he and Antonio asked a great deal after you. You 
 ought to have come and joined us." 
 
 " I am getting lazy about travelling. Even coming 
 to London is rather an effort. By the way, have you 
 come across those foolish people the Rolands ? " 
 
 " I have seen Eliza to-day." 
 
 " No ; have you ? How is she ? Is it true that they 
 have positively nothing to live upon ? " 
 
 " I am afraid so. Nothing can be worse off than 
 they are about money." 
 
 Mr. Hendon shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " What a pity it is they should have committed such 
 a piece of folly. Mind, I do not, for my part, care a 
 straw whether people are Catholics or Protestants ; 
 but, really, when it comes to ruining the whole of 
 a person's prospects, and beggaring wife and children, 
 it is lamentable. They were so comfortable at 
 Bramblemoor, if people only would have left them 
 alone. It was all very well for the Sydneys to 
 please themselves : they could afford to become 
 
494 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Roman Catholics, if it suited them, but those poor 
 Rolands, I am very sorry for them . . . . " 
 
 " Eliza does not seem unhappy." 
 
 " Poor Eliza, such a desperate Anglican as she used 
 to be. Do you remember the rights I used to have 
 with her about her theory of branch churches, and her 
 being so angry at my calling her particular little section 
 of the Church of England the twig ? " 
 
 " Indeed I do; and your arguments about the illogical 
 position of Anglicanism ; they made a great impression 
 upon me." 
 
 "Good heavens! I hope not," Mr. Hendon exclaimed, 
 with a funny look of dismay. " Not the wrong way, I 
 hope. Nothing I said drove you in a Roman direction, 
 I trust ....?" 
 
 Ita, not choosing to answer this question, turned a 
 little towards her other neighbour. Having overheard 
 her speaking of Mentone and San Remo, he said, 
 " Have you read, Mrs. Derwent, that charming book, 
 ' Doctor Antonio ? ' " 
 
 " Yes, I have," she answered, with a smile. 
 
 11 And are you not delighted with it ? " 
 
 " I like some of it ; the descriptions of scenery, 
 and pictures of manners, for instance, very much, but 
 it is a very unjust and foolish book, I think, in some 
 ways." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " Mr. Cars asked, quite 
 astonished. 
 
 " Well, the author gives, for instance, a glowing 
 description of the women of the Riviera. He says 
 they are as good as good can be — the best wives and 
 mothers in the world, and that the people are alto- 
 gether more sober and well conducted than in any 
 other country he knows. That drunkenness is very 
 rare, and crime almost unknown in some of the pro- 
 vinces on that coast, San Remo in particular ; and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 495 
 
 then in the same breath, or rather the same page, he 
 states that, provided the churches are well-attended, 
 the alms plentiful, and the confessions and com- 
 munions numerous, the clergy care little about the 
 morals of the people. He praises the virtues of his 
 countrymen, and then abuses their religion. Is this 
 just or reasonable ? " 
 
 " I did not observe that passage," Mr. Cars replied. 
 
 " Then, again, this writer, who is so proud of Italy, 
 and has, so he says, at least, such a strong feeling 
 about it — sneers at the religious spirit which has filled 
 even the smallest towns, mere villages, with beautiful 
 churches, displaying the most wonderful works of art. 
 He ridicules the confraternities which have been the 
 means, by their very innocent rivalries, of keeping up 
 this love of the beautiful, this taste for the arts in 
 Italy. Surely the objects of these associations — the 
 building of churches, the decoration of altars, the 
 beauty of God's service — are more refining and ele- 
 vating than the average recreations and interests of 
 the lower orders in this country ? People sneer at the 
 number of churches and chapels in Italy. Let them 
 count the gin palaces in London, and the public-houses 
 in small English towns. Oh, if people would only be 
 fair! " 
 
 " There is one of your old bursts of indignation ! " 
 Mr. Hendon exclaimed, laughing. " I remember your 
 habit of sitting quarrelling with a book. I have seen 
 you get as flushed and eager with a volume in your 
 hand, as if you were in the midst of an argument." 
 
 " Oh yes, I cannot help it. Really, I can bear 
 (don't laugh) people to differ from me. I can bear 
 their saying things I dislike and disagree with — but 
 it is injustice that is so hard to endure. What the 
 Bishop of Orleans calls la savante malice of misrepre- 
 sentation — the violent cry against one country or one 
 
49 6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 party for things which are passed over in perfect silence 
 when done even in a more glaring manner by others ; 
 the unequal balances in which actions are weighed. I 
 wish those dealers in moral false weights could be 
 brought to justice sometimes." 
 
 " But, my dear little lady, do you think any one is 
 quite just and quite consistent ? Is not every one more 
 or less swayed by passion, prejudice, or enthusiasm ? " 
 
 " Yes, I believe so, to a certain degree ; but still 
 there is an immense difference between people in the 
 kind of rectitude I mean. I have met with books, 
 read speeches in Parliament, which, from the bottom of 
 my heart, I protested against as regarded the opinions 
 of the writer or the speaker, but in which one felt 
 there was truth and honesty." 
 
 " What should you say of me as regards consistency ? " 
 
 " I think you are generally consistent, but . . . ." 
 
 " But what?" 
 
 " Sometimes I wish," this Ita said in a low voice, 
 " that you were not so consistent." 
 
 " Now, really that is too bad, Ita mia. You said 
 just now that you were not angry with people if only 
 they were consistent . . . ." 
 
 " No — and I am not angry with you ; but I am 
 sorry because I think .... I mean, for instance, that 
 you do not care, as you said just now, about people 
 being of different religions, because I am afraid .... 
 I mean that you do not think one more true than an- 
 other." 
 
 " I think there is some truth in all." 
 
 " You do? I am glad you say so," Ita said, looking 
 pleased. 
 
 " There is only one religion I consider consistent 
 in its teaching ; but then I cannot bring myself to be- 
 lieve what it teaches. I mean the Roman Catholic 
 Church." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 497 
 
 " But that is terrible, because if all others are in- 
 consistent, they cannot be true, and so it ends in 
 your . . . ." 
 
 " Come, we will not talk of what it ends in. There 
 are arguments which had better not be forced to their 
 conclusion." 
 
 There was a rather awkward pause, and then Ita, 
 partly to change the subject, and partly to bring back 
 the conversation to a point deeply interestingto her, said, 
 " Mr. Hendon, were you acquainted — we were speaking 
 of them just now — with Annie Derwent's parents ? " 
 
 " Very well with her father — but I never saw her 
 mother." 
 
 " And did you know Edgar's father ? " 
 
 "Yes, when he was a boy; and then, after many 
 years had elapsed, I called on him in his last illness, 
 after his brother's death. He was not at all a favourite 
 with Mrs. Gerald." 
 
 " Was he like Edgar ? " 
 
 " A little, but not nearly so good-looking." 
 
 " Who painted the pictures in Mrs. Gerald's room ? " 
 
 " She told me that the portraits of Robert and his 
 wife and child were taken at Florence, when they 
 went there from Nice ; I do not know the artist's 
 name. The others are by English painters, I think." 
 
 " Did Mrs. Gerald see her brother Herbert after 
 Mr. Robert Derwent's death ? " 
 
 " No, I think not. He died some months only after 
 the death of Robert, and she was abroad." 
 
 Ita was continuing to talk about the family with the 
 vague hope of hearing some new fact or detail about 
 them, but Lady Carsdale soon gave the signal nod, 
 and the women left the drawing-room. 
 
 Nothing of interest passed in the evening as far as 
 Ita was concerned. Conversation with some new ac- 
 quaintances, who were introduced to her, proved dull 
 
 G G 
 
49 8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 and heavy work to a mind as preoccupied as hers was 
 at that moment. She was glad when it was time to 
 go home; and her head ached that night as she laid 
 it on the pillow. Her sleep was restless, and her wak- 
 ing anxious. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. She always went to 
 church with her husband, though she had not received 
 the Sacrament since the time when, during his illness 
 at Mentone, she had made up her mind to become a 
 Catholic. That morning he had been to what he called 
 an early celebration at St. Paul's, Knightsbridge, and 
 she attended with him the eleven o'clock service. It 
 would probably be the last time, she thought, that they 
 would kneel side by side in an Anglican Church, and 
 while her heart ached with the most acute human sor- 
 row at the idea of this approaching separation, a great 
 calm strength supported her. When she said the words 
 in the Creed, " I believe in the Holy Catholic Church," 
 she mentally pledged herself to delay no longer the 
 act which was to make her — not possibly, not even 
 probably, but assuredly — a member of that Church. 
 She felt like one about to emerge out of a mist, where 
 fanciful shadows delude the sight, into the clear sun- 
 shine they begin to discern. 
 
 When, after the afternoon service that day, Edgar 
 said to her, " Shall we go and take a walk in Kensing- 
 ton Gardens ? " she said " Yes," and knew the decisive 
 moment was come. During this walk she must tell 
 him of her irrevocable resolution. 
 
 It was one of those summer days which, even in 
 London, are delightful. Hyde Park was not so beau- 
 tiful then as it is now — not gay with those brilliant 
 flower-beds and undulating banks which charm the 
 eye and cheer the heart, chiefly by the thought that all 
 that loveliness and perfume and sweetness is within 
 reach of the poor and the hard-worked in their brief 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 499 
 
 hours of recreation and repose ; but a recent shower 
 had freshened and deepened the green of the grass 
 that evening, and the lime-trees near Rotten Row 
 were shedding their delicious perfume, and the wave- 
 lets of the Serpentine glittering in the sunshine. As 
 they passed alongside of {it, Edgar repeated to his wife 
 lines which often haunt the memory of those who are 
 apt to muse on the strange and terrible contrasts, the 
 lurid lights and the dark shadows, of London in its 
 pride and in its misery : — 
 
 " Oh ! those old trees ! What see they when the beam 
 Falls on blue waters from the bluer sky, 
 When young hope whispers low, with smiles that seem 
 Too joyous to be answered with a sigh ? 
 The scene is then of prosperous gaiety ; 
 Thick, swarming crowds on summer pleasures bent, 
 And equipages formed for luxury ; 
 While rosy children, young and innocent, 
 Dance on the onward path, and frolic with content ; 
 But when the scattered leaves on those wan boughs 
 Quiver beneath the night wind's rustling breath ; 
 When jocund merriment and whispered vows 
 And children's shouts are hushed ; and still as death 
 Lies all in heaven above and earth beneath, 
 What see the old trees then ? " I * * * 
 
 As Ita walked on with a beating heart and languid 
 step, for all her strength seemed in that trying hour 
 to have passed from her frame into her heart, she 
 thought what varieties of human suffering there are, 
 and that those old trees thus questioned by one well 
 acquainted with sorrow, had seldom looked down on 
 such a grief as hers ; and yet griefs of this sort are now 
 rending the breasts of many and many a one in this 
 land. The most acute pangs, the sharpest struggles 
 exist in many a peaceable English home — in the midst 
 
 1 " The Child of the Islands," by Mrs. Norton, 
 
500 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 of quiet outward lives, shielded from notice, debarred 
 from consolation or aid, by the strong power of reserve 
 inherent in our English nature by the long habits of 
 self-control women worth anything acquire. Acute 
 as is this form of mental misery which we have depic- 
 ted in Ita's case, there is one blessed feature in it : it 
 arises from no mean, no weak, no sinful passion ; it 
 takes its birth in the deepest, truest, and noblest part 
 of our being; it comes from God, tends to Him, and 
 most often ends in Him. And where mutual suffering 
 is endured, where loving hearts afflict each other — and 
 even where, on one side, there seems hard and cruel 
 usage — it may be, surely it sometimes is, without sin 
 on either side ; the violent and stern treatment which 
 almost breaks a tender heart, may be like Saul's pre- 
 sence at the first martyr's death — the strange presage 
 of an approaching change — the augury of one of those 
 transformations which are doomed to astonish the 
 world. 
 
 When they reached Kensington Gardens, Ita asked 
 her husband to sit down on a bench near the clump of 
 Spanish chesnuts behind the powder-magazine, and 
 after a few insignificant remarks had passed between 
 them, she said, " Dearest Edgar, I must tell you the 
 truth. I must be a Roman Catholic." The dead 
 silence which followed these words was perhaps the 
 hardest trial she had to go through. She did not feel 
 it possible to add another word before he had spoken, 
 and it seemed as if he would never speak. His eyes 
 were fixed on the ground ; he did not move ; was he 
 bearing it better than she had expected, or was he 
 shocked beyond utterance ? 
 
 At last he said, " Do you fully understand what this 
 implies ? all it involves ? " 
 
 " I do, Edgar," she answered. " I have counted the 
 cost — it is dreadful for both of us — but it must be." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 501 
 
 She uttered those last words with a tremulous em- 
 phasis, more expressive than the words themselves. 
 
 "No; it must not be," he passionately exclaimed. 
 "It is utter destruction, misery, and despair. An end 
 to all our wedded love and happiness." 
 
 " Our happiness, perhaps," she answered, with in- 
 tense emotion, " but not our love — not mine, at least. 
 God knows, I never loved you more than I do now. 
 Oh, dearest Edgar, do try to understand, try to feel 
 for me." 
 
 " You have no feeling for me ; you say you are 
 determined to oppose me ; you despise my religion 
 and insult my Church." 
 
 " It is of no use to answer, or to argue," she said, 
 folding her hands together, and looking straight before 
 her with a sort of appealing earnestness, " God knows 
 how I love you, and He knows too what He asks of me." 
 
 " Wait." 
 
 " I have waited. I can wait no longer. Ever since 
 your illness at Mentone my mind has been made up." 
 
 Another long silence ensued, then Edgar said, " I 
 cannot speak of this ; too much is at stake for me ; my 
 very anxiety, my intense interest in the question, pre- 
 cludes me from saying what I would, what I ought. 
 Do not let us utter another word on the subject now. 
 In a few hours I shall be better able to speak to you 
 about it." 
 
 They walked home in almost total silence. How 
 often when we go about in the thoroughfares of a 
 great city we may be close to persons whose souls are 
 filled with tumultuous agitation, whose destinies are 
 hanging on a thread, or whose hopes have been sud- 
 denly crushed, who may have just taken a fatal or a 
 heroic resolution, and we know it not. Children of the 
 same Father in heaven — all creatures of God, and 
 members of the same race — we remain strangers to all 
 
502 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 but a few of that vast kindred of ours. Isolated by 
 the boundless size of the great human family, it is only 
 when some great visible calamity or some casual event 
 breaks the silent barrier between man and man, that 
 the relationship is felt and acknowledged. Have we 
 not sometimes seen a face in the streets, or in a carriage 
 in the parks, which has dwelt in our recollection from 
 its expression of more than common mental anguish, 
 and we have prayed that our common Father may take 
 pity on that unknown brother or sister, and send them 
 Him who is emphatically called the Comforter. Per- 
 haps such prayers have been said for us erewhile, and 
 drawn down upon us some secret blessings. 
 
 Edgar and his wife looked weary and harassed when 
 they reached Lowndes Square that day, only just in 
 time for the family dinner. It was a long evening to 
 get through, especially without work or music. Edgar 
 went out in the evening, and did not come home till 
 late. After Ita had gone to her room she heard him 
 come in and open the door of his mother's dressing- 
 room. In a few minutes he came to her and said, " I 
 have decided to go to Holmwood early to-morrow 
 morning, but I have told my mother that you will re- 
 main here, at any rate, two or three days longer ; that 
 you have some business to do in London . . . . It is a 
 dreadful business, Ita ! " He turned away, and leant his 
 head on his hand, and his arm resting on the mantelpiece. 
 
 She took his hand, and pressed it to her lips. He 
 did not withdraw it, but said, " I have not yet given 
 up all hope. If I followed my own wish and impulse, 
 I would carry you away with me, and shut you up in 
 my own home far from all possibility of accomplishing 
 your terrible resolution. But I have taken advice from 
 one I love and respect ; I told him that the thought of 
 this separation drives me wild . . . ." 
 
 Ita turned pale ; she did not know in what sense 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 503 
 
 he used the word separation, and did not dare ask him. 
 After a pause he added, " I am advised not to use 
 compulsion ; not forcibly to control your actions .... 
 So be it .... I cannot see it myself. If you were on 
 the border of a precipice I would snatch you from it 
 .... but I am not a fit judge of my duty in this re- 
 spect. Only remember I protest against the step you 
 are about to take. I think it wrong altogether .... 
 However, this is what I meant to say, what I have a 
 right to insist upon. Here are the directions of two 
 clergymen whom you are well acquainted with by name 
 
 — one is Dr. , the other Mr. . They are both 
 
 in London at this moment. Dr. can see you to- 
 morrow at twelve ; Mr. will be at home all the 
 
 afternoon. I earnestly wish you to converse with both 
 of them before you take the final step. They will put 
 the truth before you far better than I can, and will 
 show you the fatal consequences of your present delu- 
 sion. In the meantime I shall wait and pray ; when 
 you can relieve me from this terrible suspense you will 
 write, and then .... but I am sure it is impossible 
 that you can decide to leave our Church." 
 
 " I have told you, dearest Edgar, that it must be 
 so." 
 
 " How can you tell me till you have spoken to these 
 holy and learned men ? Why are you determined to 
 break my heart ? and your own too," he added, as he 
 saw the look of misery on her face. 
 
 " They can only say to me what you have done. 
 It is not as if I had not heard the arguments and read 
 the books on your side of the question, and as if I had 
 not striven with all my might against the opposite con- 
 viction. I will go to them, however, I will hear all 
 they can urge. If they could convince me I should 
 bless them as long as I live." 
 
 " You do not then wish to be a Roman Catholic ? " 
 
5 o 4 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " I only wish it because I believe the Roman Ca- 
 tholic Church is the only true one. I must wish to 
 do God's will, even if it makes me miserable." 
 
 " His will is that a wife should cleave to her hus- 
 band," Edgar exclaimed. 
 
 Ita felt deeply pained ; she was grieved that Edgar 
 should use such an argument as that — should employ 
 such sophistry. It was unlike him, unworthy of him. 
 She sighed deeply, and leaving his side, went and 
 seated herself at some distance in deep dejection. 
 Then he exclaimed wildly — 
 
 " What, and if you shake in me all faith ? I assure 
 you that at this moment I do not feel as if I believed 
 in anything." 
 
 " It is terrible," Ita murmured ; " but it will pass 
 away." After a pause, she said, " Edgar, if I was to 
 say to you now — ' My convictions are exactly the same 
 as they were an hour ago ; I am just as certain as ever 
 that I ought to be a Roman Catholic ; I have no faith 
 in the teaching of any of the various parties in the 
 Church of England, and cannot rely on the validity 
 of her Sacraments ; but I will give up caring for truth 
 at all, I will go with you to Holmwood to-morrow, 
 and enjoy this present life without troubling my head 
 at all about religion,' — would this please you ? — would 
 you be satisfied with such a resolution ? " 
 
 Edgar made no reply to this question. 
 
 " Well, go and see Dr. and Mr. . I will 
 
 not say anything more ; I will try not even to think 
 about it till I hear the result." 
 
 The next morning he left London by an early train . 
 It was almost the first time Ita had been parted from 
 him for more than one day. She felt anxious and 
 depressed, but prepared to fulfil her promise to him. 
 Mrs. Langdon was slightly indisposed. She accord- 
 ingly told Ita she would not go out, and placed her 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 505 
 
 brougham at her disposal. Soon after breakfast the 
 following note from Eliza arrived by the post : — 
 
 " Dearest Ita, — I went yesterday to see the poor 
 Italian woman you mentioned to me. She had just 
 returned home. I did not think she seemed in great 
 distress, at least comparatively speaking. She anx- 
 iously inquired if you were still in London, and said 
 she had a particular reason for wishing to see you. 
 She asked me to tell you so. Do you think you could 
 find time to pay her a short visit before you go ? The 
 Rev. Mr. Discoll has been with her, one of our priests, 
 and he begged me to urge you to comply with her 
 request. I am sure, my own dear, kind friend, that 
 you. will be glad to hear that my husband met yester- 
 day an old acquaintance of his, who hopes to obtain 
 for him regular employment — something not too 
 fatiguing. ' Vous nous avez porte bonheur,' as 
 French people say. — Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 " E. Roland." 
 
 It was just eight o'clock that day when Ita walked 
 into Mrs. Roland's little sitting-room. She had dined 
 in the middle of the day, had some tea at six, and told 
 Mrs. Langdon she should not return home till late in 
 the evening. Both the windows were open, but little 
 air came in. She took off her bonnet and shawl, and 
 sat down opposite her friend with a countenance that 
 did not at once tell its own story. Eliza saw that it 
 expressed emotion, but did not make out at first what 
 sort of emotion it was. But when Ita suddenly rose 
 and threw her arms round her neck, and said, " Wish 
 me joy," she exclaimed, " Have you been received into 
 the Church ? " 
 
 " Not yet," Ita answered, " but I have seen a Ca- 
 tholic priest, Father , and to-morrow I am to be 
 
 received. I have written to my husband to say so." 
 
5 o6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Oh, dearest, God bless you, God help you ! " Eliza 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " He has, He does help me wonderfully. I am so 
 thankful that I did what Edgar wished — I mean about 
 seeing two Anglican clergymen, whom he told me to 
 go to. It so entirely settled my mind. I had really 
 no doubts before ; but if the shadow of one had re- 
 mained, those conversations would have dispelled it." 
 
 " How so. Tell me what happened." 
 
 " I went first this morning to Dr. . I suppose 
 
 he is a clever man — people say he is. First, he began 
 by repeating the usual arguments in favour of Angli- 
 canism, which made no impression on me, as I have 
 heard them over and over again, and they always 
 strike me as quite inconclusive. But I was a little 
 impressed by the awful things he said as to the presump- 
 tion and danger of judging for oneself on a subject of 
 such importance. He used very solemn words, and 
 spoke of the great sin committed by those who, after 
 having had opportunities of witnessing the workings of 
 grace in the Church of England, by a deliberate act 
 declare their belief that her Sacraments are invalid, 
 and her ministrations void. He went so far as to as- 
 sert that such persons were guilty of the sin against 
 the Holy Ghost." 
 
 Eliza smiled, and Ita quickly added, " I did not 
 believe this for one moment, though the absurdity of 
 the assertion did not strike me then as forcibly as 
 afterwards. But it made me nervous. He adjured me 
 to pause on the brink of the precipice. He told me 
 he would answer for the salvation of my soul at God's 
 judgment-seat, if I remained in the Church of England ; 
 but that he trembled for my safety, if I dared to leave 
 her. Indeed, he did not see how such an act could 
 find pardon. All this, and the idea that it was pos- 
 sible I was making Edgar so unhappy, without neces- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 507 
 
 sity, caused me, for an instant, to waver. He assured 
 me that Satan had transformed himself into an angel 
 of light to deceive and beguile me from the Church of 
 my baptism. That expression reminded me of my 
 Catholic conditional baptism. What he was saying 
 told both ways in my case, and, perhaps, most on the 
 side he would have deprecated. But I own I was 
 somewhat shaken. He seemed so thoroughly con- 
 vinced himself, and I suppose at such a time, that that 
 always has some effect upon one. I said something 
 about seeing him again before leaving London ; and 
 during the following three hours vague thoughts of the 
 possibility of delaying the final step kept passing 
 through my mind." 
 
 Eliza was listening with the deepest interest to her 
 friend's account of this interview. She had herself 
 gone through the same agitations, only in a still more 
 prolonged and intense form. Her belief in the Catho- 
 licity of the Church of England had been of such long 
 standing, and so deeply rooted, and her aversion to 
 Roman Catholicism in consequence so decided, that to 
 remove the one, and conquer the other, had been a 
 terrible struggle. She waited impatiently for Ita's next 
 words. 
 
 " In the afternoon, at the appointed time, I went 
 to Edgar's other friend. Do you know Mr. ? " 
 
 " Not to speak to ; I have heard him preach." 
 
 " Edgar and others had often said to me, that his 
 singular piety and holiness were evidences of the sanc- 
 tity that the Church of England can exhibit ; that it 
 showed how her teaching and her means of grace could 
 train a soul in the highest virtue ; and I must say he 
 does look very very good, Well, he received me most 
 kindly, and, after a little preliminary conversation, 
 said that he understood that my mind was unsettled 
 and dissatisfied with the Church of England," 
 
5 o8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " 1 More than unsettled — more than dissatisfied,' I 
 replied ; ' I have no faith at all in it as a Church. I 
 am quite convinced that if our Lord has a visible 
 Church on earth, to whom He has committed the 
 teaching of religious truth to men, it can only be the 
 Church of Rome. Intellectually, I cannot doubt this, 
 but . . . .' I paused for a moment, and then added, 
 1 I had determined, at the price of a sacrifice, greater 
 I think almost than life itself, to act up to this belief, 
 but . . . .' I again paused. 
 
 " ' But what ? ' he asked. 
 
 " 'But if it is possible that it is the devil who has 
 put this thought into my mind, I must — though it 
 seems to me like stifling the voice of conscience — I 
 must make a desperate effort to drive it away . . . .' 
 
 " He did not speak for a moment, and then he 
 said, in a low, impressive voice, ' But if, on the other 
 hand, it should have been an inspiration of the Holy 
 Ghost ? ' " 
 
 " I was so surprised, that I gazed on him without 
 uttering. He went on, ' Do not misunderstand me. I 
 am satisfied, myself, to remain in the Church of Eng- 
 land. Indeed, I should think it very wrong, with my 
 present convictions, and believing that God has given 
 me a work to do in the communion in which His 
 providence has placed me, to think of abandoning my 
 post, and the charge committed to me. But, at the 
 same time, I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that there 
 are souls which seem imperatively called to the Roman 
 Communion — whether, as I fully believe to have been 
 the case in one remarkable instance, the prayers of 
 Roman Catholics obtain for their own portion of our 
 Lord's vineyard labourers, of which we were not worthy 
 — or that, in some cases, there is an absolute need of 
 special means of grace and spiritual aids more abun- 
 dantly found in the sister Church than in our own. If 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 509 
 
 the convictions you speak of are of long standing — if 
 your present intention has been carefully weighed and 
 considered on your knees before God — if, as I believe 
 is the case, it apparently involves the sacrifice of a 
 great portion, if not of all your earthly happiness 
 and still you do not doubt that you are called to make 
 that sacrifice, I cannot, I dare not pronounce that 
 God has not inspired it." 
 
 " Your husband laid before me last night the 
 circumstances which seem to have brought you to this 
 conclusion, a sad one for him, and admitted how gradual 
 has been your approach to it. He came to me again 
 this morning on his way to the station, and I told him, 
 as I now tell you, that I dare not form or pronounce 
 a judgment on this point. I cannot say to you 'leave 
 us,' yet I dare not say, 'remain,' if you feel really 
 bound in conscience to join the Church of Rome. I 
 may regret it, but I cannot blame you for acting up 
 to that conviction." 
 
 " Oh, Eliza, I shall always be grateful to the man 
 who said those words. Edgar had told me he was one 
 of the best and most pious clergymen in the Anglican 
 Church, and urged his holiness as one of the arguments 
 against leaving it, and now I found that this good man 
 did not dare to blame or detain one who thought of 
 abandoning her communion. From that moment doubt 
 was no longer possible, not even that transient hesita- 
 tion which had passed over my soul like a cloud over 
 the sunshine. Here were two leaders of that fraction 
 of the Church of England that calls itself the Catholic 
 Church in this country, that small subdivision of An- 
 glicanism that professes Catholicism, divided on a point 
 vital to its existence. The intention of leaving her 
 communion is, in the opinion of one of these leaders, 
 without any doubt, a suggestion of the devil, and, ac- 
 cording to the other, may be an inspiration of the Holy 
 
510 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Ghost. All other differences seem little compared to 
 this. Some teach us to believe in Transubstantiation, 
 and others in Consubstantiation. Some advise us to 
 say the Hail Mary, others to abstain from it, or only 
 say one-half of it. But even all this cannot be com- 
 pared with the doubt in which opposite views as to 
 secession must leave the soul if they do not at once 
 resolve it in one way. All uncertainty for the second 
 and last time vanished from my soul, and perplexity, 
 after all the worst of trials, is for ever at an end." 
 
 " And you went to Father ? " 
 
 " Yes, but first I wrote to Edgar to tell him the 
 result of my two interviews, and my resolution to be 
 received at once into the Church, if the priest I was 
 going to see thought me sufficiently instructed. I felt 
 that as Edgar was prepared for this announcement, it 
 was better to do it at once, and now my future fate 
 is in his hands." 
 
 The deep flush which had coloured Ita's cheeks 
 while she was speaking, subsided, and an ashy pale- 
 ness succeeded to it. She bowed her head on her 
 hands, and remained silent. Eliza was feeling in- 
 tensely for her, but it was not a moment for many 
 words. English reserve is never more conspicuous 
 than in those hours when two hearts are full, one of 
 strong emotion, the other of ardent sympathy, and the 
 feelings find no expression but in what sounds like 
 cold questions and answers, or casual remarks. 
 
 " And Father agreed to receive you into the 
 
 Church ? " Eliza asked. 
 
 " Yes, I had a long conversation with him, and 
 when he found I had carefully studied the Catechism, 
 and had no doubts or difficulties, after giving me some 
 instructions, he decided to receive me into the Church 
 to-morrow. He thought that, under the circumstances, 
 it would be better not to put it off any longer. He 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 511 
 
 knows a great deal about me from Mrs. Sydney and 
 Mr. Neville." 
 
 " And when are you going to him for that purpose ? " 
 
 " At half-past ten." 
 
 " Shall I meet you there ? " 
 
 " No, dearest. I think I would rather go alone." 
 
 " How long do you think you shall stay in London ? " 
 
 " It will depend on what I hear from Edgar. I 
 asked if I might go to him on Wednesday. God 
 knows what his answer will be ! I do not know if he 
 means me to go home. I live as in a dream. I had 
 not been a whole day away from him since our mar- 
 riage. It is as if one of us had died suddenly. I do 
 not feel as if I was in the same world as before. On 
 Wednesday morning I hope to receive Holy Com- 
 munion — that long-desired blessing — and then strength- 
 ened by that grace to go home — or . . . ." 
 
 Ita could not finish the sentence. Tears choked 
 her voice. At that moment Mr. Roland came in. She 
 wrung his hand, kissed Eliza, and hurried away. Half 
 way down the stairs she stopped, and, turning round, 
 said — 
 
 " By the way, I will try and see that poor woman 
 to-morrow. If I come here about three o'clock, per- 
 haps you will go there with me ? " 
 
 " Certainly," Eliza answered. " She seems very 
 anxious to see you." 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 When Ita arrived in Lowndes Square she found 
 her mother-in-law rather discomposed at her having 
 been out all day. " What a great amount of shopping 
 and visiting you must have been doing, my dear," she 
 said. " You look fagged to death. I am so sorry you 
 sent the brougham away this afternoon. I hate your 
 going about so much in cabs, and am always afraid 
 of your catching something. Have you had some 
 tea ? " 
 
 "Yes, thank you, dear Mrs. Langdon. I had some 
 before I went out the last time. I am afraid I have 
 given a great deal of trouble." 
 
 " Oh dear no, my love ; giving trouble is not one of 
 your failings. I know no one who is so little trouble- 
 some in a house. But I hope you take enough care of 
 yourself. Have you seen the Rolands to-day ? " 
 
 11 Yes, I am just come from them." 
 
 " Jane was here this afternoon. She was quite dis- 
 appointed not to find you at home. She wanted to 
 talk to you about Eliza. She is very unhappy about 
 her." 
 
 " Is she ? " 
 
 " Yes. She says the thought of her position is never 
 out of her mind, and that she cannot help feeling very 
 angry with Mr. Roland. She does not think it honour- 
 able in a man to marry a girl like her sister, and then 
 reduce her to beggary, leaving the burden of sup- 
 porting them on her relatives." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 513 
 
 Mr. Langdon looked up from his newspaper and 
 asked, " Do they support them ? " 
 
 " No, I suppose not ; but it is always an uncom- 
 fortable feeling, you know, that a near relative is 
 actually in distress. It is so difficult to know what 
 to do." 
 
 " That is the worst of those changes in religion. 
 Religion was meant to bring peace and comfort on 
 earth ; and really it seems now to be always causing 
 division and misery." 
 
 Ita opened a Bible that was lying on the table and 
 read aloud the following verses from the Gospel of 
 St. Luke, 12th chapter, " ' Think ye that I am come to 
 give peace on earth ? I tell you, No, but separation : 
 for there shall be from henceforth five in one house 
 divided, three against two, and two against three. The 
 father shall be divided against the son, and the son 
 against the father ; the mother against the daughter, 
 and the daughter against the mother ; the mother-in- 
 law against her daughter-in-law.' This does not seem, 
 dear Mrs. Langdon, to promise constant peace and 
 comfort of the kind you speak of." 
 
 Mrs. Langdon reddened, and answered, " I really 
 think, my dear Margaret, that you might read your 
 Bible to a better purpose than to select such texts as 
 these." 
 
 " And who is to choose for her the texts she is to 
 study ? " Mr. Langdon remarked. " I thought good 
 Protestants were to • search the Scriptures,' and learn 
 all they could for themselves ? " 
 
 " But you know Edgar says we are not Protestants," 
 his wife rejoined. She had always an answer ready 
 for the difficulty placed before her, but did not care 
 much for its relation to the particular point in question. 
 
 " Oh, I had forgotten that," Mr. Langdon said, and 
 returned to his leading article. 
 
 H H 
 
5 i4 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 She went on in her particularly wise tone, " I am 
 sure St. Paul speaks of a peace which passeth all un- 
 derstanding, and that makes up for the other texts." 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Langdon thought his wife's folly- 
 passed all understanding. If they had been alone he 
 might have said so ; but he did not like to make those 
 sort of remarks before Ita, and therefore said nothing. 
 
 "Jane asked me," Mrs. Langdon said, " if it was 
 true that the Rolands are trying to convert you. I 
 said I could not believe anything so bad of them." 
 
 " Would it be wrong, seeing what they believe them- 
 selves ? " 
 
 " It would be horribly ungrateful to Edgar who has 
 been so kind to them." 
 
 " It depends, does it not, on what they think is 
 truth," Ita answered, with an inward writhing under 
 these remarks. 
 
 " Oh, come, my dear, it is all very well to speak of 
 truth ; but that sort of thing leads to all sorts of harm 
 and misery. It is a great pity where people are carried 
 away with false ideas of conscience. There ought, I 
 think, to be a law to prevent persons from changing 
 their religion." 
 
 " Well done, Mrs. Langdon, I advise you to take 
 up that question," Mr. Langdon exclaimed. "You 
 had better recommend the revival of the penal laws. 
 Suppose you convert your friend, Mrs. Flashbourne, to 
 that view. The next time she takes the Chair at the 
 meeting for the Rights of Women, she might hold forth 
 upon it. Mrs. Derwent, are you a Rights of Women 
 woman ? " 
 
 Ita smiled, and answered that she felt rather un- 
 charitably towards the champions of her sex, and un- 
 grateful to the politicians who take up their cause. 
 
 As they were going upstairs, Mrs. Langdon said to 
 her daughter-in-law, "You know, my dear, we are only 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 515 
 
 too happy to keep you, but I cannot be so selfish as to 
 want you to stay away from Edgar." 
 
 As this amounted to an inquiry as to how long she 
 was going to remain, Ita answered, "I shall leave you, 
 dear Mrs. Langdon, the day after to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, really ! so soon as that ; but I must not be 
 selfish. Only, you know, of course, how glad we are 
 to have you." 
 
 As Ita closed the door of her room, she thought, 
 " Where shall I be on Wednesday evening ? " 
 
 By the middle of the following day she was a Catho- 
 lic. That great change — the greatest that can happen 
 in this world — had taken place in her soul and in her 
 life. Where it is the result of deliberate, earnest, dis- 
 interested conviction, the peace which follows this 
 great act is generally in proportion with the suffering 
 which has preceded it. In each case the amount of 
 this suffering has and will vary. Sometimes it vanishes 
 all at once, and for ever, when the threshold of our 
 new home is passed, and the weary struggle is at an 
 end. Sometimes the beauty, the symmetry of the 
 temple we have entered, the harmony of its parts, and 
 the glory of its light, bursts upon the mind and en- 
 trances the soul from the first moment the door is 
 opened ; or else, like the magnificence of its earthly 
 image, St. Peter's shrine at Rome, it breaks upon us by 
 slow degrees, gradually winning its way into our hearts, 
 and, at last, with cords of love, binding us to its altars. 
 The mode in which we approach, the mood in which 
 we enter, the spirit which we carry into the church, 
 influences in a measure these differences. The asso- 
 ciations of the past, the more or less strong attachment 
 we have felt for the forms of worship used in childhood 
 and in youth, the amount of our previous familiarity 
 with those of the religion we embrace, our early sym- 
 pathies, and our natural tastes, the timidity or the 
 
5 i6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 boldness of our characters, the friends we leave behind 
 or those we join — all modify in various ways the mere 
 natural feelings connected with this great change. To 
 some, the last effort is perfect agony. They have 
 reached a point from whence they cannot recede, for 
 neither faith nor reason can find a standing-ground 
 anywhere but in humble submission to a living and 
 teaching Church ; but the fainting soul recoils from 
 entering an unknown spiritual world, and shudders on 
 the brink of the decisive act. Death would seem a 
 relief, if it was not the very thought of death that 
 presses on them the necessity of a decision on a point 
 which involves the interests of eternity. To those who 
 thus feel, we can only say the three words with w T hich 
 St. Peter brought his brother to our Lord — " Come and 
 see." 
 
 There are others whose trial has extended over a 
 lengthened period of time, and whose greatest suffering 
 was the unsatisfied yearning after their true spiritual 
 mother. Silently, by degrees, they drew near to her 
 bosom, and, when received into the fold, felt like 
 children going home. It is no unknown, dark region 
 they enter. They always heard at intervals gentle ac- 
 cents calling them onward. They have not to regain 
 the faculty of sight and slowly learn to appreciate the 
 treasures of their recovered inheritence. In their case, 
 it is as if the veil was simply drawn aside, and they 
 quietly take their place in the arms of their mother. 
 This was Ita's case. Her joy was calm and deep, and 
 her soul at rest. 
 
 We seldom picture to ourselves any moment of our 
 future lives exactly as it afterwards turns out. Things 
 may be sadder or brighter — more painful or more plea- 
 sant than we expect, but very seldom just what we 
 imagined that they would be. Thus it was with Ita's 
 return to Holmwood, for she did return there on the 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 517 
 
 day after she had been received into the Catholic 
 Church. Whilst they were abroad, she had at first 
 often thought with delight of the pleasure it would be 
 to arrive there and find herself again in the lovely 
 little home where she and Edgar had spent two happy 
 years. Later on, ever since his illness, and especially 
 after their return to England, she had pictured to her- 
 self this return — if, indeed, she was to go back there 
 at all — as fraught with great suffering. At last the 
 long-thought-of day was come, and though anxious and 
 more and more nervous as the journey drew to an end, 
 she was not as unhappy as she had anticipated. On 
 the Wednesday morning the first post had brought her 
 a note from her husband, which only contained these 
 words : — 
 
 " My dear Ita, — If you still wish to come here to- 
 morrow, you had better do so. I will send the pony- 
 chaise to meet you at six o'clock. If you have changed 
 your mind, telegraph to say so. — Your affectionate, 
 
 " E. Derwent." 
 
 She was not then banished from his home. " Thank 
 God," she mentally exclaimed ; but the brevity and 
 commonplace style of his note gave her a sort of fear 
 that possibly he had not received her letter. They had 
 spoken of her following him in two or three days. 
 Did he merely write with that idea ? She remembered 
 all the strong expressions he had used with regard to 
 his line of duty if she became a Catholic. How he 
 had said that it would be impossible for an Anglican 
 clergyman to exercise his ministry with a wife by his 
 side, whose religion would be a constant condemnation 
 of his own, a daily protest against his position, and a 
 denial of his orders. She could hardly believe he had 
 changed his opinion on that point, and could hardly 
 
518 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 brook the suspense of the intervening hours. The 
 prospect of again seeing Mrs. Gerald and Annie also 
 agitated her. So many new strange ideas connected 
 with them had occupied her mind since she had been 
 parted from them. On the very eve of that day, a sin- 
 gular confirmation of previous doubts had unexpectedly 
 occurred. Just after she had been received into the 
 Church, and while longing to rest her mind wholly on 
 the fulness of the blessing she had received, and the 
 happiness she looked forward to on the following 
 morning, the performance of a charitable duty that 
 afternoon had led to strange complications in the line 
 of conscience and duty, and produced many an anxious 
 thought about the future. She at once longed and 
 dreaded the moment of arrival. 
 
 At last, the station but one to that of Holmwood 
 was reached. Then the train rushed across the common 
 from whence the little church and village of Bramble- 
 moor could be seen. That view reminded her of the 
 winter three years before, with all its pains and plea- 
 sures. Then at last the woods of Holmwood came in 
 sight. Then the western grove — then the first glimpse 
 of the old house amidst the trees ; the train slackened 
 its pace, the whistle of the driver was heard, and she 
 gave an eager glance at the platform to see if Edgar 
 was there. Yes, he was standing looking out for her. 
 He helped her out of the carriage, put her arm in his, 
 and smiled kindly, though she fancied with effort. 
 They drove through the park to the Vicarage speaking 
 very little. All that passed between them were ques- 
 tions and answers about Mrs, Gerald's health, Annie's 
 looks, and so on, Ita thought him pale, and felt that 
 his manner was constrained. This was very painful to 
 her. She could not look at anything with pleasure, 
 though it was their favourite sunset hour, and the lawn, 
 and the trees, and the shrubbery were in the greatest 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 519 
 
 beauty. She had longed for the journey to be over. 
 Now she longed for the drive to be ended. As they 
 walked from the gate of their garden to the door of 
 their house, she asked if Mrs. Gerald wished to see her 
 that evening. 
 
 " She did wish it, and had almost insisted upon it," 
 Edgar answered, " but Annie would not hear of your 
 seeing her to-night. She said it would over-excite my 
 aunt, and prevent her sleeping." 
 
 " And Annie herself? " 
 
 " She does not want you to go to her till to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Ita felt pained. She had been absent nearly a year, 
 and Annie did not care to see her till the next day ! 
 But then she remembered that embarrassment, and 
 perhaps resentment, might account for this wish to 
 delay their meeting. 
 
 She went into the little drawing-room, and stood at 
 the window. The garden was now the prettiest thing 
 that could be seen. Annie had made all sorts of im- 
 provements in it. There was a perfect blaze of flowers ; 
 some rather large trees had been transplanted, with 
 much labour and taste, and others cut down so as to 
 make the views of distant country still more lovely ; a 
 little French parterre, with a very pretty fountain in 
 the centre of it, was added on one side of the cottage, 
 and took the place of the old kitchen-garden, which 
 had been removed to the other side of the road. 
 
 Some new pieces of furniture made the rooms more 
 comfortable and cheerful-looking than ever. Ita looked 
 about her, scarcely believing she was there again. It 
 seemed as if they had been such ages away. Edgar 
 came and stood by her. She leant her head on his 
 shoulder. He stooped and kissed her forehead. She 
 could not endure not to make sure he had received 
 her last letter. 
 
520 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 "You heard from me this morning?" she said, 
 " You know it is done ? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered ; " and I have made up my 
 mind what to do." 
 
 She looked up into his face, her heart beating 
 violently. She had a hope and a fear, but neither of 
 them were to be realized. She did not guess what he 
 meant. 
 
 " I will tell you this evening what I have resolved," 
 he said. " There is the dressing bell. Had you not 
 better go and get ready ? " 
 
 When they left their little dining-room Ita led the 
 way into the garden. The light was waning, and a 
 heavy dew beginning to fall. Edgar wanted to get a 
 shawl for her ; but she was afraid of his staying out, 
 and they went back to the library, and sat by the bay- 
 window. Both were afraid to speak, but both felt that 
 silence was intolerable, and attempts at conversation 
 still worse. At last she said, " Dearest Edgar, I know 
 how grieved you are at what I have done, and it is 
 very good of you to be so kind to me. May I speak 
 to you about it ? May I tell you what I feel ? " 
 
 He answered gently but coldly, " Of course I know 
 you would not have taken this step if you had not 
 considered yourself bound in conscience to do so. It 
 is of no use to lament over what is irrevocable. We 
 must bear it as well as we can, since it is our fate to 
 inflict pain on each other. I am particularly sorry for 
 Annie ; she is broken-hearted about it. The suffering 
 falls on her as well as on ourselves . . . ." 
 
 " I do not quite understand what you mean. I do 
 not see how it affects her happiness." 
 
 "You do not suppose, my love, that I am going to 
 remain here, as the clergyman of this place, under the 
 present circumstances ? " 
 
 The colour rushed into Ita's cheek, and she trembled 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 521 
 
 with emotion. "Are you then thinking? .... Oh, 
 Edgar, is there any hope? " 
 
 " Not one atom of what you would call hope. Oh 
 no, I should not have suffered the anguish I have gone 
 through since yesterday if the shadow of a doubt had 
 crossed my mind. If I had not felt that all my happi- 
 ness and usefulness are at an end, in consequence 
 of the step you have thought it right to take. But I 
 do not reproach you. I have resolved on my knees 
 not to say an unkind word to you. I will endure the 
 trial God has sent me. Life is, after all, short . . . ." 
 
 Violence and anger would have been easier to bear 
 than these mournful words. There was a dejection in 
 Edgar's voice and manner which pierced his wife's 
 heart. It was a keen and heavy trial. She guessed 
 now what he intended to do, and asked, in a faltering 
 voice, " But, feeling this, do you consider yourself 
 obliged to give up the living ? " 
 
 " I have done so to-day. I have written to the 
 bishop to say I resign it. You may imagine what 
 Annie feels about it ! " 
 
 There was a silence of some minutes, and then he 
 said, with a poor attempt at cheerfulness, " And now 
 there is nothing to do but to pack up and fix on some 
 cheap place to live in, where we may both practise 
 our different religions." 
 
 Poor Ita ! She sat staring at the sky, in which the 
 stars were beginning to appear, one by one, motionless 
 and mute, but with a rush of tumultuous thoughts, 
 filling her mind with strange confusion. It was not 
 her who was banished by Edgar. She was not, appa- 
 rently, to be the chief sufferer ; but what refined misery 
 it was to be made the instrument of his suffering ! For 
 the second time she had, as it were, severed him from 
 his beloved Holmwood. The praise of the woman who 
 had done good and not evil to her husband all the days 
 
522 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 of his life seemed, in that hour of morbid wretched- 
 ness, reversed in her case. She was always ruining his 
 destiny ; always standing between him and happiness. 
 Not even in that exquisitely painful moment did she 
 regret having become a Catholic — for those who have 
 once really embraced the faith, it would be an impos- 
 sibility ; but she looked further back. She inwardly 
 exclaimed, " Why did I marry him ? Why did I show 
 him I loved him ? why did I come and thrust myself 
 between him and Annie ? His life was full of promise 
 at that time. Wealth, this beautiful place, and the love 
 of a good woman were all offered to his acceptance. 
 He had accepted them, and then I, a nameless, penni- 
 less girl, came with my poor, wretched attractions, 
 and ruined all his prospects. I, a stranger to them." 
 Then through her mind, like a falling star on a dark 
 night, rushed the thought that perhaps .... 
 
 Oh, what a strange one it was at that moment ! 
 " Who knows," she mused, " that a mysterious Provi- 
 dence is not overruling our destinies, and, as Shake- 
 speare says, ' Shaping our ends, rough hew them 
 as we will.' Who knows that the secret of my own 
 birth is not about to be discovered, and that God is 
 not working out His will for us through all this 
 misery ! " 
 
 One can fancy a person tossed to and fro on a 
 heaving sea, and struggling to find his way to the land, 
 resolving in very helplessness to lie still on the waves 
 looking up to the sky, trusting that they may waft him 
 to the shore and finding peace in that helplessness. So 
 felt Ita that evening. While Edgar sorted papers and 
 looked over the contents of his boxes, she worked at a 
 piece of tapestry, begun before they had gone abroad. 
 The half-finished flowers were somewhat faded. The 
 colour had passed away from them, and so had joy and 
 brightness from their lives. " And yet, my God ! " she 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 523 
 
 murmured, " yet, my God, we both wish to love and 
 serve Thee ! " 
 
 Alas ! that peculiar trial of our time, its harassing 
 divisions, its miserable doubts, are they not the fulfil- 
 ment of the prophecy that the sins of the fathers shall 
 be visited on the children ? If three hundred years 
 ago the standard of rebellion had not been raised 
 against the Church, not so many aching hearts would 
 be asking now, " What is truth ? " and turning away 
 from the reply ; not so many sentences would go forth 
 in this land, condemning to poverty and banishment 
 from their peaceful homes, men too honest to act a 
 lie ; kindred hearts would not be so often severed, nor 
 happy homes be broken up. 
 
 Ita was very tired, and left the library early. She 
 went away with the consciousness that every kind word 
 her husband had spoken since she had arrived — that 
 his endurance of her caresses, his silence as to his 
 sorrow, had been immense efforts achieved by dint of 
 powerful self-control. Was it pride or virtue that sus- 
 tained him ? Possibly a mixture of both. Ita ascribed 
 it, and perhaps she was right, to pure virtue, and be- 
 lieved God would bless him for his goodness. When 
 she rested her weary head on her hands that night to 
 say her prayers, she remembered when and where she 
 had offered to suffer far, far more than she had yet 
 done to obtain his life and his conversion. This thought 
 gave her strength. The greater her trial, the more 
 right she had to hope. 
 
 At breakfast, the following morning, she timidly 
 proposed to go and see Mrs, Gerald. Edgar said he 
 would walk there with her, They crossed the lawn 
 and shrubbery in almost total silence. The strong per- 
 fume of the heliotrope which grew in rich abundance 
 all over the place, the sound of the many little streams 
 flowing across the grounds, the cawing of the rooks, 
 the feeling of the soft moss under her feet, the familiar, 
 
524 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 homelike walk across the grove and the parterre, had 
 not the same charm as usual. The loveliness of the 
 whole scene was fraught with pain. 
 
 Edgar opened the garden door of the library, and 
 led the way to the recess where Annie was sitting. 
 She jumped up when she saw them, and her eyes fixed 
 themselves on Ita with a stern and troubled expres- 
 sion. She submitted to her embrace, and then said in 
 a cold formal manner, " My aunt wishes very much to 
 see you, so you had better go to her at once." 
 
 Ita made a violent effort to restrain her tears, and 
 left the room without speaking. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald was not yet dressed, and she sat down 
 in the sitting-room to wait for her. Before her eyes 
 were the curtained pictures ; those pictures she had 
 never seen but once. An impetuous desire seized her 
 to look again at those portraits. It was such a new 
 feeling had sprung up in her heart since the words, 
 " My father and my mother " had secretly risen to her 
 lips. A blank in her past life seemed filled up by 
 that vision of a love that had once been felt for her — 
 a love like no other love. The forms of unknown 
 parents no longer rose before her like dim shadows ; 
 and since she had been a Catholic, one of her joys 
 was to name them in her prayers for the holy souls 
 departed. 
 
 She went up to the side of the room where those 
 pictures were, and softly lifted up the curtain. There 
 it was, that face, so beautiful and so innocent, which 
 people said was like her own ; and that little baby in 
 its mother's arms. Had she been really that happy 
 little child, closely pressed to that loving heart ? As 
 she stood gazing on it she could almost fancy she felt 
 a mother's kiss on her brow and on her cheeks, but 
 the sound of an opening door made her suddenly 
 drop the curtain. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald came in with a feeble step. She was 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 525 
 
 led to her arm-chair and sunk into it before she saw 
 Ita. When she did percieve her she tried to speak, 
 but the effort failed. Ita fell down on her knees before 
 her with her face hidden on her lap ; their hearts were 
 full, and they both wept in silence. At last Ita looked 
 up, and then Mrs. Gerald stooped and kissed her, and 
 held her face between her hands gazing upon it, and 
 pressed her lips on her hair and then smoothed it with 
 her thin, trembling hands. When they both became 
 more composed, Ita inquired about her health. Mrs. 
 Gerald gave a bad account of it, but quickly changed 
 the subject. " This has been a very unfortunate step 
 you have taken," she then said, in a nervous manner ; 
 " it has created much misery and complicated every- 
 thing." 
 
 " God knows I would not care so much what I 
 suffered if it was not for others. The hardest trial of 
 all is to have obliged Edgar to leave Holm wood. I 
 could almost better have endured to have been driven 
 from it alone, as I once expected. And yet no ... . 
 after all he preferred me to Holmwood once before, 
 and he loves me as much as ever, I think. I am very 
 sorry for Annie, and so grieved, so very grieved to 
 leave you. I have been a misery to you ever since I 
 came here." 
 
 " It has all been very strange, but God's will, I 
 suppose. I could wish to have been spared this last 
 trial .... I wonder . . . ." She stopped andher mouth 
 quivered . . . . " I wonder if you have ever guessed 
 what I feel about you." 
 
 The colour rushed into Ita's face, and her heart 
 beat violently. " I always have thought that you cared 
 for me more than you said." 
 
 11 I wish to leave Holmwood — I want to go to my 
 cottage by the seaside. I want you to come with me. 
 There is a Roman Catholic chapel there. Edgar could 
 
526 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 spare you for a little while. I think it would be better 
 for both of you just now." 
 
 " I do not think he could do without me. At all 
 events, at this moment I could not propose to leave 
 him. If he wished me to do so I would certainly go 
 with you. But then, Annie ? " 
 
 " I am of no use or comfort to her now. I am 
 grown so irritable. My nerves are shattered, and she 
 does not understand that sort of suffering. My way- 
 wardness has estranged her. She never loved me as I 
 loved her, and now .... but it is of no use discussing 
 that .... Edgar is really better I hope ? though so 
 much out of spirits." 
 
 " Yes, thank God. He is much better, but I am 
 anxious as to the effect upon him of all he has and is 
 going through. Oh, that I could have spared it him ! " 
 As she murmured those last words Ita's hands were 
 passionately clasped together. 
 
 " That is what Annie fears ; that he will be ill again. 
 She was wild about it yesterday, but it is of no use 
 telling you that ; you must try and soften her." 
 
 " Has she made any new friends since we have 
 been away ? " 
 
 " Not one. Mrs. Sydney and the Carsdales have 
 tried to get on with her, and invited her very often ; 
 but instead of becoming more like other people, she 
 seems to try and keep every one at a distance. Her 
 only amusement is working in the garden and improv- 
 ing the place. That is her passion ; but when she 
 heard that Edgar had resigned the living, her first 
 words were, ' Then I shall shut up the house and go 
 away.' I am always afraid of her taking some strange 
 line of her own. She is so unlike other girls." 
 
 At that moment Edgar came in to say that he was 
 obliged to go home. He whispered to his wife, who 
 had followed him to the door, " Annie will not speak 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 527 
 
 to me. It is a wretched state of things ; you must try 
 and force her out of her reserve." 
 
 After a little more conversation with Mrs. Gerald, 
 Ita took leave of her. As she was crossing the room 
 she perceived a letter on the table directed to Mrs. 
 Dallas. This was the name of the person who had 
 written to the priest at Colla to inquire about the time 
 when she had been found by Piombo. A whole train 
 of agitating thoughts rushed into her mind, but she had 
 no time to dwell on them now. When she went into 
 the library no one was there. Annie had gone into 
 the garden. She followed her down one of the alleys, 
 and met her turning back, upon which she exclaimed, 
 " Dearest Annie ! you must speak to me." 
 
 " What is the use of speaking ? " Annie abruptly 
 answered ; " I can say nothing you will like to hear." 
 
 " Anything would be better than this silent anger." 
 
 " Do you call it anger ? " 
 
 " I am afraid you are angry with me." 
 
 " I wish you no harm. I hope you never will 
 be as unhappy as I am." 
 
 " Oh, Annie, do you think I do not suffer ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you do. I dare say you think so, but you 
 have your new faith to support you ; you consider 
 yourself a martyr ; and when you see Edgar unhappy, 
 you comfort yourself by hoping he will be one day a 
 Catholic, and that makes up for it." 
 
 Ita scarcely knew what to say. She was struck 
 with the hard but mournful expression of Annie's 
 countenance, but her next words took her by surprise. 
 
 " God only knows the misery you have caused me ! 
 I have never complained. I have never let any one 
 know what I have suffered. From the time I was a 
 little child I have loved Edgar. Yes, I can say 
 so though he is your husband, for if ever there 
 was a pure honest love it has been mine for him. 
 
528 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 I never had but one wish, but one care, and that 
 was to make him happy. I was afraid for some 
 time of marrying him, lest I should not be the 
 sort of person he could most love. I am not clever 
 like him, I have not all his high thoughts ; but I 
 wanted to give him everything I had, and so I 
 resolved to be his wife, and as good a one as I 
 could. Then you came, and I saw he was getting 
 to care for you as he would never have cared for 
 me, and I gave him up to you . . . ." 
 
 Here Annie broke down. The strong heart gave 
 way, and a torrent of burning tears flowed down 
 her cheeks. Ita sank down on a bench, and hid 
 her face in her hands. 
 
 " Yes, I gave him up to you and I was happy 
 that he was happy. I lived in the thought that 
 I could still use for him all I possessed, and work 
 for you both, and make your home a pleasant one. 
 When he was ill I thanked God that you were his 
 wife, because you have gentle, soothing ways, and 
 a sweet voice, and all the outside tenderness I have 
 not. It was enough for me to see him writing or 
 reading in his snug room, or sitting with you under the 
 shade in the garden I had made so pretty, and to think 
 he still loved Holmwood, and enjoyed it, and belonged 
 to it. I made no friends but you both, and did not 
 want any others." 
 
 " Dearest Annie, we both love you so dearly." 
 
 u I tell you, Ita, that you were bound to make him 
 happy. If ever a woman was bound to make her hus- 
 band happy, it was you. That was the only proof of 
 affection you could have given me, and instead of that 
 you have made him miserable. Never shall I forget 
 finding him with your letter in his hand — his poor 
 eyes almost blinded with tears — his hand feverish and 
 burning. You have broken his heart ; you have driven 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 529 
 
 him from Holmwood. Look at this place he loves so 
 much ; think of the poor people here ; it is your own 
 doing that he leaves them. No, no ; it is too bad, too 
 cruel, too hard. God forgive me, but I cannot forgive 
 you." 
 
 She darted off, snatching her hand away from Ita, 
 who was trying to detain her. The effort had ill suc- 
 ceeded ; she would have to tell Edgar of its failure. 
 When she went home, and into her bed-room, the want 
 of some mechanical occupation made her begin to un- 
 pack her trunks. They would soon have to be again 
 filled for another journey, she sorrowfully thought, but 
 to be busy about anything at that moment was a relief. 
 It happened that her eyes soon fell on the parcel on 
 which she had written at Mentone, " My baby clothes." 
 She could not help opening it, and looking again at 
 the faded shawl, and at the initials A. D., and thinking 
 what would be Mrs. Gerald's emotions if she were to 
 show them to her. She would, perhaps, recognize that 
 shawl ; she would most likely know it again if it had 
 been Mrs. Derwent's ; and the sight of the night-gown, 
 how it would astonish and agitate her. Much more 
 connected with that subject had lately been revealed 
 to her, but she had resolved for the present to leave the 
 mystery in God's hands. It was not the time, she felt, 
 to impart even to her husband the strong suspicions on 
 her mind as to Annie's birth and her own ; but it was 
 a constant subject of thought. It had shot across her 
 mind when, in her transport of indignation, poor Annie 
 had pointed to the beautiful scene before them, and the 
 expression of her face, excited by powerful emotion, 
 had at the same minute forcibly reminded her of Ma- 
 riana's countenance. She remembered the day when 
 the bereaved mother had searched for the mark on her 
 shoulder, and turned away sighing because it was not 
 there ; and perhaps all the time Annie was bearing that 
 
 I 1 . 
 
53 o MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 mark. Perhaps some day, by accident, she might see 
 it. What a moment that would be ! It seemed so ex- 
 traordinary to think that, in some sense, certainty was 
 within her reach, and yet as practically unattainable 
 as if removed beyond all possibility. She could never 
 have brought herself to look for that mark ; she would 
 have felt as if she was doing something treacherous. 
 What would come of it all ? She hardly knew whether 
 this mystery made her present trial lighter or heavier. 
 Time would show. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 For a few days there was very little intercourse 
 between Holmwood House and the Vicarage. Ita had 
 caught a bad cold just after her arrival, and was 
 obliged to keep her bed. There was, consequently, no 
 question of her going to Mass on the first Sunday after 
 her return, and to Edgar this felt like a reprieve. He 
 was not sorry that this accidental circumstance had 
 also prevented the necessity of being as much as usual 
 at Holmwood House. 
 
 When Ita got better, she went again to see Mrs. 
 Gerald, and that day the conversation turned on reli- 
 gion. The latter said, " There is one thing in your 
 new religion . . . ." 
 
 " My old religion," Ita interrupted, with one of her 
 smiles, which seemed always to dispel the cloud on the 
 careworn face of the invalid. 
 
 " Well, your old religion, if you will — that must be 
 a great consolation — that power of speaking with the 
 most perfect security in the Confessional, even of the 
 most important secrets. I have heard people say that 
 there is less insanity in Catholic than in Protestant 
 countries. I should not wonder at it. The relief to 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 531 
 
 the mind must be so great of disclosing harassing 
 thoughts that maybe preying upon it." 
 
 There was a pause. Ita always had observed that 
 Mrs. Gerald, like many reserved people, opened more 
 upon subjects when left to bring out her own thoughts, 
 than if others chimed in with them, or tried to induce 
 her to be communicative. 
 
 " I should have liked to hear your confession, Ita." 
 
 " Would you ! " Ita exclaimed, with a smile. 
 
 " Yes ; I should like to read into your mind, and 
 that, I suppose, would be the nearest approach to it." 
 
 " I am not sure that it would. I might have thoughts 
 that I should never mention in confession. There is 
 no necessity for speaking of everything that comes 
 into our heads. We are only obliged to accuse our- 
 selves of our sins." 
 
 " There might not be a necessity, but would it not 
 often be a consolation to reveal one's anxieties ? " 
 
 " Yes ; especially if we wanted advice." 
 
 " Talking of advice — what would be your opinion 
 on the following question ? I know a person whose 
 mother died a short time ago and left her a diamond 
 necklace. I have very strong doubts and good reasons 
 to doubt, though I am by no means certain of it, that 
 the mother had no right to that necklace, that it be- 
 longed to her sister, and in that case her sister's 
 daughter, who lives in Australia, ought to have it. 
 Now, am I bound to go to my friend and tell her my 
 doubts, and advise her to examine into the matter." 
 
 " That is a sort of question," Ita answered, " which 
 I should like to submit to a priest." 
 
 " Why more to a priest than to any other person ? " 
 
 " Because they make a special study, I suppose, of 
 these sort of difficult cases of conscience, and know 
 what all good people have thought, and taught about 
 them." 
 
532 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " But what do you think would be right in that 
 case? " 
 
 " I am not sure." 
 
 " But think, and say something." 
 
 Mrs. Gerald fixed her eyes on Ita, who felt confused 
 and afraid of seeming embarrassed, and just on that 
 account blushed deeply. 
 
 " What do you think? " Mrs. Gerald repeated, in a 
 nervous manner, but without losing the authoritative 
 self-possession which never deserted her even when 
 most agitated. 
 
 " I suppose," Ita at last said, with a voice that shook 
 a little, " that if you yourself had had nothing to do 
 with the mistake that you would not be obliged to say 
 anything about it ? " 
 
 " No, I suppose not. That would, of course, make 
 a great difference ; but supposing I had been under an 
 erroneous impression, and then had found out my 
 mistake, or at any rate was nearly convinced that I 
 had been deceived ? " 
 
 Ita could not help suspecting what was passing in 
 Mrs. Gerald's mind, and felt a nervous apprehension 
 of what might follow, and a great fear of committing 
 herself by answering her questions. The present moment 
 seemed to her the worst possible one for such a dis- 
 closure. For supposing that sufficient evidence could 
 be adduced to prove that she, and not Annie, was Mrs. 
 Gerald's niece, would it not be most distressing to her 
 own feelings that this should take place at a time when 
 Edgar was full of pity for Annie, and displeased with 
 her. Would he not wish she had kept silence and not 
 placed him in an embarrassing and painful position 
 with regard to one to whom they both owed so much 
 gratitude. There was a peculiarity in Ita's nature 
 which does not always exist, even in good and amiable 
 people, and that is a great generosity, the quality which 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 533 
 
 makes a person shrink beyond everything from taking 
 an unexpected advantage over another ; from triumph- 
 ing over any one, whether by reproaching a person for 
 an unfortunate piece of advice, or a failure of any sort, 
 even from pushing an argument so far as to leave an 
 adversary no loophole of escape. If somebody made 
 in her presence an assertion in that confident manner, 
 which, with many, provokes opposition, and she could 
 disprove it by irrefragable evidence, it was to her an 
 effort, not a gratification to do so. She felt, therefore, 
 the strongest shrinking from continuing a conversation 
 which might have led Mrs. Gerald to a more direct 
 expression of the misgiving that she could not help 
 thinking existed in her mind. Yet she could not resist 
 dwelling much afterwards on what had passed between 
 them. The fact was that she herself had scarcely a 
 doubt left on her mind that she was Robert Derwent's 
 daughter, and that Annie was Mariana's child. On 
 the afternoon of the day when she had been received 
 into the Catholic Church in London, she had been 
 with Eliza to see the woman who had spoken to her at 
 the Anglican House of Charity. The latter had asked 
 to be left alone with Ita, and after again asking her 
 name, and ascertaining that she was married to the 
 nephew of the Mr. and Mrs. Derwent, who had 
 perished in an accident at sea, off the coast near 
 Genoa, twenty-two or three years ago, she told her 
 that during her illness she had been much troubled in 
 conscience by the knowledge that the rightful heir of 
 that family was kept out of his inheritance through a 
 mistake, which had placed in possession of it a person 
 whom she felt certain was not the child of the persons 
 in question. 
 
 " If the young lady who is called Miss Derwent 
 were to die, would your husband be the next heir to 
 the property ? " 
 
534 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " He would," Ita answered, " supposing she died 
 without children." 
 
 "Then," Madame Ranolfi exclaimed, "he is the 
 lawful owner of it at this moment." 
 
 She then proceeded to give Ita the following expla- 
 nations : — 
 
 " As I told you the other day, Signora, my husband 
 and I kept the Hotel of the Gran Duca, in Florence, 
 for several years after our marriage. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Derwent, their little child, and their servants, stayed in 
 our house for four or five months the last year of their 
 lives. They sailed from Livorno for Genoa in the 
 middle of the month of May. I went with them to 
 Livorno, and saw them on board the unhappy ship 
 that took them to their death. A few days afterwards 
 we heard of the dreadful accident, and a messenger 
 came from Madame Gerald, to request that my husband 
 and myself should come as quickly as possible to 
 Genoa, to give evidence about the child that had been 
 saved, and which was supposed to be Monsieur and 
 Madame Derwent's child. I had been taken ill the 
 day before, and, besides, it would have been impossible 
 for both of us to have left home at the same time. 
 So Ettore took with him Caterina, one of our house- 
 maids, who had attended the rooms the Signori oc- 
 cupied, and knew the child very well. When he came 
 back, of course, my first question was, ' Well, is it the 
 poor Signora's baby that was saved ? ' ' Sicuro,' he an- 
 swered, ■ sicuro ' ; and that Caterina had been engaged 
 by Madame Gerald as its nurse, and had gone with 
 them to Nice. I knew this was what she wanted. She 
 had been hoping and praying, before she went, that it 
 might be the right child that had been saved, and that 
 she should have the care of it. I asked Ettore if he 
 was quite certain it was the Signora's baby. There 
 had been all the spring several little children in our 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 535 
 
 house, and I do not think he knew very well one from 
 the other. He laughed and said, ' Why do you bother 
 about it. Babies of that age are all alike, I think ; 
 but could there be a doubt when the child had on a 
 night-gown and cap Madame Gerald could swear to, 
 and an A. and a D. upon them as plain as the nose 
 on your face.' When he said this, a queer feeling 
 came over me ; for, look you, Signora, when I was on 
 board the steamer with the poor lady, I had seen her 
 take out of a box some of her child's clothes to give 
 to a poor widow, who was going back with her child 
 to her native place, somewhere on the Riviera. It had 
 nothing but rags on, and that touched the lady's heart. 
 Her maid said, I remember, ' Why, surely, ma'am, you 
 are not going to give away one of Miss Annie's night- 
 gowns, which Mrs. Gerald trimmed herself! ' but she 
 did, and would see it put on the child before she went 
 to sleep. I think God will have taken her into Para- 
 dise for that good deed. But now you see why I was 
 troubled when Ettore said there could be no doubt on 
 the matter, because of the clothes. I told him what I 
 had seen, but it made him angry. He said it was all 
 very well as it was. Madame Gerald was satisfied, and 
 so was everybody. Most likely it was the right child. 
 Indeed, he had no doubt about it. The Signora had 
 given him a handsome sum for his trouble, and he 
 was not going to disappoint her and unsettle her mind. 
 He was a man who did not like trouble — an easy man, 
 you know. I did not think much more ahout it my- 
 self. I had such a bustling, busy life of it at this 
 time, that things went easily out of my head. I had 
 no time to think, from year's end to year's end. But, 
 five years afterwards, Caterina came to Florence in a 
 bad state of health, and when she was dying she sent 
 to speak to me. She was full of remorse at having 
 sworn that the child was the lady's. When she heard 
 
53 6 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 the padrone take his oath that it was, she was frightened 
 not to do the same ; and then she wished to get the 
 place. Her confessor told her she ought to make the 
 truth known, and so she sent for me. But what could 
 I do ? She said she had mentioned something about 
 this to Madame Gerald before she had left England, 
 but that she would not listen, and was so angry that 
 that was the reason of her coming away, though people 
 said it was because of her health. I was beginning to 
 be in trouble then, and did not see her again. She 
 died soon afterwards. We got into great difficulties, 
 and went from place to place, after giving up our 
 hotel. At last my husband died, poor man, and I 
 came to London with an English lady. I have a 
 daughter married to an Englishman. My health failed, 
 and, from one thing to another, I fell into poverty. 
 This London is a bad place for foreigners. I have 
 sometimes thought of asking Madame Gerald for some 
 assistance, but I am ashamed to do so." 
 
 Ita said she had only a few shillings to offer her, but 
 she was welcome to them. Madame Ranolfi received 
 them with a grateful smile, and then said, " I do 
 not know what I ought to do. I am glad I have 
 told you all this ; but it is, perhaps, of no use. Now 
 my husband is dead, and Caterina dead, perhaps 
 nobody would believe me. Do you think I ought 
 to tell Madame Gerald ? The priest I saw yesterday 
 said, that unless I could bring forward some proofs of 
 what I know, I should be careful how I disturbed the 
 minds of several persons on this subject." 
 
 " I should think he was right," Ita answered, 
 speaking more calmly than she felt. She could not 
 resist saying, " And so it was my likeness to that poor 
 Mrs. Derwent that made you wish to speak to me at 
 the Home?" 
 
 " Yes ; I was struck with it at the moment you came 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 537 
 
 into the room. Ettore used to say that she was like a 
 salice, what you call in English a weeping willow. She 
 had that sort of graceful figure on which a shawl hangs 
 prettily, and a small long neck like yours, and soft 
 brown eyes. Every one who saw her said she was 
 vezzosa dear. Poor young Signora, I think she must 
 have taken her baby with her to heaven ! " 
 
 Everything that had been uttered during that inter- 
 view had been carefully treasured up by Ita ; but she 
 had strictly abstained from saying a word herself 
 which would have confirmed Madame Ranolfi's belief, 
 or induced her to communicate the facts she had stated 
 to others. Her natural quickness made her perceive 
 that at that distance of time it would be exceedingly 
 difficult to disprove Annie's identity and establish her 
 own, even supposing that those most concerned in the 
 case should wish to do so. The whole business — and 
 the existence of a doubt which might never be perfectly 
 solved — would be still more harrassing to Edgar than 
 to herself. As to Mrs. Gerald, she could not judge 
 how far her suspicions • had gone, and, therefore, 
 whether further evidence would be a relief, or an ad- 
 ditional trial to her. It seemed to her best on the 
 whole, and she was confirmed in this view by the 
 
 opinion of Father , whom she consulted the next 
 
 morning, to be passive in the matter — to leave it in 
 God's hands, and neither advise nor dissuade Madame 
 Ranolfi from communicating with Mrs. Gerald. It was 
 rather an effort to keep this resolution ; for if she 
 should die without stating what she knew, her evidence 
 would be buried with her. She reflected, however, 
 that if the time to speak herself on the subject should 
 come, Edgar would always believe whatever she told 
 him. As to its becoming a legal question, the thought 
 did not enter her mind. After all Annie's generosity 
 and kindness to them, she could not look forward 
 
538 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 to such a possibility. Since her return to Holmwood, 
 all this had, of course, been constantly in her thoughts ; 
 but as it has already been said, it seemed the very 
 worst moment to speak of it to her husband. 
 
 She began to regret her previous reserve. She 
 wished she had insisted on communicating to him her 
 suspicions at Mentone. It would not then have been 
 so difficult to renew the subject, and mention this 
 recent information. In the scene with Annie her heart 
 had swelled a little with the consciousness of what she 
 now believed ought to be their relative positions ; but 
 she felt herself too much blessed, too enviable in the 
 possession of what Annie too had looked upon as the 
 most precious of treasures — Edgar's love — even though 
 at that moment a cloud obscured their happiness, to 
 feel anything for her but a tender compassion. " If 
 she had married him, and then this had come to 
 my knowledge, I might have grudged her the posses- 
 sion of Holmwood. But charming and beautiful 
 as Holmwood is, it is but a poor compensation for 
 what I have deprived her of." 
 
 Then she was sometimes disturbed by the thought, 
 that she was not justified in withholding this secret 
 from Edgar. Indeed, it had been her confessor's 
 advice that she should take the earliest convenient 
 opportunity to disclose it to her husband. " If Annie 
 should marry," she thought, " and this is more likely 
 now that we shall be going away, and poor Mrs. Gerald 
 not likely to live, it would not be fair to oe silent unless 
 I resolved to remain so for ever." Still, as Annie had 
 certainly no such intention at present, there was no 
 reason for hurrying the disclosure on that score. She 
 vaguely resolved to say nothing till they had left 
 Holmwood, but then to lose no time in speaking to 
 Edgar. 
 
 When, in the course of the foregoing conversation 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 539 
 
 i . 
 
 with Mrs. Gerald, the latter had asked, " But suppose 
 I had deceived myself? " the question had startled her. 
 She felt as if the crisis of her fate was suddenly come, 
 and an instinctive wish to put it off. She had made 
 no reply, and Mrs. Gerald had not pressed the question 
 further. 
 
 Two days afterwards Ita received a letter from 
 Madame Ranolfi, telling her she was in great distress, 
 as her daughter was too poor to support her, and that 
 she entreated her to lay her case before Mrs. Gerald, 
 and solicit from her some assistance. Having no 
 money to give herself, and not liking to apply to her 
 husband, who was about to loose half his income, she 
 felt bound to transmit the petition. 
 
 With a faltering voice, she related the position in 
 which she had found this person, and asked Mrs. Gerald 
 if she would do something for her. The name imme- 
 diately attracted her attention. 
 
 "That was the name," she exclaimed, " of the hotel- 
 keeper at Florence who gave evidence as to Annie's 
 identity. I heard that they had both left Florence 
 several years ago. Is he still alive ? " 
 
 " No, he died some time ago." 
 
 " Is she in great distress ? " 
 
 " Not in the lowest poverty, I think, but very ill off 
 for a person who has known better days." 
 
 " I wonder if she knows anything of Caterina, 
 Annie's nurse, who went back to Italy when she was 
 five years old ? " 
 
 " She is dead." 
 
 " Did Madame Ranolfi tell you so ? " 
 
 " Yes, she did." 
 
 " Had she seen anything of her, do you know, since 
 her return ? " 
 
 " She said she had paid her a visit when she was 
 .ill." 
 
540 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Is this Madame Ranolfi too ill to travel ? I should 
 like to see her." 
 
 " Oh, you had better not," Ita involuntarily ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald's face betrayed most violent emotion. 
 But she said, in a calm, dry manner, " And pray why 
 not ? " 
 
 " It would tire you," Ita said, " and agitate you too 
 much. She would speak of those you have loved and 
 lost." 
 
 " Of my brother and his wife ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 After a pause, Ita added, " And, besides, she is too 
 ill, I think, to take a journey." 
 
 " Where does she live ? " 
 
 Ita gave the address. 
 
 " I will send her some money," Mrs. Gerald said ; 
 and then changed the subject. 
 
 On the following Saturday, with a strong effort over 
 himself, Edgar asked his wife if she wished to have 
 a fly to take her to the Roman Catholic chapel at 
 Grantley Manor. She said she would rather drive in 
 her little pony-chaise in which she was accustomed to 
 go long distances alone. It was not the solitary drive 
 she dreaded, but the feeling that it would be the first 
 time she and Edgar would not go to church together, 
 and the last time he would do duty at Holmwood 
 church. He had arranged that the curate who had 
 been there while he was abroad, should return and 
 take charge of the parish till his successor was ap- 
 pointed. This would be perhaps the most painful 
 moment of his life, and she would not be there to 
 comfort and cheer him by that ardent sympathy which 
 she had accustomed him to receive from her at every 
 instant and on every occasion. On the contrary, he 
 would be feeling all the time that but for her be should 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 541 
 
 never have had that trial to go through. Oh, that 
 persons who are inclined to be hard in their judgment 
 and feelings about converts could know what the pain 
 is of inflicting suffering on those we love — that they 
 could estimate the strength of the convictions which 
 force devoted and tender hearts to grieve the friends 
 they love with ardent affection ! 
 
 Sometimes people say that those who become Ca- 
 tholics look sad. Sometimes, on the other hand, they 
 are reproached with looking happy when they have 
 caused others sorrow. The truth is, that there is 
 a deep fount of joy in the soul that has found its 
 true home which no amount of suffering can dry 
 up or stop from flowing, but it does not preclude 
 suffering. Persons have smiled at the heavenly conso- 
 lations poured into their souls amidst the torments 
 of martyrdom, and many a convert looks happy 
 whilst writhing under the severance of ties dearer 
 than life, though not dearer than God. To be 
 banished from home is a sad fate ; to be scorned, 
 despised, and unkindly treated, is hard to bear ; 
 but the kind looks, the tender sorrow of a mother 
 or husband, the sense of causing grief where it had 
 been the dream of a whole life to give happiness, 
 is a still sharper and more refined trial. Ita felt it in 
 the very depths of her heart's core that Sunday morning 
 w r hen she rode away from the Vicarage after having 
 kissed her husband, but without the courage to utter a 
 single word. He had tried to smile, but the effort had 
 failed. She wondered if he would say words of fare- 
 well to his flock. She fancied what Annie would feel 
 during the service, the grief of the parishioners, their 
 indignation against herself; they must think her so 
 much to blame. It was almost difficult at that moment 
 not to blame herself; not for having been true to her 
 faith, but for having ever married Edgar. But, as she 
 
542 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 drove on, gradually her mind became more calm. She 
 gazed on the less familiar and most beautiful scenery 
 beyond Holmwood Park with a more peaceful com- 
 posure. On that tranquil Sunday morning when nature 
 as well as man seemed resting in profound repose, 
 scarcely a breath of air waving the surface of the 
 corn-fields or the foliage of the oaks and beeches, she 
 commended to her Heavenly Father's care all that 
 unknown future which seems so long a vista to those 
 who are beginning life. She reposed on the conscious- 
 ness of that wonderful love which encircles each human 
 soul and cares for it individually with the minute 
 solicitude of a boundless affection. She felt almost 
 tangibly the support of that belief. It gave her courage 
 to bear even the thought of Edgar's grief. If she 
 loved him so much, what must be the love of the 
 Creator for His creature ? When she came in sight of 
 Grantley Manor, it recalled to her the history of a 
 short life which had ended there in the holy peaceful 
 beauty of a slow decline. She remembered hearing 
 that when, on her death-bed, Ginevra Neville received 
 from her husband the assurance that he was resolved 
 to embrace her faith, she had said, " Lord, now lettest 
 Thou Thy servant depart in peace," and died with 
 those words on her lips — an enviable end, Ita thought. 
 Mrs. Sydney was standing at the door ready to greet 
 her. Ita had written to her from London and again 
 from Holmwood. 
 
 There was no need of words to express what Mar- 
 garet Sydney felt, as she kissed the flushed cheek of 
 Edgar Derwent's wife, and felt her heart beating against 
 her own — she knew how keen was its suffering, and 
 how intense its joy. She took her into the little church, 
 which stood on one side of the flower-garden, where 
 she and Ginevra had sat so often together. What Ita 
 felt during Mass that day, what thanksgivings rose 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 543 
 
 from the depths of her heart, what sweet tears filled 
 her eyes, what a sense stole over her of repose in a 
 true mother's arms, it is useless to dwell upon in such 
 a story as this. Some who read it will know more on 
 this point than we can tell them ; others will wonder ; 
 some may pity and some may sneer. If it should fall 
 into the hands of one hesitating whether to come over 
 from the shadowy region of an imaginary church into 
 the living one beyond, perhaps for him or for her, these 
 few words from one who has crossed the border may 
 not have been written in vain. 
 
 Ita was to spend the day at Grantley Manor. She 
 and Edgar had tacitly agreed that this would be better 
 for both of them. She meant to go home after Benedic- 
 tion. To her surprise and pleasure, she found that 
 Mr. Neville was staying with his sister. When the 
 service was over, they all went into the shrubbery, and 
 she then told them that her husband had resigned his 
 living. 
 
 Mr. Neville made an exclamation of pleasure, but 
 Mr. and Mrs. Sydney, who knew more than he did of 
 Edgar's reasons, and of the circumstances of the case, 
 guessed how trying to both husband and wife this 
 resolution must be. 
 
 " It will be better in the long run, dearest Ita," 
 Margaret said. " I can hardly imagine how he could 
 have remained." 
 
 " I was mercifully blinded on that point," she an- 
 swered. " The effort might have been too great for my 
 strength, if I had been conscious that he would give 
 up his home, without the consolations which I have in 
 leaving it, and through my fault, as it were." 
 
 "Felix Culpa, as the Church says on Holy Saturday," 
 Mr. Neville observed, with a smile. 
 
 Ita thought him a little unfeeling, but he was not so 
 in reality. Only it sometimes happens that those who 
 
544 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 have much experience in dealing with aching hearts, 
 know that excessive sympathy is not always the best 
 remedy. He would not let Ita speak in a desponding 
 manner about her husband, and asked where they 
 were going to turn their steps. " The doctors," she 
 said, " want us to go to Malvern. General increase 
 of strength will improve his sight, they say. He has 
 not yet decided on anything, but I hope we shall go 
 there, and then .... I have not ventured to propose 
 it yet, but oh, I should like to go back to Mentone for 
 the winter." 
 
 "lam afraid he did not like it ? " 
 
 "At first he did — not afterwards. He got the home, 
 or rather the Holmwood, sickness, I think." 
 
 There was again a little suppressed sigh. Mrs. 
 Sydney pressed her hand. " I can fancy what the 
 trial is to you on his account." 
 
 " Well, and a little on my own too. I do love 
 Holmwood very much, and especially our own little 
 house. We did spend such happy years there ! But 
 of course I ought only to be too glad to have some- 
 thing to sacrifice in return for all I have received ; but 
 when I see him turning away from the view, from the 
 flowers, from everything about the place as if he could 
 not bear the pain of looking on them, it is almost more 
 than I can endure." 
 
 " All that pain is so much treasure," Mr. Neville 
 said. " Do you not know that suffering obtains more 
 even than prayer. It is like money put into your 
 hands wherewith to purchase what you want God to 
 give you." 
 
 " That is a new view of suffering," Ita said, smiling. 
 
 " No, indeed, a very old one. It dates from the 
 time of our Lord's Passion." 
 
 " Edmund will never let any one lament over their 
 sorrows," Margaret said, " but I tell him he is not 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 545 
 
 logical, for nobody tries so hard to help them out of 
 them." 
 
 " That's right, Margaret," Mr. Walter Sydney ex- 
 claimed, " I am glad you attack Edmund on that point. 
 He is very inconsistent. I am sure now, that if he 
 could make Mrs. Derwent mistress of Holmwood 
 House to-morrow — without driving poor Miss Annie 
 out, of course — he would set about it directly." 
 
 Mr. Neville's eyes met Ita's. It was but for a 
 minute, and she could not have said for sure if there 
 was any meaning in that look. She could not fancy 
 how he could possibly have a suspicion on the subject 
 — unless .... it would have been a most strange 
 coincidence, but such things do sometimes happen — he 
 should be the priest whom Madame Ranolfi had seen 
 in London. She could not resist, after speaking of 
 the Rolands, about whom the Sydneys were much 
 interested, casually remarking that she had been with 
 Eliza to see a poor Italian person living near 
 Manchester Square, but she could not perceive that 
 this seemed at all to interest him, and the conversation 
 took another direction. 
 
 " It is almost luncheon time," Margaret said, a little 
 while afterwards, and led the way to the house. As 
 they were crossing the flower-garden, the sound of a 
 horse galloping very fast surprised them. 
 
 " Who can that be ? " Mrs. Sydney exclaimed. Her 
 thoughts turned to Walter's old father, who was at 
 that moment at Heron Castle. 
 
 A man on horseback arriving at that rate gave her 
 a misgiving that bad news were at hand. She hurried 
 on before the rest, and met the servant crossing the 
 hall with a letter in his hand. 
 
 " It is for Mrs. Derwent," he said, " a messenger 
 has brought it post haste." 
 
 The note was from Edgar. It ran thus : 
 
 J J 
 
546 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Dear Ita, — You had better come back as soon as 
 you can. My poor aunt has been taken suddenly ill — 
 a sort of seizure. — Your affectionate husband, 
 
 " E. Derwent." 
 
 Ita read these words, and turned as pale as death. 
 
 " Will you have my pony-chaise got ready imme- 
 diately," she said to Margaret ; " Mrs. Gerald is 
 dangerously ill." 
 
 " Order the carriage this moment," Mrs. Sydney 
 said to the servant. " I will drive you back," she con- 
 tinued, turning to Ita ; " you must not go back alone 
 in this state of anxiety." 
 
 Ita nodded assent, and went to the window unable 
 to speak. The Sydneys were surprised at her agita- 
 tion, and the alteration of her countenance. They had 
 no idea, as they said afterwards to each other, that she 
 was so much attached to Mrs. Gerald. The fact was, 
 that Ita was bewildered with the sudden emotions 
 which these tidings had awakened. She was very fond 
 of Mrs. Gerald. She had always been so, whether it 
 was la voix du sang, as the French say, or simply a 
 liking for that cold-mannered, but warm-hearted 
 woman ; there was no doubt that she had, from 
 the first, cared much more for her than for Lady 
 Emily Hendon, Annie, or any one else, except Edgar. 
 But, besides the affection which would have in any 
 case made her feel the shock of this announcement, 
 there was much besides that made it agitating. First, 
 the idea that Mrs. Gerald might die without knowing 
 what she herself felt now perfectly sure of, that is, 
 that she was her brother's child — the real Annie — the 
 niece whom she would have loved perhaps, not more 
 than the other Annie, but in a different way ; because, 
 instead of meeting with coldness, and an ungenial 
 want of warmth, that love would have been warmly 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 547 
 
 reciprocated. And then with a not perhaps unnatural 
 inconsistency, though she could not foresee how her 
 identity could be ever established without cruelty to 
 Annie, and that she could not bear to think of, she 
 could not help feeling a sort of despair at the idea 
 that Mrs. Gerald would die without expressing a 
 doubt on the subject of hers and Annie's birth, such as 
 she was convinced she felt. 
 
 " Will you put me down at the west lodge-gate," 
 she said to Margaret, as they approached Holmwood. 
 " In five minutes I can run through the grove to 
 the house." She thought Edgar and Annie would, 
 perhaps, be looking out for her, and that they would 
 dislike even the sight of Mrs. Sydney that day. 
 Margaret understood her, and complied with the 
 request. 
 
 Edgar was walking up and down the terrace, and 
 came to meet her. " How is she ? " Ita gasped out. 
 
 " Very ill indeed — quite speechless, but sensible — 
 looks anxious. She has been watching the door : I 
 think it must be you she wants to see." 
 
 " I had better go to her at once." As they were 
 passing through the hall, and up the stairs, Ita asked, 
 " How does Annie bear it ? " 
 
 " She looks ill and scared, but says nothing. She 
 has not left her bedside a minute." 
 
 Ita entered gently the darkened room, and knelt 
 down by the side of the bed opposite to where Annie 
 was sitting. The haggard, wan, death-like face of poor 
 Mrs. Gerald was turned towards the door when she 
 came in — a keen look, not of joy, or of pain, but of 
 eagerness appeared in it when she approached. She 
 could not move a limb, nor utter a word, but in her 
 eyes there was still a power of expression, and they 
 fixed themselves wistfully, sometimes, Ita fancied, re- 
 proachfully upon her. She could hardly endure thac 
 
548 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 prolonged, imploring, silent gaze. She bent down over 
 the cold, powerless hand, to hide, as it were, from 
 that piercing look, but, whenever she raised her head, 
 there it was still directed upon her. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald never recovered her speech ; for a day 
 and a night she lay on her death-bed motionless and 
 silent, and the two beings she had so strangely and 
 differently loved, scarcely ever left her side. Edgar 
 now and then came in and read some prayers. He 
 could not ascertain if she joined in them or not. No 
 one could tell what passed between her soul and God 
 during those lonely hours. Once Ita was left, for a 
 short time, alone with her. The eyes of the dying 
 woman had been closed for awhile as if dozing, when 
 she opened them they had a wild expression, something 
 of a struggle, a desperate effort to speak took place, 
 and then a look of hopeless despondency. Ita knelt 
 close to the pillow, put her head quite near to Mrs. 
 Gerald's, and then said, in a low, distinct voice, " My 
 own, own dear aunt, I love you so much. You have 
 been very good to me. It was not your fault. You 
 could not help it. We shall always love Annie, and 
 remember you with gratitude." 
 
 She never knew for sure if these words were heard 
 or understood. She thought a change, a softening ex- 
 pression came into Mrs. Gerald's face. One tear rolled 
 silently down the wan cheek ; she went to the other 
 side of the bed, and taking in hers the hand that still 
 retained warmth and life, she kissed it tenderly, and 
 said, " Dearest, you wish to believe all that God has 
 revealed ? " her hand was gently pressed. " You hope 
 He will save you because He is goodness itself? " again 
 the feeble pressure was felt. " You love Him because 
 He has loved you, and because of his goodness you 
 repent of all your sins ? " More earnestly still the 
 assenting token was given, and Ita blessed God that 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 549 
 
 He had inspired her to make that simple appeal, and 
 for giving her a hope beyond the grave for that heart 
 which had known so little peace on earth. When the 
 end drew near, and every one in the house gathered 
 round the bed, Ita knelt by Annie's side. Annie had 
 not shed a tear ; she seemed turned to stone. Suddenly 
 she rose, and went and stood where Ita generally did, 
 and bending down, looked into her aunt's face. Mrs. 
 Gerald made an effort to lift up the hand she still 
 could move, and Annie placed her head under it. It 
 rested there a moment. Edgar did the same ; then the 
 dying eyes seemed to wander in search of some one 
 else, and when Ita approached, the hand was not 
 placed on her head, but took hold of her, and it would 
 not let her go ; as long as there was life in it, it kept 
 its hold, and when the last moment came Mrs. Gerald 
 died in Ita's arms. 
 
 Like a marble image, Annie sat by the side of the 
 lifeless form, not weeping or moaning, apparently in- 
 sensible. In vain Edgar spoke to her ; she took no 
 notice of him. At last he said to his wife, who was 
 crying bitterly — " Try what you can do ; see if you 
 cannot lead her away." 
 
 Ita approached, and put her arm round Annie, who 
 gave a violent start. 
 
 " Leave me — leave me ! " she exclaimed. " You 
 have taken everything from me. The love of all who 
 ever cared for me. All these dreadful hours she was 
 looking at you, not at me. She died with her hand 
 in yours — loving you more than me." 
 
 As she said those last words, there was something 
 most painful in the expression of Annie's countenance 
 — jealousy, resentment, almost hatred, breathed in it. 
 This in the chamber of death was terrible ; poor girl ! 
 She felt it herself. Crossing her arms on her breast, 
 and standing still for a moment, she exclaimed : " My 
 
550 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 heart is turned to stone. I feel as if God had forsaken 
 me. Oh, it is horrible to be angry with one who is 
 dead ! " Then she fell on her knees and kissed the 
 feet of her whom in her own hard strange way she had 
 loved, and afterwards left the room with a rigid com- 
 posure, almost more painful than her violence. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The day after Mrs. Gerald's decease, as Ita was 
 thinking over that rapid illness and her death, which 
 she could hardly yet realize, it struck her that the 
 night before she had seen, lying on her table, the 
 letter directed to Mrs. Dallas, which she had noticed 
 the morning after her arrival, and another in a bad 
 foreign hand, which she could not help fancying was 
 from Madame Ranolfi. She thought how terrible it 
 would be if Annie came across anything which would 
 suddenly awaken doubts as to her birth. At a time 
 when her heart was frozen, as it were, with grief, and 
 dreadfully sore, it might have a terrible effect upon 
 her. Edgar came into the room at that moment, and 
 they both sat down silently to breakfast. 
 
 " I have been to Annie's room," he said. " She is 
 not asleep, but she sits still, refusing to speak or move. 
 She will not eat anything. I am quite anxious about 
 her. Grief, in natures like hers, makes a terrible im- 
 pression. I do not know what we can do. If we 
 cannot influence her, who would ? I hope, however, 
 that these morbid feelings will not last. It did seem to 
 me that my poor aunt showed a preference for you 
 during her illness. There is no accounting for that 
 sort of thing. Sometimes the person most loved seems 
 the least noticed or remembered at such a time." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 551 
 
 Ita made no reply ; but, after a pause, she said, " Have 
 you or Annie the right to take charge of Mrs. Gerald's 
 letters and papers ? " 
 
 Edgar seemed surprised at the question. " Why 
 do you ask ? " he said. 
 
 " Because, dearest, I think .... I have some idea 
 that Annie might come suddenly upon some letters 
 that would distress her. I am not quite sure, but I 
 think so." 
 
 " Really ! " Edgar exclaimed. " You do not mean that 
 my aunt was a Roman Catholic ? " 
 
 " Oh no. What I mean has nothing to do with 
 religion." 
 
 " What has it to do with, then ? " 
 
 Ita turned her head away. Her cheeks were crimson. 
 She felt the time was come to speak ; but it was an 
 immense effort. " I have been in great doubt," she 
 said, " whether I ought to say anything to you about it." 
 
 " Is it part of the teaching of your new religion to 
 have secrets which you do not tell your husband ? " 
 
 This was the first unkind thing Edgar had said to 
 his wife since her return to Holmwood. Many bitter, 
 painful thoughts had been in his mind, but they had 
 not passed his lips. He had strictly schooled his acts 
 and his words, but not his inward emotions ; and sor- 
 row, irritation, and perplexity at that moment over- 
 came his self-control. Annie's dogged, bitter grief, his 
 own sorrow at his aunt's death, and Ita's hesitating 
 words and manner, all combined to harass him. 
 Everything that had hitherto made the happiness of 
 his life seemed to fail him. He walked up and down 
 the room, looking gloomy and careworn. Poor Ita 
 was still more wretched. This seemed, again, a bad 
 moment to enter upon a subject on which she had no 
 idea how he would feel. Unless she could explain 
 the cause of her reluctance to broach it, and by what 
 
552 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 slow degrees and at what inopportune moments the 
 thought had arisen and grown in her mind, until gra- 
 dual evidence confirmed it, he would think she had 
 been wanting in openness with him. She could not, 
 however, let that taunt pass unanswered. 
 
 " On the contrary," she said, laying her hand gently 
 on his arm, " on the contrary, it is my religion that 
 gives me courage to speak now of what I had not 
 courage to speak of before." 
 
 " What on earth are you talking of?" he exclaimed, 
 standing before her with a look of displeasure. 
 
 She trembled like a leaf, but felt desperate. 
 
 " Edgar, I am not at all sure that I am not your 
 cousin, Mrs. Gerald's niece — the person Annie has 
 been always supposed to be." 
 
 She remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, 
 anxiously expecting his next words. His amazement 
 was indescribable. At first he felt afraid that she had 
 lost her senses ; but thought travels rapidly over what 
 takes a long time to relate. Two or three circum- 
 stances came into his mind, to which he had never 
 attached any importance, but that at once filled him 
 with agitation. Some hints Mrs. Gerald had thrown 
 out, which he did not in the least understand ; the 
 marked way in which, almost the last time he had 
 seen her before her illness, she had made him look 
 at Mrs. Derwent's picture ; and when he had said, " I 
 have always thought it very like Ita," the way she had 
 stared at him, with a half wistful, half bewildered gaze. 
 
 " Come into the garden," he said, quite wildly. 
 
 They hurried out of doors, across the terrace, down 
 to the lawn, and into the grove. He held Ita's arm 
 close to his heart. At that moment all estrangement 
 seemed to have disappeared. 
 
 " Let us sit down," she said, panting for breath, for 
 he had walked quicker than he knew. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 553 
 
 M Tell me everything," he said, " from the earliest 
 moment that thought first came into your mind." 
 
 " Well, many things puzzled me long before any 
 suspicion on this point even crossed my mind. I al- 
 ways thought poor Mrs. Gerald's manner to me very 
 odd from my very first acquaintance with her. She 
 used to watch me so much. She was sometimes so 
 kind ; but oftener, as if she was keeping me at a dis- 
 tance, and trying not to be fond of me. I was always 
 very fond of her. I do not, of course, mean that that 
 is any proof of what we are speaking of. The first 
 thing that puzzled me was her violent agitation when 
 Annie dressed me up like Mrs. Derwent's picture. I 
 told you, you know, about that at Mentone." 
 
 " She never could bear the pictures in her room to be 
 looked at." 
 
 " So you said ; but she did not only look angry, 
 but so pale and agitated. Then, after Lady Emily's 
 death, her asking me to come and live with her, sur- 
 prised me very much. But I never had the least idea 
 of what I mentioned just now, till I heard from the 
 priest, at Colla, that a Mrs. Dallas had written to 
 make inquiries of him about the child that Giovanni 
 Piombo had picked up at sea — I mean, about the time 
 and the place where he had found her." 
 
 "Did you ever tell her you were brought up at 
 Colla?" 
 
 " At Spedaletti, you mean. Yes, I remember her 
 asking me the name of the place I lived at before Lady 
 Emily adopted me. I think I mentioned to you that a 
 poor woman from Mentone " 
 
 " That Mariana . . . ." 
 
 " Yes ; that she had been to see the same priest, 
 and told him she had lost her child in an accident that 
 had happened near Genoa. He did not recollect the 
 date. I found her out, you know, at Mentone, and 
 
554 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 she told me all about that accident, and that she re- 
 membered giving her child into the arms of a sailor 
 just as the crash took place, but nothing since for a 
 long time afterwards. She was some years in the 
 hospital at Genoa, but could not tell how long. I could 
 not, therefore, ascertain anything about dates — whether 
 they coincided." 
 
 " The only time I ever heard my poor aunt speak 
 of the accident in which my uncle and his wife perished, 
 she said Annie had been saved by a sailor, and that 
 they were the only two living persons she believed 
 that had escaped ; but that may have been a mistake. 
 There is something strange in what you tell me, but 
 nothing like proof." 
 
 " I have not finished yet. One day that Mariana 
 was talking of her past history, she mentioned to me 
 that there was an English lady, with her husband, on 
 board that steamer, who had been very kind to her, 
 and had given her child some of her own baby's 
 clothes." 
 
 " Did she say so? " 
 
 11 Yes, I asked her if she could tell me how the 
 clothes were marked, but she could not; and then, 
 Edgar .... this is the principal thing .... I told 
 you of it at Mentone .... but, somehow, you were 
 ill, and did not pay any attention to it ... . but I 
 found in a box in the lumber-room at the villa the 
 clothes I had on when Giovanni Piombo took me into 
 his boat. He sent them with me when I went to live 
 at Lady Emily's, and they are marked A. D. I can 
 show them to you when you like . . . ." 
 
 " What ! and that woman told you that an English 
 lady had given some of her child's clothes to her baby ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But why on earth did not you tell me all this 
 before my aunt's death? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 555 
 
 " I tried sometimes . . . ." 
 
 " Tried ! nonsense ! " 
 
 " Then I did not feel at all sure till the other day in 
 London." 
 
 " What, what happened there ? " 
 
 " I came across an Italian woman who was at that 
 home you took me to. When she heard my name was 
 Derwent she wished to speak to me. Do you remem- 
 ber the Superioress asking me to talk to one of the 
 patients; she was the mistress of the hotel at Florence, 
 where . . . ." Ita stopped short and burst into tears. 
 " I do not know how to call them, I feel so sure now 
 they were my parents . . . ." 
 
 " You must not allow yourself to dwell too much 
 on that thought, Ita," her husband said, greatly agi- 
 tated himself. "Well, and what did she say about 
 them?" 
 
 " That she was so good, so charitable, and only 
 think .... that she saw her take out of her trunks, 
 to her maid's great displeasure, some of her baby's 
 clothes, and give them to a poor Italian woman on 
 board the vessel in which she was so soon to perish." 
 
 " Is this woman do you say in London ? " 
 
 " Yes, she is very poor and very ill. She told me 
 also that her husband had been sent for to Genoa to 
 give evidence as to the identity of the child that had 
 been saved from the wreck, and that he had declared 
 it was their child. But she found he had done so 
 without much caring what he said, and chiefly because 
 of the initials on the clothes, and Mrs. Gerald's being 
 so anxious about it. And Caterina . . . ." 
 
 " Annie's Italian nurse ? " 
 
 " Yes, she told Madame Ranolfi on her death-bed 
 that she saw it was not the child, but she would not 
 contradict her master, and she wanted to be engaged 
 as nurse to the baby." 
 
556 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " And why did she tell you all this and not to my 
 aunt ? " 
 
 " She seemed in great doubt as to what was her 
 duty. She did not know if Annie was not Annie, who 
 was being wronged. You see she had no idea that the 
 real child could be living. She said the priest w r hose 
 advice she had asked said she ought to find out to 
 whom the property would have gone supposing their 
 child had died. She asked me that question, and I 
 said to you." 
 
 " Or rather to you if the truth can be ascertained," 
 Edgar interrupted. 
 
 "Oh no, if anything is discovered, if Annie is Mari- 
 ana's child, it had better be as if I had died, and 
 nothing said about me. It would break her heart to 
 give up Holmwood to me but not to you. But I was 
 forgetting to tell you something more, which possibly 
 might be of importance. Poor Mariana, when we 
 were speaking about my having been found at sea (I 
 never said anything to her about Annie, I thought it 
 more prudent not), asked to look at my shoulder. She 
 said her child had a mark from an accident which the 
 doctors said would always remain. There was no 
 trace of it on my shoulder. Of course it might have 
 disappeared .... but supposing Annie had it . . . ." 
 
 " My aunt should have known all this," Edgar ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " You see, Edgar, I dared not come here that day 
 when you were all so displeased with me, and you so 
 sorry for Annie, and say that, perhaps, I ought to be 
 where she is." 
 
 " I am not at all sure what ought to be done," 
 Edgar exclaimed. "We owe so much to poor Annie." 
 
 He fixed his eyes on his wife, and all sorts of thoughts 
 passed through his mind. He was struck with her 
 paleness ; her sweet anxious face ; the wistful gentle- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 557 
 
 ness with which she seemed to await his decision, ready- 
 to forego every worldly advantage at his desire, content 
 to abide by his decision. 
 
 M I am not at all sure that it could be proved," he 
 said, " any part of it ; and even if it were possible that 
 we could ever try legally to dispossess Annie." 
 
 " Oh no, never, never," Ita exclaimed. 
 
 " And yet," he replied, " if we had children it might 
 be our duty. Annie might be completely estranged from 
 us, she may marry, and the inheritance of my family, 
 which for centuries has been ours, would go to aliens. 
 And if we do not speak now, we can never raise again 
 the question." 
 
 Ita had felt a little his saying my family, not ours. 
 She would gladly never have been recognized by any 
 one else, but she would have liked him to have given 
 a tacit proof that he thought she was his uncle's child. 
 But these refined distinctions were not in his nature. 
 He was not, as we have often said, selfish or egotisti- 
 cal, two very different though kindred defects ; but he 
 was engrossed by his own thoughts and feelings — 
 generous, good,, honest ones — but riding somewhat 
 roughly through the sensitive fibres of a more delicate 
 organization. 
 
 " Whatever were your reasons — your feelings rather," 
 he said, " and I certainly can understand them, it is 
 much to be regretted that you did not disclose all this 
 before Mrs. Gerald's death." 
 
 11 1 cannot help thinking, and this makes me very- 
 unhappy, that she may have heard some part of it in 
 a sudden manner. I saw lying on her table, the day 
 she was taken ill, a letter written in a foreign hand, 
 with a London postmark ; and I am almost sure the 
 handwriting was Madame Ranolfi's. I had one from 
 her myself a short time ago, and had seen one before 
 that directed to Mrs. Dallas. That is what I meant 
 
55 8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 just now about your taking possession of the letters 
 .... Annie might find and read something which 
 might puzzle and frighten her about all this." 
 
 " True ; you are right. She is resting now — asleep, 
 her maid hoped. We could go gently into my poor 
 aunt's sitting-room. I think, as her nephew, I have 
 quite as good a right as Annie to the possession of her 
 papers, which I will lock up, and not look at, till by 
 her will we find out to whom they properly belong. 
 God is my witness, I do not take this step to secure 
 these letters in my own interest." 
 
 Ita smiled ; the idea had not even occurred to her. 
 
 " Come," he said, " let us see at once about it." 
 They walked towards the house ; as they passed the 
 church, he sighed, and said, " Ita, if you are my cousin, 
 you have forsaken the Church of your baptism." 
 
 She laid her head on his arm ; even that reproach 
 was better than his mournful silence. ' Dearest," she 
 murmured, " does not the uncertainty of my fate in 
 that respect demonstrate the fallacy of that theory? " 
 
 " Ita, I cannot bear this barrier between our hearts." 
 
 " Nor I," she exclaimed, burying her face in his 
 breast. " But you must come on to me. I can never 
 go back. Edgar, I could as soon kill myself." 
 
 " Do you feel that really — truly ? " 
 
 " God knows I do," she murmured. 
 
 " Well, may He enlighten whichever of us is mis- 
 taken ! " Edgar exclaimed, with a good deal of emotion, 
 as they entered the house. 
 
 They went quietly upstairs, passed Annie's bed- 
 room, and heard from her maid that she was still 
 sleeping. Passing through Mrs. Gerald's bed-room, 
 they knelt together by the side of the cold inanimate 
 form. Both of them, as they prayed there, thought of 
 the long, anxious, unquiet years during which she had 
 endured an inward strife they could now begin to 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 559 
 
 understand ; and none but God would ever know what 
 had passed in that restless mind during the hours when 
 the power of speech had fled, when intercourse with 
 those who stood around her was denied. Silent she 
 had lived, and silently she had died. Washer memory 
 impaired during that time ? Did mental oppression 
 obliterate the bitter traces of over-anxious doubts ? or 
 did they work their way into the soul with despairing 
 clearness, while the lips were closed and the hand mo- 
 tionless ? Ita had seen a tear roll down that worn 
 cheek. She had seen a look she never could forget 
 fixed upon her, turned upon her with an unspeakable 
 earnestness. She had given in answer to that look a 
 pledge, and it was in accordance with that pledge she 
 had opened her heart to her husband. 
 
 " Let us promise here," she whispered to him, "to 
 be a true brother and sister to Annie." 
 
 He squeezed her hand ; they rose together, and went 
 into the other room. 
 
 The drawers of the bureau were unlocked, and 
 several letters and papers lying on the table — amongst 
 them the one Ita had noticed the previous day. Edgar 
 swept them all together into a half-open drawer, locked 
 it, and was taking out the key, when the door of the 
 room opened, and Annie came into the room. Both 
 Edgar and Ita were startled at her sudden appearance. 
 They felt as if they were doing something wrong, 
 though their only object was kindness to her. She 
 noticed their embarrassment. She saw the key in 
 Edgar's hand. A livid, deadly paleness overspread 
 her face. It had a sort of wild beauty they had never 
 seen in it before. Her eyes were lighted up with a 
 strange fire. She stood staring at them as if some 
 powerful emotion was vainly striving to find vent in 
 utterance at last. 
 
 " So you have come," she said, " to take possession 
 
5 6o MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 of her letters, of all that belonged to her, but you shall 
 not have them. You shall have nothing that was hers. 
 I gave him up to you," she said, turning to Ita, and 
 pointing to Edgar. " But I never gave up her love. 
 I never gave it up, though I did not seem to value it. 
 She never knew how much I loved her. You came 
 and stood by her death- bed, and had her last look of 
 affection. Go away — go away, Ita, and you too, 
 Edgar ; I do not care for either of you. I am alone 
 now. I will live here alone, and die alone ; but every- 
 thing in this room is mine. Nobody shall take a scrap 
 of paper or an old pen from that table — give me that 
 key." 
 
 Edgar felt distracted. If in that frame of mind she 
 read the letters he had locked up, it might almost 
 affect her mind. And yet, as it was only a supposition, 
 he could scarcely act upon it. He looked at Ita in 
 despair, then he said, " My own dear Annie, it is right 
 that dearest Mrs. Gerald's papers should be locked up 
 till her will is read. Then we shall know who has a 
 right to take care of them." 
 
 " No one has any right to them but me. Give me 
 that key." 
 
 The thought crossed Edgar's mind whether it was 
 possible that Annie did know anything of these par- 
 ticular letters. If so, he would not have hesitated to 
 give up at once to her the possession of the bureau. 
 What he dreaded was a sudden discovery ; and yet 
 how to prepare her mind at such a moment for a pos- 
 sible disclosure, and one which it would be cruel, per- 
 haps, in any case to make, but certainly so if it was 
 presented to her mind only in the shape of a painful 
 doubt. 
 
 At last, as she was becoming every moment paler, 
 and a deep red spot crimsoning on her cheek, he placed 
 the key in her hand and said, " Here it is, dearest 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 561 
 
 Annie. I know you will feel yourself bound in honour 
 not to examine the contents of those drawers till the 
 will has been read." 
 
 She sat down with the key in her hand, and large 
 tears rolled down her cheek. 
 
 " Go away, dearest," Edgar whispered to his wife. 
 " Perhaps if I am alone with her, I can soothe her." 
 
 Ita, as she passed by Annie, did not venture to kiss 
 her, but pressed her lips on her sleeve. Her arm was 
 hanging helplessly by the side of the chair in which 
 she had sunk. 
 
 " Annie, do try and pray." 
 
 " No," she said abruptly. " My head is confused, I 
 cannot pray." 
 
 " Shall I pray with you ? " 
 
 " No, no. I do not know what is right or what is 
 wrong. She thought one way, you another, Ita an- 
 other. 
 
 " But there is one thought in which we all agree. 
 God is our Father, and Jesus our Saviour. You can 
 raise up your heart to God — you can call on our Lord." 
 
 " No ; if God was my Father, He would show me 
 what is right. I have never had much comfort in 
 religion. I have not a pious nature. I am not like 
 Ita, or Eliza, or Mrs. Sydney. I wanted to be taught 
 what was true, as Mr. Pratt used to teach me, and to 
 have no doubts. Poor old man — poor old man ! " 
 
 How often, when the heart is aching with some great 
 recent blow, it turns to some simple, old, long-buried 
 affection, and calls on one in the grave with a strange 
 self-pitying yearning. 
 
 Edgar did not know what to say or do. He longed 
 to comfort, but felt powerless in the presence of that 
 simple, unimaginative, despairing grief. 
 
 Annie said, after a pause, " You had better leave 
 me. You have your wife. She takes you away from 
 
 K K 
 
562 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Holmwood, but with her you will be happy every- 
 where." 
 
 " But, dearest Annie, what will you do ? who will be 
 with you ? " 
 
 "Nobody; that is what I want. I could not make 
 you, and I could not make her, happy. I can never 
 make any body happy. I mean to live alone." 
 
 All that was wild and almost fierce in her counte- 
 nance had passed away. Only an intense dejection, a 
 look of hopeless despondency remained. " Good-bye, 
 Edgar," she gently said. " I am glad we are once 
 more alone. I am glad your wife went away, for I 
 can no longer love her. I loved her for your sake. I 
 loved her as long as she made you happy. But now 
 she has robbed you of your happiness, and she robbed 
 me of her love, and I hate her." 
 
 " Oh, Annie, Annie, do not say that. If you 
 knew . . . ." 
 
 " What ! are you not broken hearted because she 
 has turned Catholic ? And did not she gaze on her 
 and not on me in her last moments ? " 
 
 " Ita could not help it." 
 
 " Oh yes, you find excuses for her ; you love her, 
 and I am glad you do. There is nothing so dreadful 
 as not to love — to have nothing to love .... I am 
 glad you love her." 
 
 " We both love you, Annie, and you loved us." 
 
 " I tried," she said. 
 
 There was something so sad, so melancholy, so full 
 of meaning in those two words, that Edgar felt his 
 heart sink within him. He kissed Annie's hand and 
 went away. 
 
 The Vicarage and its pretty smiling garden were 
 lighted up by the evening sun, the dew drops glitter- 
 ing on each blade of grass and trembling leaf. Holm- 
 wood spreading out its lawns and forest in their full 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 563 
 
 summer beauty. The birds flying about among the old 
 trees of the churchyard. Edgar looked on the whole 
 scene with a new extraordinary feeling. There was 
 little doubt now, in his mind, as well as in Ita's, that 
 she was the child who should have inherited those 
 broad lands, that fair domain. But it seemed hopeless 
 that this should be ever recognized short of taking 
 steps he could hardly conceive would be successful, 
 even if he had made up his mind they would be right 
 or desirable. And they were going to leave behind all 
 this beauty, all this peace — even the duty of watching 
 over that lonely, friendless girl, the innocent occupant, 
 perhaps, of a position she had no right to, leave her 
 alone with her wealth, her sad, angry thoughts, her 
 vague unbelief — and all because Ita would be a Catho- 
 lic. He tried to rouse himself again to indignation, 
 but the awful realities of death, the scenes they had 
 gone through together, the nearness with which their 
 hearts had throbbed side by side, the difficulties of the 
 present, the mysterious future, had imparted a different 
 spirit to his dream. He could not re-awaken his in- 
 dignation, not in the same measure, at least. Though 
 the sight of many things about his house made him 
 sad, and recalled to his mind that, after the funeral, 
 they would soon depart to return no more to that bliss- 
 ful home, he did not grieve for himself half as much 
 as for Annie. Ita was there, and that was the sine qua 
 non of his earthly happiness. And she did feel and 
 act so nobly. She was so thoroughly good. He could 
 not hate her religion quite so intensely as he had done 
 — that strange religion so strangely adapted to every 
 need and every craving of the human soul. Perhaps 
 he had arrived at the point where Dr. Newman was 
 when he exclaimed, " Would that thy creed were sound, 
 O Church of Rome, for thou dost soothe the heart." 
 Perhaps as he began to notice the difference of ex- 
 
564 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 pression in the face which had long been anxious, sad, 
 and wistful, though always gentle, and saw that even 
 in the midst of sorrow there was in it an unmistakable 
 expression of peaceful serenity, he mentally resigned 
 himself to the lot she had chosen for herself and for 
 him. Perhaps he felt that if God had shown her what 
 He had not made clear to him, and since she had had 
 the courage to go forward alone, that it might not be 
 after all such a curse and a misery. If Annie had been 
 less desolate he would not have been very unhappy 
 that evening. What he had heard from his wife that 
 day occupied him very much. He was at a loss how 
 to act, but at last determined after the funeral was over 
 to go to London and see Madame Ranolfi. From her 
 at least he might gather sufficient evidence to sa- 
 tisfy his own mind on the question of Annie's, and 
 possibly of Ita's, identity. Her undoubted resemblance 
 to Mrs. Derwent's picture, considering the corroborat- 
 ing circumstances, appeared to him conclusive. He 
 had the greatest desire to show that picture to persons 
 unconcerned on the subject. But there seemed no 
 possible means of effecting this. Ater the coffin had 
 been removed from the bed-room to an apartment on 
 the ground floor, he stole upstairs one afternoon to 
 look at it himself, but he found the door locked ; the 
 housekeeper who had seen him trying to open it, said, 
 " Miss Derwent has got that key, sir, and also the one 
 of the dressing-room. She goes in there herself, but 
 nobody else does." 
 
 This might be a natural fear of interruption and 
 a desire to nurse her grief in secret, but it was possible, 
 just possible, that she was looking over the letters in 
 the bureau — possible that she had found in them some- 
 thing bearing on her own fate — possible that she looked 
 anxiously at that picture which four years ago she had 
 said was so like Ita. She would remember also, he 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 565 
 
 thought, the incident of the turban and Mrs. Gerald's 
 agitation. Had she read the letters ? Was she study- 
 ing the picture in connection with them ? What were 
 Annie's thoughts ? 
 
 She would not see Ita at all, and as little of him as 
 she could help. She pointedly made all the arrange- 
 ments for the funeral without his aid and assistance, 
 consulting her agent and her steward. She took her 
 meals alone, and never came to the Vicarage. She did 
 not actually refuse to admit him when he asked to see 
 her, but his efforts at consolation were vain. She was 
 looking wretchedly ill, and he would not keep out of 
 his mind whenever he saw her, the words, " The iron 
 has entered into her soul." 
 
 But what had driven it m ? did she suspect, did she 
 know, did she dread anything ? The doubt was tor- 
 menting, and he saw no means of solving it. He could 
 not but consider it just possible that in Mrs. Gerald's 
 will there might be some allusion to the subject. Per- 
 haps some statement, perhaps some directions that 
 the subject should be investigated. And yet it would 
 be more likely that she should have left a private 
 letter to him than that she should have made public 
 any doubt that might have lately occurred to her. Six 
 days had now elapsed since her death ; the funeral was 
 to take place on the morrow. It had been necessary 
 to invite Mr. and Mrs. Langdon to the Vicarage — a 
 heavy aggravation to his trouble and annoyance. They 
 had never been at Holmwood House, for Mrs. Gerald 
 did not care to see them, and only once before at his 
 cottage since he had married Ita, Their attending her 
 funeral was therefore, mere form, and he felt it would 
 aggravate Annie's sufferings by adding to them the 
 embarrassment of seeing persons who were almost 
 strangers to her at such a time. Then he had been 
 obliged to write to his mother that Ita had become a 
 
566 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Catholic, and it would be difficult to keep from her 
 his own resolution to resign his living, and his prospects 
 of preferment in the Church of England. 
 
 Her lamentations, and Mr. Langdon's comments on 
 the subject, he dreaded with a keen sensitiveness ; and 
 not without reason, at any rate, as regarded Mrs. Lang- 
 don's feelings. He was fond of his mother, and she 
 doted upon him, but since his earliest childhood there 
 had been little sympathy between them. His happiest 
 days had always been spent at Holmwood. Mrs. Gerald 
 and Annie had stood to him far more in the position 
 of his own family than his mother and her husband. 
 He seemed to pay visits at Lowndes Square, and to 
 come home to Holmwood. His heart was full just then, 
 his mind oppressed with various and anxious thoughts. 
 Never had he been so little disposed for conversation. 
 Though considerably better in health since his return 
 to England, he was not yet strong, and there was still 
 about him a degree of nervous irritability he could 
 not shake off. Ita felt just as he did, but discomfort 
 and anxiety are better endured by women than by 
 men. The latter can face danger and pain, but uneasi- 
 ness sits heavily on them. 
 
 Now that a subject so full of importance, so deeply 
 interesting, had been broached between them, Edgar 
 and Ita could talk of little else ; and he kept continu- 
 ally forgetting his displeasure against her. She was so 
 exactly, he thought, what she ought to be, under the 
 circumstances — feeling intensely for Annie, but also 
 for him. They looked on everything about them in 
 a different way. They discussed a great deal the possi- 
 bility of the truth coming out without their stirring in 
 it — wondered what Annie would feel if such a thing 
 were to happen. He made her describe over and over 
 again, Mariana's appearance, and then recall her own 
 youthful recollections. The topic that he had most 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 567 
 
 avoided and disliked became the most intensely interest- 
 ing to him. If it had been possible for Edgar to think 
 his wife more charming and attractive than he had al- 
 ways done, the romance which this singular disclosure 
 threw over her birth and her fate would have increased 
 the fascination. The hours he spent alone with her 
 those days were his only comfort. They were both 
 very unhappy about Annie. The servants reported 
 that she ate scarcely at all, and sat the whole day in 
 what had been Mrs. Gerald's apartments. She spoke 
 to no one. " Her eyes look too large for her face ; " 
 " and she is growing so thin," the housekeeper said. 
 
 " Ita ! " Edgar exclaimed, after they had heard this, 
 " does she suspect ? does she think or know anything ? 
 Is not this great dark grief otherwise unaccountable ? 
 Is there a struggle going on in her mind ? " 
 
 " I cannot guess, but you know I have always 
 thought Annie's a very jealous nature. And she was 
 always jealous of Mrs. Gerald's affection, though she 
 seemed cold to her." 
 
 " But could a jealous person have acted towards us 
 as she did ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I think so. Her great love for you was 
 stronger than even her jealousy of me. I cannot help 
 thinking that she feels now that she was always cold 
 to the one person who most cared for her, and that 
 that heart which had been so devoted was estranged 
 at last. That could account, I think, for her depres- 
 sion. But, oh ! how sad it is to think of her there — 
 there, in that room, alone — with no comfort, no faith, 
 no object to live for ... . And how terrible it will 
 be if she refuses to see us — if she continues in this 
 state ! " 
 
 " We cannot go away and leave her here alone. 
 What can we do ? " 
 
 At that moment the fly containing Mr. and Mrs. 
 
568 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Langdon was heard rumbling on the road, and in a 
 few minutes they arrived. She had a visage de circon- 
 stance, which varied in its character according as it 
 was meant to refer to Mrs. Gerald's death or Ita's 
 change of religion. 
 
 " I cannot trust myself to speak of my feelings," she 
 said on entering the drawing-room, and she kept down 
 her veil, afraid of not looking as sorrowful or as indig- 
 nant as each occasion required. 
 
 Mr. Langdon was particularly kind in his manner 
 to Ita, but talked in a way that made her more un- 
 comfortable than ever. Every word he uttered was 
 gall and wormwood to Edgar, and he kept asking her 
 questions which she was obliged to answer, though 
 she would have given anything to remain silent. In 
 despair she led him into the garden, and left the 
 mother and son together. 
 
 " My dear Edgar," she began, " this is a dreadful 
 blow." 
 
 " My poor aunt's death ? " 
 
 11 Yes, of course, but it is still sadder about your 
 wife. I suppose it must have been in the blood." 
 
 " No," he answered, shortly, " not at all in the 
 blood, I think." 
 
 " But it is otherwise so unaccountable." 
 
 " No, I do not think so. I am very sorry — nobody 
 can be more so — that she has seen it in that light, but 
 I have no doubt Ita has acted conscientiously." 
 
 " I am really tired of hearing of people's consciences. 
 They seem to make them do no end of wrong and 
 foolish things. How shall you manage here with a 
 Roman Catholic wife ? " 
 
 " I shall not manage at all, I have resigned the 
 living." 
 
 " And you mean to live on ^"300 a year. Good 
 heavens! what folly! and is it true that Miss Derwent 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 569 
 
 is so angry with Margaret that she will never again 
 do anything for you ? Of course she will marry, if only 
 out of spite, and she will be quite right. I should do, 
 it if I was her. And now there is Mr. Langdon catch- 
 ing cold out of doors. No, you had better not call him 
 in, but just take him his comforter. How has Mrs. 
 Gerald left her fortune ? " 
 
 " We shall know it to-morrow when her will is 
 opened." 
 
 M If she has not left it to you, I can never forgive 
 your wife." 
 
 " No, of course, that circumstance would make her 
 conversion at once a perversion," Mr. Langdon re- 
 marked, having heard his wife's emphatic declaration 
 as he came into the room, comforter in hand. 
 
 Neither Ita nor Edgar could endure this sort of con- 
 version. The subject was too sore and too sacred a 
 one to bear such handling ; but it was what Dr. John- 
 son wished the young lady's sonata to be, not difficult 
 but impossible, to check that vieillard terrible from 
 talking of whatever he liked. 
 
 In the middle of the evening he growled out, after 
 staring a moment at Ita, " What colour do you call 
 your eyes, Mrs. Derwent ? " 
 
 " Brown, I suppose," she answered, looking up from 
 her work, the light of the lamp shining full on her face. 
 
 " I never saw any at all like them," he persisted, 
 " except those of Mrs. Robert Derwent, Miss Derwent's 
 mother. I had once to contribute something to her 
 album when she was Miss Maud Ardon, and I wrote a 
 poem beginning, ' Her eyes are like no other eyes.' " 
 
 Ita coloured and bent hers down on her cross-stitch. 
 " Will it all be ever known ? " she thought. 
 
 Mr. Langdon went on talking of the time when he 
 had met Miss Ardon at a country house in Yorkshire. 
 Then he asked how Annie was. 
 
570 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Edgar answered, " Not well, and in great affliction." 
 
 " No wonder," Mrs. Langdon ejaculated ; " every 
 kind of sorrow has come upon her at once." 
 
 11 Mrs. Derwent had better convert Miss Annie," her 
 husband observed. " Then she might be a nun. That 
 would suit all parties. Would it not, Mrs. Langdon ? 
 It would save you the trouble of wondering so often 
 if Miss Derwent will ever marry." 
 
 The evening was not a pleasant one. It was a 
 relief, at least to some of the party, when it was time 
 at a reasonable hour to go to bed. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The funeral w r as over. It had been quite private ; 
 only a few old friends and neighbours were present. 
 Amongst them were Lord and Lady Carsdale, Mr. 
 Hendon, and, rather to Edgar's surprise, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Walter Sydney. Annie had ordered that they should 
 be invited. Mrs. Sydney had called several times on 
 Mrs. Gerald during her illness, and those visits seemed 
 to please the invalid. He supposed, when he heard 
 this, that it was on that account she had wished them 
 to be asked. 
 
 After everybody else had driven away, Edgar shook 
 hands with the Sydneys ; and while he was speaking to 
 Walter Sydney, Ita had time to say a few words to 
 Margaret. She told her that, as far as regarded her 
 husband, she was much happier than on the first days 
 after her return. That a common sorrow and a com- 
 mon anxiety had broken down the reserve between 
 them. 
 
 " Your sorrow I can well understand," Margaret 
 answered ; " but is there any new cause for anxiety ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 571 
 
 " About Annie," Ita replied, and then described the 
 state she had been in since Mrs. Gerald's death. " It 
 is so distressing," she added, " we do not know what 
 to do. Edgar will not remain here and she does not 
 say a word about our staying with her. Yet we cannot 
 bear to go away, and leave her so utterly desolate." 
 
 " Perhaps she hardly thinks of anything yet. A 
 first sorrow has sometimes a bewildering effect on the 
 mind. But could you not persuade your husband to 
 come and stay some time with us before you make any 
 further plans ? You would still be near Miss Der- 
 went." 
 
 " I should like it so much, so very much," Ita 
 answered ; " but I doubt his accepting your kind invi- 
 tation. But I will speak to him about it, and let you 
 know." 
 
 " When is Mrs. Gerald's will to be opened ? " 
 
 " This afternoon, I believe." 
 
 " Dearest Ita," Margaret said, in a hesitating man- 
 ner, " I suppose you expect .... I mean, you have 
 reason to expect that she has left her fortune to your 
 husband . . . ." 
 
 " I should have almost made sure of it some time 
 ago, but everything has been so changed lately .... 
 1 do not know how far she was annoyed at my conver- 
 sion. Not very much, I think. Indeed, I fancied she 
 had some faint desire to know more of our religion ; 
 but perhaps at first she was angry, and it occurred to 
 me that the wistful look — a painfully wistful look — she 
 kept turning on me after she had lost her speech, and 
 was paralyzed, might be caused by something she had 
 done, and perhaps wished undone. I hope not ; I hope 
 it is all right. I am not heroic. I cannot wish to have 
 deprived him of everything." 
 
 Ita burst into tears. Mrs. Sydney looked at her 
 anxiously. 
 
572 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 M Will you promise me one thing ? " 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 M If it should prove a strange, perplexing, painful 
 will, do not be too unhappy about it." 
 
 " I will try not. You must pray for me." 
 
 They kissed, and Mrs. Sydney went away. There 
 was a heavy cloud on her bright and still lovely 
 face. 
 
 In the afternoon, the family assembled in the library, 
 for the opening and reading of Mrs. Gerald's will. 
 Annie and Ita sat side by side on the same couch, 
 both in deep mourning: Annie's face perfectly colour- 
 less, and her eyes fixed on vacancy with a stern 
 calmness ; her hands were folded together, and resting 
 listlessly on her knees. Ita, on the contrary, was 
 flushed, and there was an appearance of nervous excite- 
 ment in her countenance and her frequent changes of 
 attitude : her colour went and came, and she glanced 
 sometimes at her husband, who, almost as motionless 
 as Annie, stood leaning with his back to the fireplace ; 
 sometimes at Mrs. Langdon, who was in a very restless 
 state of mind ; and sometimes at the lawyer, who was 
 about to read the will, and who knew its contents, 
 which gave him a momentary interest in her eyes. 
 Poor Ita, she tried hard to be very good, and not to 
 care too much about the money ; but she was not 
 stoical. Edgar was in delicate health. He had given 
 up his profession because she had become a Catholic. 
 She could not help feeling very anxious. If they were 
 tolerably well provided for, she could easily make up 
 her mind, should Edgar think it right, never to raise 
 the question of her birth, but to be all their lives de- 
 pendent on Annie for everything beyond bare sub- 
 sistence. She could hardly face the thought with 
 courage. All this passed through her mind during the 
 brief moment while the will was unsealed. The con- 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 573 
 
 tents of it were short and simple. She bequeathed her 
 furniture, books, pictures, plate, and jewels to her niece, 
 Annie Derwent, and her fortune — that is, a sum of 
 twenty thousand pounds — to her nephew, Edgar 
 Derwent. This was all right — what every one had 
 expected. Ita breathed a deep sigh of gratitude. Mrs. 
 Langdon fanned herself. Edgar glanced at his wife. 
 Annie seemed to take no notice. 
 
 " But there is a codicil," the lawyer said ; and this 
 codicil, made and signed a few days before her illness, 
 revoked all previous provisions, and left everything the 
 testatrix possessed to Mr. Walter Sydney. 
 
 Annie started. Mrs. Langdon groaned, her hus- 
 band shrugged his shoulders. Ita became crimson, and 
 looked at Edgar in an amazed, bewildered manner. 
 There was nothing more to be said or done. The 
 lawyer rose. 
 
 Edgar went up to him and said, " You will, of 
 course, give notice as soon as possible to Mr. Sydney 
 of the contents of the will ? " Then approaching Annie, 
 he began, " Dearest Annie, this is unexpected. . . ." 
 
 " I have left off expecting anything or caring for 
 anything," she answered. " Perhaps you will give the 
 necessary orders that everything that belonged to my 
 aunt may be packed up and sent .... Oh, Edgar," 
 she suddenly cried, " why did she do this ? " 
 
 " Come with me, Annie," he said ; " come with me 
 into the next room. Let us talk about it." 
 
 He was excited, and proposed this, scarcely know- 
 ing what he should say if she consented ; but she 
 hastily drew away her hands, which he had seized, and 
 dashed them across her eyes to hide the tears that were 
 filling them, and rushed out of the room. Edgar fell 
 on the sofa, and hid his face with his arms. His wife 
 sat down by his side, close to him, not venturing to 
 speak. The same idea was in both their minds. They 
 
574 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 had a vague suspicion that this extraordinary will must 
 be in some way connected with Mrs. Gerald's recent 
 knowledge or suspicion of the facts which had come 
 to their own knowledge. But what the consequences 
 would prove, what the effect would be on Annie of this 
 new wound to her feelings, they could not imagine or 
 foresee. They intensely longed to be by themselves ; 
 both had a terror of hearing Mrs. Langdon speak. But 
 they could not remain where they were, they must 
 make a move. Edgar rose and said, " We had better 
 go now. Only I should like to make one more at- 
 tempt to see Annie." He wrote her a note and sent it 
 up to her room — 
 
 " Dearest Annie, — Do let me or Ita see you. It 
 makes me so unhappy that you will shut yourself up." 
 
 In a moment the servant returned with this one : — 
 
 " Dearest Edgar, — Believe me it is not unkindness. 
 At this moment I could not be unkind to you. But I 
 can only bear things when I am alone. People are 
 different, you know." 
 
 " There is nothing for it," he murmured, and led the 
 way out of the room. 
 
 As soon as they were outside the house, Mr. Langdon 
 exclaimed, " Well, if that good lady's intention was to 
 surprise and puzzle the world after her death, she has 
 succeeded." 
 
 Mrs. Langdon, who was quivering with indignation, 
 and grieved with natural sorrow, answered with a 
 violent calmness, " I am not the least surprised, and 
 not the least puzzled." 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " Edgar inwardly exclaimed, 
 " does she suspect anything ? " And he turned round 
 rather anxiously awaiting her next words. 
 
 "It is as clear as the day ! " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 575 
 
 11 Then she knows nothing," he thought. 
 
 " You said last night, when we were surprised at 
 those people having been asked to the funeral, that 
 Mrs. Walter Sydney " — the emphasis with which the 
 name was uttered was quite terrific — " had been often 
 with your poor aunt during her illness. I have not 
 the slightest doubt on my mind that she made her 
 secretly a Roman Catholic, and persuaded her to leave 
 them her fortune, that she may make it over to the 
 priests. It is just what they all do. It is exactly what 
 one might have expected." 
 
 " But if she wanted to enrich the Papists," Mr. 
 Langdon observed, " she might as well have made 
 Mrs. Derwent her heir." 
 
 " No, the priests would not then have had it. But, 
 Edgar, of course you will contest the will. A codicil 
 made just before a person is taken ill, and her having 
 had a paralytic stroke, too, and lost her speech, and 
 such a will as that — of course it could never stand. 
 She must have been out of her mind. Indeed, for her 
 sake I am sure I hope so. I did not see her often ; 
 but it always struck me there was something very odd 
 about her. I hope this will be a lesson to you, my 
 dear Margaret. It is an awful instance of the power 
 and cunning of your priests." 
 
 This sort of conversation, or rather soliloquy, went 
 on all the rest of the day. The husband and wife 
 could scarcely escape a minute from poor Mrs. Lang- 
 don's presence. Ita felt painfully her mother-in-law's 
 remarks ; but it was an immense, unspeakable comfort 
 that her own secret was now known to Edgar, and that 
 the shafts, whether at random sent, or pointed towards 
 herself, were warded off by the sense of his sympathy. 
 The suspense, however, was most trying. Only twice 
 they got away alone — once into the garden, and once 
 to her room at dressing time. On the former occasion, 
 
576 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 he had just begun saying, " My love, I cannot but 
 think . . . ." and she was hanging breathlessly on his 
 lips to hear what he did think, when steps were heard 
 behind them, and Mrs. Langdon rushed into the shrub- 
 bery with a newspaper in her hand. 
 
 "My dear boy" (it always tried Ita that she would 
 call her great grown-up son, a man of twenty-eight, 
 her boy), "I have just seen this account in the 
 1 Standard,' of the way in which a Romish priest in 
 France induced a Jewish girl to become a Papist. It 
 shows what they can do." 
 
 " My dear mother," Edgar impatiently exclaimed, 
 "there is not the slightest reason to believe that my 
 poor aunt died a Roman Catholic ; and whatever may 
 have been the cause of her making this extraordinary 
 will, the Sydneys are not people that can be suspected 
 of interested plotting in the matter." 
 
 " I do not see that at all. They may not want 
 money themselves, though there is nobody too rich 
 not to care for more. But they will give it to build 
 churches and convents. To think of poor Mrs. Gerald 
 having been so foolish — so wickedly foolish ! It makes 
 me quite afraid of what one might do oneself. The 
 pictures, too — all the pictures of her own relatives — to 
 go and leave them to strangers. I wonder how she 
 can rest in her grave." 
 
 This sort of talk went on as long as the walk round 
 the shrubbery lasted, only interrupted by inefficient 
 efforts on the part of Edgar to check its flow. 
 
 " Well, the longest day comes to an end," he said 
 to his wife, as he passed through her room before din- 
 ner. Mr. and Mrs. Langdon were to return to London 
 by the eight o'clock train the next morning. They 
 neither of them could understand the feelings of the 
 young couple, and this was natural enough. It did 
 really seem above human nature that they should not 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 577 
 
 be more indignant or distressed at the terrible disap- 
 pointment they had experienced, and should not utter 
 one word of resentment, or even amazement, at Mrs. 
 Gerald's unaccountable, and apparently unjust testa- 
 mentary disposition. 
 
 " Do you really think, Mr. Langdon, Edgar will not 
 dispute the will ? " she said, as they drove in the pony- 
 chaise to the station. 
 
 " I am like poor Miss Derwent, he answered, lifting 
 up his eyebrows, " I have left off thinking at all." 
 
 After the early breakfast, and the departure of their 
 parents, Edgar and Ita, with a strange sense of relief, 
 set themselves, on the contrary, to think as hard as 
 they could, half to themselves and half aloud. For all 
 their thoughts did not turn on the same subject, Ita 
 revolved in her mind the possibility of what Mrs. 
 Langdon had so indignantly concluded. Perhaps Mrs. 
 Gerald had wished, had intended, to be a Catholic. 
 Perhaps, the wistful, appealing look, so constantly 
 fixed upon her, had been the expression of that desire. 
 She remembered, with a thrill of grateful joy, the 
 pressure of her poor thin hand when she had asked 
 her if she believed whatever God had revealed to His 
 Church ; but she questioned if she ought not to have 
 said more, and done more, and hoped more, for that 
 departing soul. Alas ! how often we have to go over, 
 in remembrance, scenes in which, if we could be placed 
 in them again, we think we should act differently. 
 This may be sometimes true, but as often not. No 
 one is safe from these misgivings ; but may we not 
 trust that, where the whole desire of our souls has 
 been to do right, He will have made all things, even 
 our own mistakes, our blindness, our folly, perhaps, 
 subservient to His purposes of mercy ? Ita wondered 
 that Margaret Sydney had not spoken to her, on the 
 Sunday she spent with her, of her frequent visits to 
 
 L L 
 
57 8 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Mrs. Gerald. She longed immensely to see her on 
 every account. Edgar's thoughts ran anxiously on 
 the future. He could not but believe that Mrs. Gerald's 
 will had been made in consequence of doubts as to the 
 real state of the case as regarded Ita and Annie, and 
 that, foreseeing the impossibility of investigating the 
 point at issue before her death, she had confided those 
 doubts to the Sydneys, and left her property as a trust 
 in their hands. 
 
 After a long silence, he broke on Ita's thoughts by 
 exclaiming, " Of course, if she foresaw that you would 
 ever be acknowledged to be the rightful possessor of 
 Holmwood, she must have wished to leave her fortune 
 to Annie. But what will be the next step ? " 
 
 V Do you still mean to go to London and see Madame 
 Ranolfi ? " 
 
 H I am inclined to do so. It seems to me that we 
 ought to get together all the evidence we can, and then 
 form a decision." 
 
 " Mrs. Sydney asked me yesterday if we would not 
 both come to Grantley Manor for a while. I said I 
 would speak to you about it and let her know ; but at 
 this moment it would be, I suppose, very embarrassing, 
 even if you had no objection . . . ." 
 
 " I could not go there under any circumstances," 
 Edgar quickly replied. He was conscious that his 
 misery about Ita's change of religion, was less keen, 
 and that he was beginning to care about it much less 
 than at first. In spite of himself, other anxieties and 
 cares, he scarcely allowed himself to call them hopes, 
 blunted the edge of what had at first seemed so acute. 
 But when it was proposed to him to go and stay at 
 Grantley Manor, he felt he must make a stand. 
 
 " You might have gone there whilst I was in Lon- 
 don," he added, " if it had not been for this complica- 
 tion. The whole state of affairs is so strange, what 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 579 
 
 with what we know and what we do not know, that it 
 quite bewilders one. And that dear, dear one there — 
 our poor Annie .... for whom I have such a strong 
 affection .... Oh, my own Ita, will others ever know 
 who she is and who you are ! " 
 
 This was said with all his old tenderness. The 
 tight feeling in her heart was loosened. The joys of 
 other days beamed in her eyes ; she rested her head 
 on his shoulder ; she looked at the view of Holmwood 
 House, and at the windows of Annie's solitary home, 
 that home she had once reckoned on sharing with 
 Edgar. How could she ever make amends to that poor 
 lone being ? Surely not by driving her from that very 
 home. 
 
 " Oh ! God will find a way out of it ! " she ex- 
 claimed, with a sort of childish faith which made her 
 husband smile. He had guessed what had passed 
 through her mind. 
 
 " Oh, I hope this is not somebody coming to call 
 here at this hour," she exclaimed, when, as the stable 
 clock was striking eleven, a carriage was heard driving 
 up to the door. 
 
 Edgar looked out of the window. " It is Mrs. 
 Sydney," he said, and both felt a little agitated. 
 
 Margaret Sydney was one of those persons to whom 
 God has given one of His best and highest natural 
 gifts — a sunny, sweet temper ; and His Holy Spirit had 
 engrafted upon that charming nature its fruits of 
 charity, joy, benignity, and goodness. In youth her 
 presence had been a sunbeam ; in maturer age it had 
 ever proved a light in darkness to the sorrowful, a 
 sheltering cover to the helpless. The gladsome spirits 
 that had made Grantley Manor and Heron Castle ring 
 with merriment in former days, had been subdued, 
 never saddened. She had been happy as the day is 
 long with her old Walter — the chosen husband of her 
 
5 8o MRS, GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 heart ; she had borne away from the death-bed of her 
 sister Ginevra the Catholic faith, that well-spring of 
 happiness which does not ebb with age ; and she had 
 gone on her way rejoicing through the sunshine and 
 clouds of many a long year, " her children rising up 
 and calling her blessed, and her husband praising her." 
 Wherever she went, peace seemed to follow — what- 
 ever she did seemed to prosper. 
 
 As she came into the little drawing-room of the 
 Vicarage, there was a kindness in her glance, some- 
 thing in her manner which conveyed sympathy without 
 expressing it, that at once dispelled the embarrassment 
 of those she came to see. They felt there was nothing 
 but good-will in that heart. Ita thought she would be 
 "the way out of it" God would find. She sat down 
 by her, and Edgar stood near them. 
 
 " Do sit down," she said, " we have so much to talk 
 about. I have so much to tell you." 
 
 First she gave them an account of the intimacy 
 which had sprung up, whilst they were in Italy, be- 
 tween her and Mrs. Gerald. " She liked me to come 
 and see her very often, and always talked to me a great 
 deal about you." This she said turning to Ita, whose 
 heart was beating fast. 
 
 " She was very fond of you . . . ." Margaret hesi- 
 tated, and looked earnestly at Ita, who turned red and 
 then pale. "Ever since she had known you she 
 thought you like a picture in her room ? . . . . Do you 
 know the one I mean ? " 
 
 Edgar had turned away, and stood at the window 
 with his back to them. Margaret put her arm round 
 Ita's waist, drew her close to herself, and said, " Do 
 you at all guess what else she fancied ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, we know about it. You need not be afraid 
 to speak," Ita answered, the tears streaming down her 
 cheeks. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 581 
 
 " Well, then, I will at once tell you that she had 
 been long tormented by the consciousness of this ex- 
 traordinary likeness, and since she heard from Lady 
 Emily where you were found in infancy, the impression 
 grew so strong that she could never shake it off again, 
 and it made her quite miserable. I feel that I am at 
 liberty to tell you now all that she said to me in con- 
 fidence ; for the last time we ever met, her last words 
 to me were, ' If I should die suddenly, do as you think 
 right about making use of all I have told you.' Well, 
 there had been in her mind a misgiving throughout 
 that it was not absolutely certain that Annie was her 
 niece. She had so passionately wished to believe it at 
 the time, that with her naturally anxious mind, she 
 kept fearing this might have influenced her. Still the 
 fact about the initials on the clothes did seem quite 
 conclusive." (Edgar and Ita glanced at each other.) 
 " And then two persons, you know, on oath had borne 
 testimony to Annie's identity. I used to remind her of 
 this, but she would argue with me by the hour, that 
 your likeness to Mrs. Derwent was so striking, your 
 voice, your way of walking, many little peculiarities 
 about you so remarkable, that she could not help being 
 distracted with doubts and misgivings. By W T alter's 
 advice I suggested to her to try, as secretly as possible, 
 to procure any possible further evidence on the sub- 
 ject ; and if this did not succeed, to let the matter 
 alone, as it would be cruel to raise a question which 
 there would be no means of solving. She did, I 
 believe, make some inquiries." 
 
 " I suppose," Ita said, " that she must have been the 
 person who, under the name of Dallas, wrote to the 
 priest at Colla." 
 
 " Yes ; I now remember that she said so. It was 
 painful to observe how this anxiety took more and 
 more possession of her mind, and poor Annie must 
 
582 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 have suffered from it also. Sometimes, as if to make up 
 to her for her misgivings, she used (this she told me 
 herself) to show her all the same passionate affection 
 she had felt, and in some sense did, I think, still feel, 
 for her ; but at others, though she reproached herself 
 intensely for it, there came over her a terrible coldness 
 — a feeling that Annie was occupying the place of her 
 own brother's child. I am afraid this was sometimes 
 so strong that Annie was astonished and angered 
 at her manner to her." 
 
 " Poor, poor Annie ! " Edgar ejaculated, " it was, 
 then, perpetual self-reproach that tormented Mrs. 
 Gerald." 
 
 " She knew herself to be in a ve^ precarious state 
 of health, and was uneasy about her will. Her idea 
 was that if the question was never raised about you 
 and Annie, and she remained in possession of Holm- 
 wood and the Derwent property, she should of course 
 wish to leave Mr. Derwent her fortune ; but, on the 
 other hand, if Annie was ever proved not to be her 
 brother's child, she was of course most anxious to pro- 
 vide for her. She was often contriving expedients to 
 meet this difficult)', but they all seemed open to some 
 objections. She proposed at last what she has actually 
 done, and said that she should leave it to us, to do the 
 best we could under the circumstances. I am come to 
 consult with you both on the subject. Walter would 
 have come, but he is laid up with the gout. Now tell 
 me .... what do you think ? You see there is 
 nothing to go upon but her own impression. I see 
 myself the likeness she spoke of in the strongest 
 manner .... but, of course, there is no proof in 
 that . . . ." 
 
 M Dear Mrs. Sydney," Ita said in a low voice, " there 
 are other proofs, though I do not know if they would 
 be conclusive." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 583 
 
 She then gave her the various details connected 
 with Mariana's history, and Madame Ranolfi's nar- 
 rative; and told her of the initials on her own baby- 
 clothes. 
 
 Margaret listened with eagerness, and when she had 
 heard all, drew a deep breath, and said, •* I do not see 
 how there can be a doubt on the point, though, of 
 course, I do not know if it could be legally proved' 
 Oh, Ita," she exclaimed, throwing her arms round 
 her neck, " how strange it seems. I wonder what poor 
 Mrs. Gerald would have done if she had known all 
 this ? " 
 
 " I cannot help thinking she knew part of it. I saw 
 on her table, the day she was taken ill and you brought 
 me back, a letter which I am almost sure was from 
 Madame Ranolfi, and some days before one directed 
 to Mrs. Dallas." 
 
 " Should we find them, I wonder ? " 
 
 " We put them in her bureau the day after her 
 death — Annie then took charge of the keys." 
 
 " She sent over that bureau and everything that 
 could be moved at a moment's notice, last night to 
 Grantley Manor. We can look for them when I go 
 home. If she did receive some intelligence decisive to 
 her own mind as to that question, I can quite conceive 
 that the shock may have killed her. The reaction of 
 her feelings about Annie, even while it was only a 
 suspicion, was sometimes so strong — the possibility of 
 having ever to disown and, as it were, despoil her, 
 was like an oppressive nightmare to poor Mrs. Gerald. 
 I remember her saying to me one day, ' I could never, 
 under any circumstances, make up my mind to utter 
 the words that would ruin my poor dear child. If it 
 must be known, let it be when I am dead.' Yet all 
 the time there was a yearning tenderness towards you. 
 I think she was more convinced than she even owned 
 
584 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 to me that you were her niece. There certainly was 
 never a more extraordinary complication of circum- 
 stances, or a more distracting one to a nature like hers. 
 Her feelings about Holmwood were so strong too. I 
 suppose that codicil was a sort of expedient to satisfy 
 her conscience." 
 
 " How terribly she must have suffered ! " Edgar 
 said. " No wonder she looked so careworn, and some- 
 times so sad." 
 
 "Walter told me to say, Mr. Derwent, that of course 
 what Mrs. Gerald left in trust to him till some change 
 happens, that is, the interest of the twenty thousand 
 pounds, is at your disposal. If the truth is ever posi- 
 tively known and acted upon, then we would* make 
 over that sum to Annie with the arrears. This was 
 what he suggested." 
 
 " I cannot look forward to dispossessing her ; I do 
 not see how we could do it," Edgar exclaimed, looking 
 at his wife. 
 
 " And why should we ? " she eagerly answered, 
 " especially now that we are so well provided for." 
 
 " I suppose it is a very difficult question," Margaret 
 said. 
 
 " Ita trusts in God to show us a way out of it," he 
 said with an affectionate smile. " Meanwhile, I think 
 I ought to get all the evidence I can. We should 
 satisfy our own minds as much as possible on the sub- 
 ject. I mean to go to London to-morrow and see this 
 Mrs. Ranolfi." 
 
 " And I will look over poor Mrs. Gerald's papers. 
 May Ita come to me while you are in London ? " 
 
 " Yes, most willingly, if only you will both look 
 after poor Annie, and, if possible, get her to see you. 
 She is in a sad state, a dull, hard, hopeless dejection." 
 
 " We will drive over every day till we succeed." 
 
 Before Mrs. Sydney went away, Ita took her into 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE 585 
 
 the garden, and asked her if Mrs. Gerald had shown 
 any disposition to become a Catholic. 
 
 " I cannot exactly say she did," was her reply. 
 " She had a great craving for Confession. She often 
 told me that in her state of mind it would be an un- 
 speakable comfort to disclose her doubts and anxieties 
 to a priest. * This shows one so much,' she used to 
 say, ' how vain it is to talk of Confession to Anglican 
 clergymen. How could I speak of such a secret and 
 important thing as this to men who hear confessions 
 on their own authority, and whose fitness for it has 
 not been tested and examined as is the case with your 
 priests. Take me, for instance, at this moment — I 
 must either send for a complete stranger, whom no 
 bishop, nobody but himself, has empowered to act as 
 a confessor, or for some clergyman I know. There 
 is not one I am acquainted with in whom I could put 
 such confidence, or who would indeed agree to hear a 
 confession in your sense of the word, except Edgar 
 himself. With you it is so different. How can con- 
 fession be safe in a Church in which it is not author- 
 ized?'" 
 
 " But still she did not wish to see a Catholic 
 priest ? " 
 
 " Sometimes she spoke of it ; at one moment I really 
 thought she meant to do so, but she put it off. Human 
 respect, I think, prevented it ; the dread of Annie's 
 surprise and the remarks of the servants." 
 
 " I hope," Ita said, " and yet .... I ought not 
 perhaps to say I hope, she did not wish it when it was 
 too late, for God may have accepted the desire for the 
 act. If I had only asked her that question ! " 
 
 " Dearest Ita, God is our loving and kind Father. 
 If that thought was in her mind during those speech- 
 less hours, it may have been His will that she should 
 expiate, by the inability to express it, her delay in 
 
586 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 seeking that grace. There are so many persons now 
 who mean some day or other to be Catholics, who be- 
 lieve that if there is any true Church it is the Catholic 
 Church, and who put off, day by day, taking the de- 
 cisive step. It makes one so anxious for them. In 
 this case, those hours of consciousness, that pressure 
 of the hand twice repeated which you told me of, fill 
 one with hope. I suppose, dearest, that you guessed 
 the secret of that extraordinary will ? If you had had 
 no suspicions, how strange it would have seemed to 
 you. By the way, do you think any idea of the kind 
 has ever crossed Annie's mind ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell ; I should think not ; and if so, how 
 hurt she must be." 
 
 " How can we prevent her sending us the pictures, 
 and the plate and books ? Do you think I might 
 write her a line to say that I hope she will not do so 
 till I have had an opportunity of speaking to her. 
 The worst is, that she must be, I think, very much 
 embittered against us." 
 
 " I think you had better not write to her to-day. 
 Edgar will try and see her this afternoon, and he 
 might say something about it from you." 
 
 " Yes, beg him to do so. I shall come and fetch 
 you to-morrow. Will it be your parting with this 
 house ? " 
 
 " Yes," Ita answered, her eyes filling with tears. 
 " I could hardly have believed I could have borne it 
 so quietly ; but whatever happens, it is well that 
 Edgar's mind is so taken up with these important 
 thoughts just now. It seems to break the pain of our 
 parting with this place. And our future now, after 
 all, is a bright one. But that dear Annie, what is to 
 become of her ? " 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Some time had elapsed since the conversation related 
 in the last chapter. Edgar Derwent had been to 
 London, had seen Madame Ranolfi, and heard from 
 her lips the same statement she had made to Ita, and 
 which was contained also in a letter found in Mrs'. 
 Gerald's bureau. From the date of this letter, it 
 seemed probable that the agitation it must have occa- 
 sioned to a mind and a frame already much weakened, 
 had led to the seizure which had ended in death. By 
 the sick woman's desire, the priest, who had attended 
 her since she had left the Anglican home, saw Edgar, 
 and assured him that he believed the statement to be 
 true, and Madame Ranolfi perfectly in her right senses. 
 By his advice he obtained from her a formal statement 
 of the facts she had related, which was read and signed 
 before two witnesses. At the same time Mr. Neville 
 wrote to one of his friends at Mentone, who procured 
 an attestation from Antonia, the housekeeper at the 
 Villa Hendon, that the clothes marked with the initials 
 " A. D.," which were in Ita's possession, were the same 
 which Giovanni Piombo had declared on oath to be 
 those which she wore when he had picked her up at 
 sea. This was also confirmed by another old servant 
 who had been in Lady Emily Hendon's service at the 
 time that Ita came to live with her. The Abate 
 Giovanni took down at the same time, in writing, the 
 facts which seemed to have remained impressed with 
 
588 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 some degree of accuracy in poor Mariana's memory, 
 and the whole was sent to England. 
 
 Edgar then made up his mind to consult, in strict 
 confidence, some lawyer, and after a little hesitation, 
 resolved to lay the subject before his stepfather. He 
 knew him to be not only a very able man and clever 
 lawyer, but also perfectly honest. He did not like 
 him, but this seemed, at this moment, a minor con- 
 sideration. He had not the least apprehension that he 
 would reveal anything on the subject to Mrs. Langdon. 
 Besides his professional obligation to secresy, he was 
 the last man who would have told a woman a secret, 
 and his wife the last woman to whom he would have 
 Confided one. So Edgar went one morning to Lowndes 
 Square, and, to Mrs. Langdon's infinite surprise, was 
 shut up for three hours with her husband. 
 
 To his great amazement, Edgar found that Mr. 
 Langdon was far more interested than astonished at 
 the facts he mentioned to him. Some idea had crossed 
 his mind more than once, that the evidence on which 
 Annie's identity had rested was not perfectly satis- 
 factory. When, as she grew up, not the least likeness 
 to any member of the family had been discernible, he 
 had frequently pondered on his original misgivings. 
 With a lawyer's keenness, he had often balanced 
 in his mind the possibility of proving that Edgar was 
 the real heir to the Derwent property. When the mar- 
 riage between him and his supposed cousin was ar- 
 ranged, there seemed little object in pursuing this 
 idea. When it was broken off, and his engagement 
 to Ita Flower announced, and his wife lamented over 
 his marriage to a girl whose parentage was unknown, 
 and who had been picked up at sea on the coast of 
 Italy, he mentally ejaculated, "What are the odds, I 
 wonder, that she is not the real girl ? " Neither he nor 
 his wife had seen or heard of Mrs. Robert Derwent's 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 589 
 
 picture ; but it so happened, as he had told Ita the 
 last time he was at Holmwood, that he had known 
 that lady before her marriage, and been struck with 
 her beauty. The first time Miss Flower had been in- 
 troduced to him after her engagement to Edgar, he 
 observed her likeness to the pretty Maud Ardon he 
 had once so much admired, and then he said to him- 
 self, " Now, I should not mind taking odds that she is 
 the real girl." 
 
 When all the evidence, as it now stood, was placed 
 before him, he rubbed his hands, and said, " Well, my 
 dear sir" (he had never been on a familiar footing 
 with his stepson), " I suppose we may prepare for a 
 cause celebre, that will keep for months, or years, per- 
 haps, all England in suspense. Possession on the one 
 hand, Mrs. Gerald's constant belief in Miss Annie's 
 identity, and the testimony of competent witnesses 
 having supported it at the time ; on the other hand, 
 this Italian Madame's declaration. But, then, you 
 know, you might have bribed that person ; then the 
 initials on your wife's night-gown, ay, and her like- 
 ness to the picture — but people differ so much about 
 likenesses ! No ; it is not strong in point of law. And 
 then, O Lord bless us ! your wife has turned, is a 
 Papist, and Miss Annie a staunch Protestant. It would 
 be Protestant versus Catholic ! There would not be a 
 chance of getting a verdict in our favour ! " 
 
 " I quite agree with you, and I scarcely like to say, 
 after your decided opinion that we should not succeed, 
 that we have never thought of trying the case." 
 
 " / never said you should not try it. More evidence 
 might, perhaps, be obtained in Italy. That Caterina 
 may have spoken to others besides Madame Thingabob. 
 Then will Mrs. Sydney bear witness to Mrs. Gerald's 
 doubts ? Only she is a Papist again — a plague on it ! 
 She would, of course, be in the plot. Mrs. Gerald's 
 
590 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 will would go some way, however, in supporting her 
 evidence. No ; you must not give it up in a hurry. 
 There is a good deal against your establishing your 
 wife's claim, but it is not hopeless." 
 
 " But what I mean is, that neither Ita nor I can 
 bear the idea not only of going to law about it, but 
 even of letting Annie know of this doubt. You must 
 remember how excessively kind she has been to us ; 
 and yet you do not know all we owe her." 
 
 " Oh, if it is an affair of sentiment, do not talk to 
 me," Mr. Langdon replied, taking a pinch of snuff. 
 " I have nothing to say to those sort of consider- 
 ations. They are out of my line. Please your- 
 selves." 
 
 " As to a trial, that is impossible ; but it had oc- 
 curred to me that, if the whole matter was laid before 
 Annie, she might agree to submit the point to arbitra- 
 tion — to the judgment of a certain number of straight- 
 forward, unprejudiced men, who would examine the 
 evidence, and . . . ." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! my dear sir ; they would not agree. 
 Unpleasantness, that significant word, would have been 
 created, and no result obtained. Better leave things 
 as they are than that." 
 
 " Then they must remain as they are ; I do not see 
 how it can be helped." 
 
 " And if Miss Annie, when she has got over this 
 fit of moping — remember she is only twenty-two or 
 twenty-three, which is it ? — takes into her head to 
 marry some low scamp. ..." 
 
 " She would never do that." 
 
 " And why should not she ? There is nobody to 
 care for, or to look after her. I cannot conceive a 
 more wretched creature than an heiress without a 
 scrap of a relative to see that she is not snapped 
 up by some adventurer . . . ." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 591 
 
 " You forget that we are both devotedly attached to 
 her." 
 
 " But she won't see you. Now you have given up 
 your living, you will live somewhere else. There she 
 will stay in solitary grandeur till some vulgar attorney, 
 or the old doctor, or a foreign count, perhaps, make 
 their way to Holmwood, and a family of children 
 of that ilk perpetuate the old line of the Derwents." 
 
 All this was very disagreeable ; but there was some 
 truth in it. Annie, with fifteen hundred a year, would 
 probably be a happier person than with the responsi- 
 bility of a property of twelve thousand a year. But 
 would she think so herself? Once she might ; but now 
 she was changed, estranged, and it was impossible to 
 foresee what the effect might be upon her of such a 
 revelation as the one in question. 
 
 Edgar took leave of his stepfather, and parried 
 all his mother's endeavours to discover what they 
 had been talking of. He told her, however, that 
 Mrs. Gerald's fortune had been left in trust in 
 Mr. Sydney's hands. 
 
 " And why could not you be trusted with your own 
 money? " she not unnaturally exclaimed. 
 
 " There are certain arrangements involved in it," 
 he answered, " that made this desirable. The Sydneys 
 have been as kind as possible." 
 
 " I do not see what business they had with it at all. 
 However, if you are satisfied, I have nothing more to 
 say. I am quite contented." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Langdon neither felt nor looked the 
 content she expressed, and brooded all day on the 
 stupid way people had of making secrets of things. 
 
 It would have been too inconvenient not to go to 
 Grantley Manor, for Edgar to persevere in his inten- 
 tion of declining for himself the invitation to join Ita. 
 It was the only place, within reach of Holmwood, 
 
592 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 where they could stay for the present ; and his duty 
 with regard to Annie overbalanced other considera- 
 tions. Week after week they lingered there, becom- 
 ing every day more attached to the Sydneys, and 
 feeling their hearts more touched by Walter's gentle, 
 thoughtful goodness, and Margaret's overflowing kind- 
 ness. 
 
 Ita was very grateful. Day by day she saw Edgar's 
 prejudices diminishing. Now that he was removed 
 for awhile from the scene of his labours, and from the 
 ceaseless antagonism of Anglican dissensions, a soften- 
 ing influence stole over him. She saw that he read 
 less controversy, that he wrote fewer letters to 
 newspapers, but that he prayed more, and sometimes 
 for hours remained in the chapel on his knees before 
 the altar with his face buried in his hands. He was 
 very unhappy about Annie. She did not refuse to 
 see him or Ita, either alone or together ; but these 
 visits seemed only to give her pain. She spoke 
 little, and with effort. She looked wretchedly ill, 
 and became alarmingly thin. He spoke to the 
 servants and found that she ate hardly anything ; 
 all energy, all spirits seemed to have left her. She 
 had generally a Bible by her side, but when he tried to 
 talk to her about religion she changed the subject. 
 
 Once she said, with a forced smile, "My only com- 
 plaint against you is, that you took away the religion 
 of my childhood. You destroyed my simple faith in 
 the Bible, which I used to read, foolishly enough, as 
 if it had dropped from the skies, and you did not give 
 any other instead." 
 
 Edgar felt deeply pained. " Dearest Annie," he 
 said, " I tried to make you believe, as I did myself, in 
 the Catholic religion taught by our Church." 
 
 She raised her dull, melancholy eyes, and said, 
 " Your Church had taught me Protestantism. But I 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 593 
 
 did not mean to speak of that. I am too weak and 
 tired to argue." 
 
 Some days elapsed, and one afternoon Edgar met 
 the physician, who had attended the family at Holm- 
 wood for a great number of years. The old man said 
 to him — ■ 
 
 " Have you seen your cousin lately, Mr. Derwent ? 
 I was with her yesterday. I cannot help feeling very 
 anxious about her. She will die if she does not make 
 some change in her mode of life." 
 
 Edgar shuddered. It was a morbid fancy, but it 
 seemed almost as if they were killing Annie ; but what 
 could they do ? 
 
 The physician went on — "She neither sleeps nor 
 eats ; she never goes out ; she does not come to church, 
 though she could do so if she tried ; she is not so weak 
 as utterly prostrated. But it will end in atrophy ; un- 
 less she has very soon change of air and scene, I 
 cannot answer for the consequences." 
 
 " Have you told her so ? " 
 
 " Repeatedly ; but she always refuses, and when I 
 try to alarm her she only smiles." 
 
 " I have also done my utmost," Edgar said, " but 
 she will not even listen to me. She shuts my mouth 
 directly, and seems hurt and annoyed if I persist." 
 
 H Who has influence with her ? " 
 
 " Nobody," Edgar answered, with a sigh. 
 
 " She really is killing herself," the doctor rejoined. 
 
 Edgar did not say it aloud, but he thought, " That 
 is, perhaps, what she intends." 
 
 As he entered the grounds at Grantley Manor, he 
 saw his wife and the Sydneys sitting on a bench on 
 the terrace. They were looking the picture of hap- 
 piness. Margaret's last baby was on her knees, and 
 Ita shaking before it a bunch of roses, the falling 
 leaves of which the fat little hands were trying to 
 
 M M 
 
594 
 
 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 catch. At each failure there were shouts of delight. 
 Ita was blushing and laughing. Mrs. Sydney had 
 just whispered to her, " By this time next year, a 
 Master or Miss Derwent will, I hope, be catching 
 rose-leaves here." 
 
 Edgar stopped, and mused on that picture, and on 
 the one the old doctor had drawn of that Annie whom 
 he had played with as a child, whom he had always 
 loved, whom he had been affianced to once, and who 
 had always ever been to him the most faithful, devoted, 
 and generous of friends. There was his blooming, 
 lovely wife, whom Annie had given to him — to him her 
 own betrothed. The hope of a great and holy joy was 
 beaming in her face, and filling her heart with grateful 
 happiness, his own with tender emotion. Once he 
 would have told that news to Annie, and felt sure of 
 her sympathy. Now, in presence of her great, stern 
 grief, he had not felt courage to do so. 
 
 There they were happy — yes, for the cloud over- 
 shadowing their lives seemed to be gradually dwindling 
 away in the light that was slowly dawning upon him. 
 There they were, loving and loved, with kind friends 
 and pleasant hopes ; and there she was friendless and 
 alone, a blight on her young life, a dark shadow on her 
 heart ; ill, weak, perhaps dying, and with no settled 
 faith, no heavenly hopes. The contrast at that mo- 
 ment struck him so terribly, that, as he advanced 
 towards them, both Mrs. Sydney and Ita were 
 frightened at the expression of his countenance. 
 
 " Has anything happened ? " Ita exclaimed. 
 
 " No," he said ; " nothing. But I have met Dr. Law- 
 renson. He gives a sad account of Annie." He 
 repeated what the physician had said, and there was 
 a sad silence when he had done speaking. He seemed 
 so deeply affected, that nobody was inclined to utter. 
 
 At last, old Walter, as his wife called him, with 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 595 
 
 somewhat more justice then than in former days, said, 
 " It strikes me that you are all making a very great mis- 
 take." They all looked towards him surprised. " Yes, 
 it appears to me that you are letting this poor girl die, 
 when you might save her life." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " they all exclaimed. 
 
 " Why, I mean that you are afraid, because she is 
 sad and weak, to tell her what might give her new 
 life." 
 
 There was another silence ; they anxiously listened 
 for his next words, and Margaret's eyes sparkled with 
 an expression that seemed to say, " Well done, old 
 Walter ! " 
 
 " If you look back to her past life you must own that 
 her ruling passion has been . . . ." 
 
 " Her love of Holmwood ! " Edgar said with a deep 
 sigh. 
 
 " Not a bit of it. The desire to make Holmwood a 
 blessing and a home for you. It is of no use not to 
 speak out. Truth is always the best policy, in matters 
 of feeling as well as of interest. Your marriage pre- 
 vented Holmwood House from being your home. She 
 created another for you, and circumstances have made 
 you abandon it. It is quite as likely as not that, if she 
 was to hear of the doubts that exist as to her own 
 birth, and the likelihood that your wife is really the 
 person she is supposed to be, it would be a relief to 
 her." 
 
 11 But then it might be just the contrary," Edgar said. 
 
 " There is another view of the. subject," Mr. Sydney 
 observed, " which I think you have all too much over- 
 looked ! " 
 
 " What is that ? " Ita asked. 
 
 " Why, if you, Mrs. Derwent, are the daughter of 
 the Robert Derwents, Annie must be the daughter of 
 the poor woman at Mentone. Are you justified, when 
 
596 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 there is such strong apparent evidence, that such is the 
 case — to keep the child from her mother, the mother 
 from her child? " 
 
 " Would it not be terrible for Annie ? " Margaret 
 asked. " Would it not be a painful struggle to have to 
 own a mother in that rank of life ? " 
 
 " What sort of person is she ? " Walter Sydney 
 asked, turning to Ita. 
 
 " She is very gentle, and pious, and refined, in her 
 simple way, as Italians often are. If I thought she 
 was my mother, I should not be at all reluctant to 
 own her. What she has gone through has somewhat 
 affected her memory, but not her understanding." 
 
 " I do not think I could ever have courage to let 
 Annie know how the case stands," Edgar said. 
 
 " We must talk about it again later," Margaret re- 
 plied. " I must now take baby home." 
 
 The next day, when Mrs. Sydney came down to 
 breakfast, she found a letter on the table, which seemed, 
 when she had opened it, to make her very thoughtful. 
 After reading it two or three times over, she gave it to 
 her husband with a significant look, and was, contrary 
 to her custom, grave, and absent as long as she re- 
 mained in the breakfast-room. When she left it, Walter 
 followed her into her own little den, as she called it. 
 She immediately said to him, " Why do you think she 
 wants to see me?" 
 
 " It is impossible to guess," he answered. " It may 
 be that Mrs. Gerald's will preys on her mind, and gives 
 her some suspicion. You had better go at once, Maggy, 
 and if she gives you an opportunity, and, indeed, I 
 should say, in any case, tell her the whole truth." 
 
 " You think so ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I think it would, at the same time, be well 
 to make it appear, which indeed is the case, that there 
 would not be, in all probability, sufficient evidence to 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 597 
 
 invalidate her position in the eyes of the law. But I 
 am sure it is fair and right to place the facts, just as 
 we know them, before her. Indeed, I think it may be 
 the means of saving her life." 
 
 " But if, on the contrary, I should do her harm ? " 
 
 " Well, my dear love, you can only do the best you 
 can. Her physician says she will die if something does 
 not rouse her and change her present state of mind 
 and mode of life. It is not from any selfish motives 
 you will take this step ; not even in the worldly interest 
 of your friends ; for if poor Annie was roused to some 
 violent feeling of opposition by this disclosure, it might 
 do what is wished, and benefit her health. It would 
 be as well, however, if you were to stop on the way at 
 Doctor Lawrenson's house. He is almost always at 
 home till eleven. You would just catch him. Tell him 
 that what he said to Edgar yesterday about Miss Der- 
 went has made us all anxious. Ask his opinion as to 
 the effect which an exciting and perhaps a painful 
 subject of thought might have upon her, and act ac- 
 cordingly." 
 
 " Pray for me, that if I do speak, I may say just 
 what I ought, and in the best way." 
 
 " Shall I order the pony-chaise for you?" 
 
 " Yes, and I suppose I had better not let the Der- 
 wents know anything about her note, and my intention 
 of speaking to her ? " 
 
 " Certainly not ; it is kinder to them to take the 
 responsibility on ourselves." 
 
 " I wish you could go instead of me." 
 
 " Not now that she has asked to see you ; and then 
 you forget my gouty foot. God bless you, little 
 woman." 
 
 Mrs. Sydney drove up to the door of Doctor Law- 
 renson's house just as he was getting into his gig. 
 They both went back into his parlour, and after talk- 
 
59§ MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 ing some time about Annie's state of health, she put 
 to him, confidentially, the question she wished an- 
 swered. 
 
 He mused a little, and then said, "My dear Madam, 
 to rouse her interest in anything, whether painful or 
 not, is an object at this moment. I have no hesitation 
 in saying that, if the present state of things lasts much 
 longer, she will not live. It has struck me that the 
 poor young lady must have something on her mind, 
 beyond her grief for her good aunt's death. She ought 
 to have change of some sort, and as she is too old to be 
 carried out of the house against her will, a shock of 
 any kind seems the only chance of rousing her. If she 
 should seem too much agitated by anything you may 
 have to communicate, send for me, I shall be at home 
 again in the course of the afternoon." 
 
 This opinion settled Mrs. Sydney's remaining doubts, 
 and she made up her mind that speak she must ; but 
 sometimes a thing seems tolerably easy at a distance, 
 which, when the moment draws near, becomes difficult, 
 if not impossible. During the hour that it took to drive 
 from the doctor's house to Holmwood, poor Mrs. Syd- 
 ney felt every instant more intensely the difficulty of the 
 task she had undertaken. If Annie did not lead to 
 the subject, she began to doubt the possibility of broach- 
 ing it. If she had felt this before she saw her, she 
 was far more strongly impressed with it on entering 
 the drawing-room, where poor Annie was sitting alone 
 in an arm-chair, looking so pale, thin, and wan, and 
 her eyes so unnaturally large, that she looked like the 
 shadow of her former self. A short, nervous cough 
 shook her feeble frame, and it required a strong effort 
 on Margaret Sydney's part to suppress her emotion. 
 Annie's greeting was, however, so cold and formal, that 
 it enabled her to regain composure. They spoke of 
 indifferent things, and then Mrs. Sydney said, " You 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 599 
 
 are not looking well ; you really ought to take care of 
 yourself, or to let us all take care of you. If I could 
 only persuade you to come to us ! " 
 
 " Thank you very much. I do not feel well enough 
 to pay visits." 
 
 " But we have only got Edgar and Ita with us." 
 
 " Yes, I know they are staying with you." 
 
 '• Will you not think of it ? " 
 
 " No, thank you, I like better being at home." 
 
 The word struck on Mrs. Sydney's heart. " Could 
 she bring herself to hint that Holmwood was perhaps 
 not her home ? " 
 
 "*But you may become seriously ill, your doctor 
 says so, if you have not change of air and scene." 
 
 " Much he knows about it. Besides . . . ." she 
 paused, and a sudden emotion passed over the pale 
 stern face. 
 
 " Besides what?" Margaret exclaimed, seizing Annie's 
 cold hand, which was not withdrawn though it did not 
 return the pressure of her own. 
 
 No answer came. 
 
 " I can understand that it would be an effort to 
 leave Holmwood .... It is looking so beautiful just 
 now . . . ." she added, getting nervous, and hardly 
 knowing what to say. 
 
 " Does it ? " Annie listlessly asked. 
 
 " Do you really never go out ? " 
 
 " No, I hate the sight of everything here. I cannot 
 bear to look at the churchyard where she is buried 
 or at the house they have left. It is all hateful to 
 me." 
 
 " Then why, oh, why will you not, why will you not 
 leave it for awhile ? " 
 
 " Because I want to go away for ever." 
 
 Margaret inwardly started. What did those words 
 mean ? 
 
6oo MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 But Annie added in a low, hoarse voice, " Because, 
 I want to die." 
 
 Shocked and grieved, Mrs. Sydney said, " Oh dear, 
 dear child, do not say that, it is wrong to throw away 
 health, to seek death in that way. Why do you wish 
 to die ? " 
 
 " Because I have nothing to live for. I can make 
 nobody happy, and I am in the way of other people's 
 happiness. I know I must not kill myself ; people of 
 all religions agree in that, I believe ; but I do not see 
 why I should try to live." 
 
 " We have all something to live for," Mrs. Sydney 
 gently said, still holding her hand. 
 
 "That is what people say, I do not see it myself; 
 but you must wonder why I asked you to come." 
 
 Again Margaret's heart began to beat fast. 
 
 " The fact is that you are the only person, I think, 
 who can tell me why my aunt, who loved me so 
 much . . . ." here Annie's voice trembled, " took a dis- 
 like to me at last . . . ." 
 
 "I am sure she did not," Mrs. Sydney earnestly 
 said. 
 
 " She did, she was quite altered. Sometimes at 
 least. She did nothing but stare at Ita the last days 
 of her life, and why did she leave you those things 
 which you do not want a bit ? If she would only have 
 let me think she loved me as she used to do. I was so 
 accustomed to it . . . ." 
 
 " You miss her affection, her unbounded devotion to 
 you .... you feel very lonely, don't you ? " 
 
 There was an effort on Annie's part to suppress her 
 tears, but it would not do, poor child ! She lifted up 
 her voice and wept long and bitterly. She had disliked 
 Mrs. Sydney for no other reason than because she was 
 a Catholic ; otherwise she would have felt well disposed 
 towards her. She knew that the fortune bequeathed to 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 601 
 
 Mr. Sydney had been made over to Edgar. She was 
 more puzzled than displeased at the strange provisions 
 of her aunt's will, in which it was evident the Sydneys 
 were not personally interested. Her tears flowed un- 
 restrainedly for some time, and Mrs. Sydney ventured 
 to kiss her brow. 
 
 " How hot your head is," she said. 
 
 " Do you think I shall die . . . . ? " 
 
 " No, I do not ; you are young, you ought to live." 
 
 * I wish I was dead." 
 
 " You must not say that." 
 
 " Why not ? There is nobody who would be sorry 
 if I was to die, and they are the worse for my liv- 
 ing .. . ." 
 
 " Are you speaking of Edgar and Ita ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it would be a blessing for them if I was dead. 
 Oh, if you knew how I hate this place I once was so 
 fond of. The sound of the river worries me at night 
 so that I cannot sleep. The cawing of the rooks dis- 
 tract me, and when the agent comes to speak to me 
 about business, I loathe the sight of him. I never was 
 like other girls. I never cared for many people. I 
 was happy those two years that they lived in the Vicar- 
 age, and that I worked in their garden. That was the 
 sort of life that suited me. I felt my aunt loved me, 
 and I was making Edgar happy and comfortable. Oh, 
 I wish I could die." 
 
 Margaret had been inwardly praying for the last 
 few minutes, and then she said very quietly, " I could 
 tell you something that would astonish you very much. 
 That would explain what has puzzled you, but I hardly 
 know if I can venture to do so." 
 
 Annie turned her large wondering eyes upon her. 
 
 " It may startle you very much — pain you, perhaps ; 
 and yet . . . ." 
 
 " What can it be ? " 
 
602 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Mrs. Gerald had some doubts, especially quite 
 at last, whether . . . ." Mrs. Sydney felt her voice 
 failing her, a nervous sensation in her throat, as 
 if she could hardly get out the words — " whether 
 you were, after all, her niece, her brother Robert's 
 daughter." She raised her eyes apprehensively to 
 Annie's face. Her countenance had not changed, 
 though she looked surprised. 
 
 " And who did she suppose I was, then ? " 
 
 " Do you wish me to tell you all I know on the 
 subject ? " 
 
 " Yes, very much." 
 
 ?! She had made sure you were Annie Derwent, 
 because you were saved out of the ship on board 
 of which her brother and his wife perished, and 
 you wore a night-gown marked with the initials 
 1 A. D.,' which she recognized as being one of those of 
 her infant niece. Two persons, also, who came from 
 Florence to Genoa, swore that you were Mr. Derwent's 
 child." 
 
 " Well, and what made her doubt it, then ? " As 
 she asked this, two deep crimson spots rose in Annie's 
 pale cheeks. She was beginning to understand what 
 the question involved. 
 
 " It is a long story," Mrs. Sydney said, for she was 
 anxious not to mention at once Ita's name. " Mrs. 
 Gerald was struck with an extraordinary likeness 
 between her sister-in-law and a person . . . ." 
 
 A sudden emotion shook Annie from head to foot. 
 She seized violently hold of Mrs. Sydney's arm, and 
 gasped out, " Between the picture in her room and Ita ? " 
 
 Mrs. Sydney did not reply. 
 
 " Have I not seen that myself? " Annie continued, 
 rather wildly ; " have I not been struck with it over 
 and over again ? and thought what an extraordinary 
 likeness there was between her fate and mine — 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 603 
 
 that we should have both been saved from drowning 
 in such a strange way, and that she should be so like 
 what my mother must have been. But are there 
 any other proofs . . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Sydney then went on, as calmly and as clearly 
 as she could, under the circumstances, relating the 
 various facts which formed a chain of evidence con- 
 clusive enough to an impartial mind. When Mariana 
 was mentioned, Annie again coloured violently, and 
 drew a deep breath. She had trouble to attend to the 
 details of the narrative. She was evidently musing, 
 in a scarcely collected manner, on the results of this 
 astounding communication, and became very excited. 
 
 " I should be so glad," she said, " I should be 
 so glad. I wonder if it is quite sure." 
 
 Mrs. Sydney hesitated a little about speaking of the 
 mark on the shoulder which Mariana had mentioned. 
 On the whole, she thought it would be better to leave 
 nothing unsaid. 
 
 * There is one circumstance, dear Annie, which 
 might, perhaps, still further corroborate this evidence. 
 Mariana told Ita that her child had fallen on some- 
 thing sharp when she was a little baby, and that the 
 mark of that accident would have been likely to 
 remain." 
 
 " Was it on the shoulder ? " 
 
 " Yes, on the right shoulder." 
 
 " Then there is no doubt at all about it. I have a 
 mark of that kind, not very distinct now, but it used 
 to be so. They said I must have been hurt in the 
 ship. I remember its being talked about when I was 
 little. Look if you can see it." 
 
 Mrs. Sydney did as she wished, and found the faint 
 trace of something like a mark on Annie's shoulder. 
 
 "There can be no doubt now, I suppose," Annie 
 again repeated, her cheeks very much flushed, and in 
 
604 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 a nervous voice. " Will you send for Ita. I want to 
 see her. I want to look at the picture again. Then 
 Holmwood would be theirs at once ? " 
 
 " No, no ; not at once. There would be much to 
 be considered. It is something to think of quietly." 
 
 " Yes, yes — to think of a great deal. Did you say 
 that that poor Mariana is at Mentone ? I wonder 
 when I can see her. Do not go away, Mrs. Sydney. 
 I cannot be left alone now. Will you send for Edgar 
 and Ita ? I want to speak to them. And will you 
 come up with me and look at the picture ? I under- 
 stand now my poor aunt's will. But she is not my 
 aunt, if this is true. It seems very like a dream. I do 
 not want to awake. It is as if I had been dead for 
 some weeks, and was beginning to be alive again. 
 Will you write a note, and tell them to come ? " 
 
 Margaret thought it wisest to comply with the 
 request, and felt a natural desire to be helped in the 
 difficult task of calming Annie's mind, which from the 
 deepest apathy had suddenly passed to a feverish ex- 
 citement, the effects of which, in her weak state, were 
 to be dreaded. 
 
 She insisted on reading over and over again Ma- 
 dame BanolfVs letter, and that of the priest at Colla, 
 which Mrs. Sydney had brought with her. But what 
 had taken most hold of her mind was the thought of 
 Mariana. Margaret could not make out whether she 
 feared most or rejoiced in the idea of finding in her a 
 mother. It may be easily imagined with what feelings 
 Edgar and Ita read Mrs. Sydney's short note. 
 
 " Dearest Ita, — I have told her all. She is very 
 much excited — a little agitated but does not seem at 
 all unhappy ; only too anxious to act in some way or 
 other at once. She wishes you both to come imme- 
 diately to her. All the apathy is gone, I am only 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 605 
 
 afraid of a reaction. Order the carriage, and come at 
 once. I will go home when you arrive." 
 
 When Edgar and his wife reached Holmwood, Mrs. 
 Sydney met them at the door. " I have sent for the 
 doctor," she said. " I am a little anxious about 
 Annie, I think she is at moments light-headed. She 
 has insisted on the picture being brought to her room, 
 and has been asking, every minute, if Ita has come." 
 
 11 Let us go to her," Edgar said. " Oh, my God ! 
 I would give up Holmwood a thousand times over, and 
 for ever, if I could see Annie well." 
 
 They did not see her well for many a long day, 
 and, for a moment, it seemed little likely that she 
 would recover. The sudden excitement produced a 
 fever which affected her head, and poor Mrs. Sydney 
 suffered intensely from the fear that she had endangered 
 her life by informing her of the facts which were so 
 greatly to influence her fate. But her old Walter al- 
 ways said that she had acted for the best, and that she 
 should not grieve too much, whatever the consequences 
 might prove. At last there came a favourable turn in 
 the illness. During the whole course of it, Annie had 
 not suffered Mrs. Derwent's picture to be out of her 
 sight. She had ordered it to be placed so that she 
 could see it from her bed. Her eyes were constantly 
 turning towards it, or looking at Ita, whom she often 
 asked for. When light-headed, she also kept saying 
 that she wanted her mother. The maids thought it 
 was the presence of the portrait that put this into her 
 head. " Poor young lady ! " one of them said to Ita, 
 " now that her aunt is dead, she thinks her mother 
 must be alive. Well, she is left very lonesome, to be 
 
 sure 
 
 One evening, Edgar and Ita were sitting in the next 
 room, while the servants had gone down to supper, 
 
606 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 and they heard her saying, in a low voice, " Edgar, I 
 want to go to my mother." 
 
 Ita put her finger on her lips, and the tears came 
 into her eyes. Edgar went gently up to the bedside 
 and said, " Dearest Annie, you must get well first, and 
 then we will do all you wish." 
 
 She stared at him, and then began, to his great 
 surprise, to hum a little song, which her Italian nurse 
 had taught them both when they were children, but 
 which they had not thought of for years — 
 
 M Se Moneca te fai, 
 To frate me faro, 
 Ma che tu lo farai 
 Nol credo, no Oibo ! " 
 
 The words sounded strangely on the lips of the sick 
 girl ; but it showed that her mind was unconsciously 
 running on Italy. Then she wandered off to some- 
 thing else, and soon afterwards fell asleep. 
 
 Edgar came back to his wife, and said, " Mr. Syd- 
 ney has opened a letter this morning directed to Mrs. 
 Gerald. As her executor, he had a right to do so, and 
 it contains additional evidence that dear Annie is not 
 her niece. It is from Caterina, and was written, or 
 dictated, on her death-bed. Is it not strange that 
 poor Annie should have hummed that song just now ? 
 The account Caterina gives, tallies exactly with the 
 one Madame Ranolfi said she had heard from her. 
 Whoever forwarded the parcel to England, contented 
 himself with true Italian nonchalance, with directing 
 it to La Signora Gerald, Posta Restante, Londra. 
 There it has remained for years. But, the other day, 
 a friend of my stepfather's, while searching for a 
 missing letter at the General Post-Office, saw this one, 
 and sent it here. It contains the same particulars, 
 given almost in the same words. I do not see how 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 6o? 
 
 there can be any further doubt on the subject. I 
 wonder if Caterina ever gave any hint of it to the 
 servants here." 
 
 M I was going to tell you," Ita answered, " that 
 Mrs. Marsden was speaking to me this morning of 
 Annie's illness, and gave it as her opinion — you know 
 her sententious manner — that the poor young lady had 
 something on her mind, and she should not wonder if 
 she had, for strange things had been sometimes men- 
 tioned by certain people. I continued to arrange the 
 flowers as if I had not heard, and she went on to say 
 that Caterina, Annie's Italian nurse, had let fall some 
 curious hints about the hurry Mrs. Gerald had been in 
 to acknowledge her as her niece, and that there were 
 some might have had a better right to stand in Miss 
 Annie's shoes than herself. She had not taken notice 
 of these speeches, for she never talked to anybody, but 
 it had been always a stumbling-block to her — that is 
 one of her favourite words — that their young lady 
 should not be like any of the family. It was so con- 
 trary that she should have grey eyes and a square-like 
 face, for the Derwents had always had blue eyes and 
 round delicate faces. She also said that when Caterina 
 was sent away, she flew out against the English in the 
 steward's room, upon which she herself thought it right 
 to tell her that she should consider it a fortunate day 
 when there was no Italian in the house. ■ For the 
 matter of that,' says she, ' there may be one more Ita- 
 lian in the house than you think for,' and there she 
 stopped." 
 
 " Caterina or Mrs. Marsden ? " 
 
 " Caterina ; but at that moment Annie sent for me, 
 and my talk with Mrs. Marsden came also to an end.' 
 
 Ita paused, and said, " Now I will tell you one 
 thing more. I hope you will not mind my having 
 done it, I was sorry for it afterwards ; it was the im- 
 
608 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 pulse of the moment. I was looking again yesterday 
 — I am ashamed to say how often I do so — at the 
 things and the shawl. When Mrs. Marsden came in 
 to tell me the doctor was with Annie, I could not resist 
 spreading out the shawl, so that she should take notice 
 of it. She looked at it, and said, ' I have never seen 
 you wear this shawl, ma'am. To be sure it is very 
 faded and old, but a fine real Cashmere. I declare 
 now, I remember that poor Mrs. Robert Derwent had 
 just such a one in her trousseau.' Then I felt how 
 foolish I had been, for I knew I looked as red and con- 
 scious as possible, and she must have seen it, and I 
 suppose that is why this morning she began to speak 
 about Caterina's hints." 
 
 Edgar looked grave. " It was almost a pity, I think, 
 you let her see the shawl ; and yet it will, it must, 
 soon be necessary to compare and to weigh all the 
 evidence on the subject. Still one had rather it should 
 not be talked about till Annie is well, and herself takes 
 the lead in the matter. I wonder how far there have 
 been any reports or surmises." 
 
 " Now that I look back I remember often feeling sur- 
 prised that the servants here, the two or three old ones 
 I mean, who have been in the family for twenty and 
 thirty years, did not appear more fond of Annie. I at- 
 tributed it to the brusquerie of her manner, for she is 
 always good and kind to every one. But if any doubt 
 was in their mind, it would account for it in another 
 way." 
 
 " They may have had misgivings about her being 
 my uncle's daughter, and yet never dreamed of any- 
 thing concerning you." 
 
 " Yes ; unless they had put together my likeness to 
 the picture, and my being found at sea." 
 
 " Is that generally known, do you think ? You 
 never spoke of it to any one here, did you ? " 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 609 
 
 " No, but your mother knows it, and so may her 
 servants, and it may have reached them in other ways 
 also." 
 
 " No doubt reports of that kind spread very quickly. 
 Well, all we can do for the present, I think, is to re- 
 main quite passive, and when Annie gets better we 
 shall see what her wishes are, and act accordingly." 
 
 During the next few days Annie often made efforts 
 to concentrate her ideas, and attempted to converse 
 with Edgar and Ita, or Mrs. Sydney, but by the doc- 
 tor's advice they discouraged these efforts ; when she 
 persisted in them her mind very soon grew confused, 
 and wandered again. However, one morning, after a 
 long and refreshing night's sleep, she awoke much 
 better, and quite composed. That day, when Ita came 
 to her bedside, she looked at her with some emotion, 
 evidently wishing to allude to their mutual positions, 
 but not knowing at all how to begin. At last she 
 said, with a smile, " How shall we manage about our 
 names ? " 
 
 Ita only answered by kissing her. 
 
 " It is very odd it never occurred to me." 
 
 " How could it have done so, dearest Annie ? " 
 
 " Oh, because I always thought you were like the 
 picture ; and then I had heard about your being found 
 in that way at sea. I might have put it all together. 
 I am so sorry I was taken for you .... but it is all 
 right now for all of us. But I am glad Mr. Pratt 
 never knew of it. He is the only person who would 
 have cared." 
 
 Ita burst into tears. These last words had affected 
 her beyond what Annie herself felt or understood, for 
 she looked surprised, and said, " I do not care, I am 
 not sorry, you must not think I am sorry ; on the con- 
 trary," then pausing a little she whispered, " I want 
 you to tell me about my mother." 
 
 N N 
 
610 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Ita hesitated a little. 
 
 " I mean Mariana, is not that her name ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mariana Adorno." 
 
 " And what was I called ? " 
 
 " Lucia." 
 
 Annie was again silent for a little while, then she 
 said, " Tell me about her." 
 
 Ita spoke of the fair and gentle face she had seen 
 and admired before she knew who Mariana was, and 
 described how they had first met, and with delicate 
 tenderness and tact touched on the poor infirm mother's 
 yearning for her child, and her disappointment when 
 she had to part with the little nightgown she had 
 shown her. "That was your nightgown," Annie said; 
 " where is mine, I wonder ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Sydney found it wrapt up and sealed in a 
 parcel in Mrs. Gerald's bureau. She had written on 
 it what it was." 
 
 "You must call her your aunt," Annie said, with a 
 husky voice. 
 
 11 Our aunt, dearest Annie. Oh, we must be, we 
 are, sisters. There must be always such a strong tie 
 between us who have been . . . ." she hesitated a 
 moment, and Annie finished the sentence, 
 
 " In each other's places so long." 
 
 II I did not mean that," Ita exclaimed. 
 " No, I did not think you did." 
 
 " What I was going to say was, that we have both 
 loved so much the same . . . ." 
 
 II I know, I know, but we will not talk of that 
 now . . . ." 
 
 There are persons to whom the expression of some 
 kind of feelings is almost impossible, and Annie's to- 
 wards Ita were of that sort, strange and conflicting. 
 She could not have put them into words. Ita, on the 
 other hand, was longing to pour forth the affection and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 611 
 
 sympathy with which her heart was overflowing, but 
 the fear of wounding Annie's reserve restrained her 
 from uttering all she felt. 
 
 Later in the day Annie sent for Edgar. She was 
 not reserved with him, there was nothing now she 
 wished to keep from him. The old intimacy of their 
 earlier years seemed to return in that moment, and 
 the look of her face when he came into the room was 
 beautiful. 
 
 "I am so much better," she said; "I can now speak 
 of all I have been thinking of, but which I was too 
 weak to talk about till to-day." 
 
 44 And you must not tire yourself now, my own dear 
 Annie. I will go away if you do." 
 
 " No, it will not tire me to speak. I want to tell 
 you that I am happier than I have been for a long 
 time, that there is a great weight off my heart. You 
 must take possession of Holmwood at once. You know 
 it belongs to you and Ita. And I know you will give 
 me a little cottage to live in, and I can work again in 
 your garden." 
 
 " Dearest Annie, we shall settle everything later. If 
 you wish it, compromise about the property, as people 
 call it, you will still be rich . . . ." 
 
 44 No, no. I hate the trouble of it. If you knew 
 how miserable I have been." 
 
 " Well, but you can be rich still, and have, if you 
 like, no trouble about it." 
 
 14 No, poor, and have no trouble about it. I have 
 always thought I should be happy if I was a poor 
 person and earned my bread." 
 
 44 1 am afraid we cannot let you do that," he said, 
 smiling. 
 
 44 1 should like to make my mother comfortable. It 
 seems so odd to be speaking of her. Ita says she loves 
 me." Then after a pause, ,4 Somebody said, oh it was 
 
612 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 before I was ill, that Holmwood is looking so beautiful. 
 I am very glad, because now it is yours. You know I 
 always wished that." 
 
 " But, my own dear Annie, we must wait. Nothing 
 can be settled yet. When you are quite well we will 
 lay it all before impartial persons, and they will advise 
 us what to do." 
 
 " No, I will not have it submitted to anybody. You 
 will make me unhappy if you do that. I had rather 
 • have it all settled between ourselves, and you will give 
 me enough to live upon." 
 
 11 In the first place, dearest Annie, if you were not 
 to keep this place and your present fortune, you would 
 have ^"8oo a year, which in that case Mrs. Gerald left 
 you." 
 
 " I thought she had left it to the Sydneys." 
 
 M Only in trust for me or for you, as it might 
 happen." 
 
 " God bless her I " Annie said, and tears rolled down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 " But besides that, Annie, of course, you must have 
 an ample income." 
 
 " Oh no, nothing more. Do not tease me, Edgar. 
 Only I should like to make my mother comfortable as 
 soon as I could." 
 
 " Ita has done it in some measure already, and we 
 will arrange whatever you wish." 
 
 "That was very good of Ita. Edgar, I want to 
 say something to you. I wish so much you had a 
 child." 
 
 "I hope I may have one soon, dear Annie." 
 
 " Oh, is it so ? That is good news." She remained 
 silent a moment, and then said, " My mother is a 
 Catholic, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Now really, dear Annie, you must not talk any 
 more." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 613 
 
 Annie nodded assent, folded her arms on her breast 
 and closed her eyes. 
 
 Edgar, who was lingering by her side, heard her 
 murmur to herself. 
 
 " I am very happy. It almost seems as if I was 
 beginning a new life." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Once more Ita was descending the winding road 
 from La Turbia to Mentone, not with the exulting 
 delight of the preceding year, but with a heart 
 mellowed by suffering, strengthened by the light of 
 a definite faith, full of a deeper courage and an intense 
 gratitude, that the sorrows and fears which had 
 threatened to darken her life had, in a great measure, 
 passed away. Her conscience was at rest, and Edgar 
 not estranged from her. She remembered the terrible 
 words he had spoken, when the first idea of her 
 intended change of religion had presented itself to 
 his mind, and she blessed God, in the fervour of 
 her soul, that her own courage had not failed, and that 
 he had been patient and kind in their hour of trial. 
 
 Another great change had occurred in her existence 
 — the mystery of her birth had been solved since she 
 had last gazed on that glorious view ; she was no 
 longer the unknown foundling of that blue silvery 
 sea ; she was Edgar's cousin as well as his wife ; 
 she was the acknowledged mistress of Holmwood 
 House and its broad lands. The evidence, collected 
 with care and strengthened by additional proofs, 
 which, when the subject had been looked into, had 
 been produced from several quarters, had been sub- 
 mitted to a chosen number of friends of the family 
 
614 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 and men of legal eminence, who had unanimously 
 agreed that they were perfectly satisfied as to her 
 identity. Persons who had known Mrs. Robert Der- 
 went at her age bore witness, as well as her picture, to 
 the likeness between them. The most eager advocate 
 of Ita's claims was the actual possessor of the Derwent 
 estates. On the day that she was to be confronted with 
 the portrait of her mother, in presence of the arbiters 
 of this singular question, Annie, who was still too weak 
 to leave her room, had sent for her. She found her 
 sitting on the sofa, with a blue scarf on her knees. 
 
 " Come here," she said, " I want to dress you up in 
 a turban, as I did once before." 
 
 Ita knelt down by her side, for she saw it would vex 
 her to refuse ; but she could hardly help letting tears 
 fall on the thin hands that were arranging her dress. 
 
 " Dearest Annie ! " she murmured, " that you should 
 be doing this to-day! " 
 
 A little tired, Annie leant back, and asked, " Am I 
 at all like my mother?" 
 
 Ita was thinking at that very moment that the 
 likeness, which had not been apparent when Annie 
 was a healthy, rosy girl, had become striking since her 
 illness. She kissed her hand fondly, and said, " Yes, 
 you are a little like her." 
 
 " I am thinking of King Solomon." 
 
 Ita could not help smiling. "And what of him?" 
 
 "Nothing very wise; only it occurred to me that 
 those good people who have come together to decide 
 on what nobody has a doubt about, are going to say, 
 not like Solomon, which of us two is to have a live 
 child, but which is to have a living mother. My share 
 will be the best, you will have -the picture, and I, a 
 real mother .... Ita, I do so want to see her. I want 
 to go to her ! Will you tell Edgar so ? " 
 
 And soon, very soon, as the cold weather set in, it 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 615 
 
 was thought well, on every account, that Annie should 
 be taken to a southern climate. Though better in 
 some ways, she was very weak, and her cough did not 
 leave her. She had recovered her spirits, but was 
 restless and excitable. It was her express wish that 
 Mariana should not hear of her existence till they 
 could meet. One day she said to Ita, in a half-amused, 
 half-melancholy manner, " I must get accustomed to 
 my own name before I see her. She will call me Lucia ! 
 How strange that my name should be Lucia Adorno! " 
 
 " Edgar was saying yesterday that he hoped you 
 would never call yourself by any other name than 
 Annie. He could never call \ou anything else." 
 
 " Did he say so ? " Annie asked, with one of her 
 broad, pleased smiles. " And does he mean to go on 
 calling you Ita." 
 
 11 Of course he does. It would puzzle him to death 
 if we were to exchange names." 
 
 Annie laughed merrily, then suddenly becoming 
 grave, she said, " What terrible things might have hap- 
 pened ! Suppose he had married me, and all this had 
 been found out afterwards ! " 
 
 It was settled that as soon as Annie was strong 
 enough to travel, they should all go to Mentone, and 
 the Villa Hendon was ordered to be got ready for 
 them. Edgar fancied that it might be painful to Annie 
 to meet her mother at a place where she was known 
 as a poor woman, and he proposed that they should 
 take a house at Hyeres, or at Cannes, and send for 
 Mariana. But both Mrs. Sydney and Ita felt con- 
 vinced she had no feeling of this kind, and that her 
 mind had, moreover, fixed itself with a yearning desire 
 on the idea of Mentone. She often said she did not 
 care for France ; she wished to live in Italy, and 
 amused herself with learning from Ita some words in 
 the Mentonese dialect. 
 
616 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 At last they set out in the midst of what the French 
 call the petit He de St. Martin, a lovely season of the 
 year in the South. And as they advanced on their 
 way, a real summer seemed to greet them. Lying in 
 an invalid carriage, Annie saw all those new scenes 
 rapidly passing before her eyes ; the deepening azure 
 of the Provencal sky, the lovely banks of the Rhone, 
 the almost tropical vegetation of the shores of the 
 Mediterranean. With a singular apathy she looked on 
 all these things, and no expressions of surprise or of 
 admiration rose to her lips. Ita was surprised and a 
 little disappointed that the day they left Nice in a 
 voiturier carriage she scarcely spoke at all. When they 
 passed the promontory of Monaco, she asked if it was 
 Mentone, and when Mentone became visible, and Ita 
 pointed it out, her countenance showed some emotion ; 
 but she said nothing. When the carriage stopped at 
 the gate of the villa she was too weak to walk across 
 the garden to the house. Edgar and his servant car- 
 ried her into the drawing-room, and placed her on a 
 couch. 
 
 Annie closed her eyes [a moment, and Ita bathed 
 her forehead with eau de Cologne. In a minute or 
 two she said, 
 
 " Now go and fetch my mother." 
 
 " Not this evening, do you think, dearest Annie ? 
 Had you not better wait till to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I have waited so long," she answered. " I want 
 my mother." 
 
 Edgar and Ita looked at each other. 
 
 " We had better do what she wishes," he whispered 
 to his wife. 
 
 " And what shall I tell her ?...." Ita said, gently 
 bending over Annie. 
 
 " Nothing ; only bring her here," she answered. 
 
 " Shall I stay with you ? " Edgar asked. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 617 
 
 " No, dear Edgar, I had rather be alone. I feel 
 quite well." 
 
 He went into the town with Ita. " This is an anx- 
 ious moment," he said ; " but on the whole, the meet- 
 ing had better, perhaps, not be delayed." 
 
 As they entered the Via Lunga, Ita said, " This is 
 where she lives," and stopped at a door near the gate- 
 way. " Will you wait here while I go in ? " 
 
 Mariana was sitting at her spinning-wheel near the 
 window. She looked up when the door opened. 
 
 " Jesu mio ! " she exclaimed. " The Signorina In- 
 glese ! " And gentle words of endearment greeted Ita. 
 " So you are come back to Mentone, dear lady. It 
 is well, very well. Oh, what a joy to see your face 
 again ! " 
 
 " I am so glad to see you," Ita said, kissing her 
 affectionately. " I have thought of you so often, and 
 there is somebody with us at the Villa Hendon who 
 has heard of you, and wishes so much to know you." 
 
 Mariana smiled. 
 
 " Tell me," asked Ita, " can you walk a little way 
 without too much trouble ! " 
 
 " With those two friends," Mariana answered, point- 
 ing to her crutches. 
 
 " Could you come as far as the Villa Hendon ? " 
 
 " Yes, I could. I go sometimes to the chapel of 
 Sant' Anna in the olive grove. But that reminds me, 
 Signorina, is it true ? oh, is it true what Pre Gian tells 
 me, that you are now a buona Christiana — a real 
 Catholic?" 
 
 " Yes, Mariana mia, indeed I am. God has been 
 very good to me." 
 
 Mariana lifted up her eyes to heaven with a mute 
 but rapturous expression of joy. When Ita saw her 
 face literally beaming with gratitude for her own re- 
 turn to the fold, she thought anxiously of the pain 
 
 n n 2 
 
618 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 which would mingle with her happiness when she 
 should find that Annie was a Protestant. 
 
 " Will you come with me, then ? " she said, and 
 Mariana rose and followed her, leaning on her crutches. 
 They found Edgar standing near the door. This was 
 the first sight he had of Annie's mother. He was im- 
 mediately sjtruck with her countenance ; with its calm, 
 peaceful expression. The refinement of a devout 
 Italian of the lower orders, is different from any other 
 kind of refinement, except perhaps what is sometimes 
 seen in the Irish poor. There is a grace and sweetness 
 about it quite distinct from what education or natural 
 amiability produces ; something of poetry mixes with 
 it, and yet it is perfectly simple. It helps us to pic- 
 ture to ourselves the fishermen of Galilee, and even 
 the holy home of Nazareth. 
 
 Mariana saluted Edgar with a kind smile, and then 
 turning to Ita, she said, " I was speaking just now, 
 Signora, of what our Lord has done for you, and I 
 speak to Him every day of what you do for me." 
 
 " Oh, it has been so very, very little, but the lady 
 you are going to see will make you much happier than 
 I can." 
 
 " Will she? I am quite happy as I am. I suppose 
 she cannot tell me anything about my child ? " As she 
 said these words there was a wistful look at Ita, who 
 turned away to avoid answering. " I thought that 
 when Pre Gian took down in writing all I could re- 
 member about the loss of my Lucia, and the English 
 lady and gentleman on board the ship, and sent the 
 paper to England, I might perhaps hear something 
 about her. But nothing came of it, Pazienza ! God's 
 will be done." 
 
 Ita consulted her husband by a hurried glance, but 
 he shook his head, implying that they must leave it to 
 Annie to bring about the disclosure in her own way. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 619 
 
 The sound of the crutches on the hall floor gave warn- 
 ing to poor Annie that her mother had entered the 
 house. Edgar opened the door of the drawing-room, 
 and said : " She is here, Annie." 
 
 " Let her come in," she answered, very calmly, and 
 the mother saw her child again after twenty-three 
 years' absence, and knew her not. 
 
 " You are ill, Signora ? " she said, as she stood near 
 the couch, looking compassionately on the pale, thin, 
 young face of the stranger. 
 
 " Sit down here," Annie murmured, in Italian, 
 pointing to a chair close to her. She held out her 
 hand to Mariana, who took it, and said : 
 
 " But you have the fever, Signoiina. What a poor 
 little burning hand this is ? " 
 
 Annie said in a low voice, " Do you guess any- 
 thing ? " 
 
 Suddenly a violent trembling shook Mariana's frame; 
 she fell on her knees, leaning against the arm of the 
 sofa. 
 
 " Oh, do not kneel," Annie whispered. 
 
 " Let me look ! Pray, for the love of God, let me 
 look at your shoulder. They said the mark would 
 always remain." As Mariana gasped out these words, 
 Annie opened her dress and uncovered her shoulder. 
 
 " It is there," she said ; " though perhaps you can 
 hardly see it." 
 
 A faint cry burst from the poor mother, and she 
 pressed her lips upon it with silent ecstasy. " There 
 it is ! " she cried ; " there it is ! O Lucia, mia I O Dio, 
 mio ! " 
 
 Annie did not speak, but she kept a tight hold of 
 her mother's hand. There was a wonderful power of 
 loving, deep deep down in her heart, but words did 
 not come easily to her help. It did not signify — 
 dreamlike as they were — there was a strange sweetness 
 
620 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 in the first moments of that meeting. Mariana asked 
 for no explanations — for no further proofs — she never 
 for an instant doubted that Annie was her Lucia, and 
 could not remove her eyes from the pale face of her 
 child. With a sort of reverence she kissed over and 
 over again the hand of her new-found treasure. 
 
 " Kiss my lips and my forehead," Annie said in bad 
 Italian, and as Mariana bent over her, she drew her 
 into her arms, laid her head against her breast, and 
 felt like a little child again. 
 
 When Edgar and Ita came into the room, Annie 
 looked up with a bright smile. Without letting go 
 Mariana's hand, she drew Ita close to her and whis- 
 pered, " I have shown her the mark. She knew it 
 again at once." 
 
 From that day a singular life began for that mother 
 and that daughter. They could not bear to be apart ; 
 they did not say much to each other, but for hours sat 
 working side by side; and when Annie had rested 
 from the journey, they spent most of their time on the 
 terrace, under the catalpa trees. But one sad dis- 
 covery Mariana soon made. Every morning she went 
 with Ita to the chapel of Sant' Anna ; it had not 
 crossed her mind at first that Annie was not a Catholic. 
 She concluded she was not strong enough to walk 
 there. 
 
 When the Angelus rang, Annie closed her eyes, and 
 her mother fancied she was dozing. But soon she 
 began to wonder that she never saw her make the sign 
 of the Cross, or hold a rosary in her hands ; and one 
 day, when the Blessed Sacrament was carried by to a 
 sick person, and she, and Ita, and even Edgar knelt as 
 it passed, while Annie remained motionless, not even 
 bowing her head, the truth began to burst on the poor 
 mother ; her grief was intense, but her faith and hope 
 did not waver. It was impossible her child could be a 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 621 
 
 Protestant. She had no distinct notions on the subject 
 of Protestantism. How should she ? In some of their 
 morning walks, Ita had tried in vain to explain to her 
 how it came that Edgar went to Mass, and knelt 
 before the Blessed Sacrament, and took off his hat as 
 he passed before an image of the Madonna, and that 
 Annie did none of these things. 
 
 " And yet Lucia says they are of the same religion ! " 
 she would exclaim, quite puzzled. 
 
 " Not of the same religion, exactly, but of the same 
 Church," Ita replied. But this was far beyond poor 
 Mariana's comprehension. Her unsophisticated mind 
 could not master the distinction. But it was as well, 
 perhaps, that she did not understand, and was all 
 unpractised in controversy, and only full of faith, and 
 love, and ardent devotion to our Blessed Lord. For 
 without argument, without knowledge, save that of the 
 gospels, and the lives of the saints, and what she had 
 learned in long hours of patient suffering and earnest 
 prayer, poor ignorant woman as she was, she won her 
 daughter to the Church. Just as in her childhood, 
 Annie had listened to the old man, who wished to 
 make her a good Christian according to his light, and 
 what he called a good Protestant ; so now from her 
 new-found mother's lips she imbibed the Catholic faith. 
 
 " O mother ! " she wearily exclaimed one day, laying 
 her tired head on her breast. " In England, a poor 
 stupid creature does not know what to believe. There 
 are half-a-dozen religions at least in one church. 
 Some say there is no Blessed Sacrament at all in any 
 church." 
 
 " God forgive them," Mariana ejaculated. 
 
 " Then some say they have the Blessed Sacrament 
 in the Protestant churches." 
 
 " God help them, poor people ! " 
 
 " And then some teach that people should say the 
 
622 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 Hail Mary, and some that they ought not, and some 
 that they should say half of it." 
 
 " Do not think of what they say, figlia mia. Do 
 what the Holy Church of Christ tells you. She is 
 built on the Rock and the gates of hell shall never 
 prevail against her." 
 
 " Teach me," Annie said, looking into her mother's 
 face as if she had been six years old. 
 
 And her mother did teach her, by her words, by 
 her prayers, by her example, by the living daily power 
 of that faith which came to Annie like a revelation 
 to smooth her passage from time to eternity. For her 
 life was not to be long. Strong and healthy as she 
 had once seemed to be, the seeds of disease were in her 
 frame, and she was gradually falling into a decline. 
 A great change had taken place in her appearance. 
 The delicate, transparent look which belongs to con- 
 sumption, in its less painful forms, had quite trans- 
 formed her face. The sunshine, the soft skies, the 
 balmy air, Mariana's tenderness, and the superhuman 
 joy she found in the Catholic Church, that spiritual 
 mother she had been so long estranged from, revived, 
 for a while, her strength, and raised her spirits. Those 
 who had known Annie Derwent as the mistress of 
 Holmwood would have wondered at her strange 
 beauty if they could have seen her face on the day of 
 her first communion, when on her return from St. 
 Anne's Chapel she pressed her mother's arm against 
 her heart, and said, " Now I know for sure God has 
 been here." 
 
 An hour afterwards, whilst resting on the sofa, she 
 asked her, " Mother, what did you do to obtain my 
 conversion ? " 
 
 " I offered up my life," Mariana answered with sim- 
 plicity. " I begged of God, if it pleased him, to take 
 it and give you the faith." 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 623 
 
 Annie said nothing, but clasped her hands together, 
 and closed her eyes. Her mother saw she was praying 
 by the motion of her lips. In a moment she said, 
 " What you did for me I have done for Edgar, and 
 my prayer, like yours, will be granted, and .... dear 
 mother . ... my offering will be accepted." 
 
 Poor Mariana ! She kissed, without speaking, her 
 child's pale face. It seemed, however, for a short time 
 as if Annie had really rallied, and was recovering her 
 health. In answer to Edgar's eager inquiries, the 
 English doctor who had come from Nice to see her 
 had held out hopes, that if she kept pretty well during 
 the winter, she might go to England for the summer, 
 and he and Ita made many plans on this subject. 
 
 Annie always listened to them cheerfully without 
 saying much herself about it. It was at last decided 
 that they should go to England in January, and after 
 Ita's confinement, which was expected early in the 
 spring, that they should return to Mentone either to 
 travel back with Annie to Holmwood, or to spend 
 some time with her at the Villa. She wished them to 
 go ; she thought it right on Ita's account. Perhaps, 
 with her own strong impression that her life would not 
 be long, she liked better to be left to the quiet holy 
 care of her mother, than to witness the grief of one 
 whom she had loved in a different manner. 
 
 During the last day before they went, she exerted 
 herself to appear better than she felt. On the eve of 
 his departure, she wished to see Edgar alone. 
 
 He sat down by her couch, near the window, over- 
 looking the sea. " Annie . . ." he began, but his voice 
 failed him. 
 
 She held out her hand, and said, " Dear Edgar, 
 whatever happens, you must not be sorry for me. I 
 am very happy now. All is as I wish. I went 
 through a terrible time last autumn — those long weeks 
 
624 MRS - GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 after Mrs. Gerald's death .... Dear Mrs. Gerald .... 
 she loved me very much .... that is, she loved Annie 
 Derwent . . . ." A sad smile passed over the face on 
 which Edgar was sorrowfully gazing. " But I want to 
 tell you once more, that since I have known everything 
 I have been quite happy. It would have been a great 
 mistake not to tell me .... You have all done the 
 best you could for me, and now I want nothing — no- 
 thing more than the mother God has given back to 
 me, and what that poor mother has taught me. Edgar, 
 dear Edgar, I know you cannot care for what a stupid 
 person like me can say, but I want you to know how 
 different everything has been in my soul since I have 
 been a Catholic." 
 
 " Dearest Annie, I have never spoken to you about 
 it, but I like to tell you, before I go, that I am glad, 
 really glad, you have found consolation in the Roman 
 Catholic communion. You had never been able to 
 realize Catholic truths in ours, and I thank God that 
 you have found peace in the Church in which you 
 were baptized." 
 
 Annie looked at him wistfully, and then held out 
 her hand to him. " God bless you, dearest Edgar," 
 she said, " you know, I am sure, all that that ? God 
 bless you ' means. You know what will be my prayer 
 in life, my hope in death." . 
 
 " Do not talk of death, dear Annie ; you are much, 
 much better. We shall meet again in three months." 
 
 " It will be as God pleases," she answered. " But 
 if — mind, I only say if — we should not see each other 
 again, remember my last words." 
 
 They parted ; and he had then a misgiving that he 
 had been too sanguine as to her recovery. It was too 
 late to change their plans ; but, as he took leave of the 
 Abate Giovanni and Ita's friend, the good Shia Tere- 
 sina, who had become very intimate with him and 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 625 
 
 Mariana, he said, with tears in his eyes, " You will 
 send for me if she should be worse ? " 
 
 And how did Annie and Ita part ? How did 
 those two hearts, which had been so singularly united 
 and so widely divided, feel in that hour, which one of 
 them, at least, looked upon as a final parting ? At 
 first it seemed as if there would be no intimate com- 
 munication between them even then, nor would there 
 have been, in all probability, if Annie had not felt 
 convinced she was dying. But as it was, from her 
 who had once been the most reserved of the two, there 
 came a burst of feeling which Ita would not have 
 dared to pour forth. A mother's love, her new faith, 
 or, it might be, the approach of death, seemed to have 
 changed her nature. She spoke then — she spoke, at 
 last, as she had never done before. 
 
 " Ita, listen to me," she said, throwing her arms 
 round her neck, and drawing her close to herself. 
 " We have been bound together in a very strange way. 
 We have both loved Edgar with a more than common 
 affection, but, thank God, we have never hated one 
 another — have we ? " 
 
 Ita could only weep on Annie's bosom. 
 
 " I was angry with you once. I said cruel words to 
 you when you became a Catholic. Will you forgive me ? " 
 
 " Oh, Annie ! dearest Annie ! " 
 
 " But I have often blessed you when you did not 
 know it. I blessed you because you made him happy, 
 because you were everything to him I could never 
 have been. And now, oh ! now, from the depths of 
 my heart, I bless you more than I ever did before, 
 because you have had the courage to let him suffer — 
 because you have shown him bravely the way, and 
 gone on before, where God is calling him — where he 
 will one day follow you. Ita, we worked together for 
 him those years at Holmwood . . . ." — here Annie 
 
626 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 stopped to steady her voice — " to make him happy in 
 this world ; now we shall work together .... for a 
 higher end, you by his side .... I here .... or 
 where I shall soon be ... . where we shall meet again." 
 
 " Oh, we shall — we shall meet here, or at Holm- 
 wood," Ita exclaimed, sobbing as if her heart would 
 break. " And then, who knows ? I may be the 
 one . . . ." 
 
 Neither of them could speak again. With one long, 
 tender kiss they took leave of each other. 
 
 When from the spot where Mentone is seen for the 
 last time on the side of Nice, Edgar and Ita looked 
 back on its peaceful loveliness, she threw herself sob- 
 bing into his arms. " Oh darling, darling Edgar ! " 
 she murmured, " have I, even I, who love you so 
 much, loved you with such a beautiful, unselfish affec- 
 tion as poor Annie ? " 
 
 He could not speak. What he felt was not exactly 
 remorse. It had never seemed to him that there had 
 been anything he could have helped in his conduct to- 
 wards Annie, and yet Edgar Derwent's full and aching 
 heart did not wholly acquit him. He possessed every 
 blessing life can give, but that moment he almost envied 
 the companion of his childhood, the true and devoted 
 heart that had lived for him alone. He thought of the 
 words of Scripture — " It is more blessed to give than 
 to receive." 
 
 That last glimpse of Mentone from the height above 
 Capo Martino ! How many eyes have fixed themselves 
 upon it with yearning tenderness ! How many hearts 
 have gone thence on their way, bearing with them an 
 endless sorrow ! How many a young life, full of sweet- 
 ness and promise, has ended in that spot which looks 
 so bright and smiling ! Some passing away to another 
 world, like angels not meant for earth ; some sadly and 
 slowly relinquishing their hold of fleeting pleasures ; 
 some in the fulness of faith, some in the darkness of 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 627 
 
 unbelief ; some neglected and alone, some cherished to 
 the last with passionate affection, and leaving behind 
 them sweet memories enduring to the end ! 
 
 O Thou Who hast made the beautiful world for 
 man, and on some chosen lands hast poured forth 
 healing treasures and the full riches of nature's wealth, 
 painting the sea and sky with hues the hand of man 
 cannot imitate, moulding each mountain and hill with 
 matchless grace, and clothing them with living gems ! 
 
 O God, give to these Thy works, to these scenes of 
 more than common loveliness, a more than common 
 power to raise the soul from the shadow to the reality, 
 from the creature to the Creator ! Let Thy olive groves 
 speak of Gethsemane to the sufferer seeking their noon- 
 day shade. To the sleepless ear let the unceasing roll 
 of the sea murmur thoughts of eternity, and the 
 Southern Alps, from their lofty summits, cry out, 
 " Excelsior " to the wayfarer below. 
 
 A blessing on thy soft breezes — on thy groves, and 
 on thy shore ! On the hopes, the sorrows, and the 
 joys that rise, linger, and live amidst thy sunny 
 mounts, fair, bright, yet sad little city of the South ! 
 
 sj< $z %: jf; ^; >fc 
 
 Holmwood, without Annie, seemed a strange place 
 to Edgar Derwent ; stranger still was it to take pos- 
 session of that house as his own — that place where she 
 had spent her whole childhood and youth, and which 
 she might never see again ! Neither he nor Ita felt 
 any gladness as they drove up to the old house. The 
 drawing-room looked so exactly as it used to do. It 
 seemed as if Mrs. Gerald and Annie must be about to 
 open the door and come in. The time of the year put 
 them more in mind of the past than the summer had 
 done. The lighted fires — the candles — the arm-chairs 
 round the fire-place. It was all more like old days, 
 than had been the weeks between their return from 
 abroad and their last departure. 
 
628 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 " Are there any letters ? " Ita asked, as she went up 
 to one of the tables. 
 
 11 That telegram came this morning," the butler said. 
 Edgar seized and tore it open. His face changed. But, 
 afraid of startling his wife, he said nothing, and walked 
 towards the fire-place with his back turned to her. 
 
 But she guessed what the news x was, and followed 
 him. He put the paper into her hands, and burst into 
 tears. The message was as follows : — 
 
 " Lucia Adorno e morta oggi alle otto, pregando 
 per loro. La povera sua madre ve ne manda la 
 notizia. Requiescat in pace." 
 
 " Annie, Annie ! " Edgar exclaimed. " She was an 
 only sister to me. I would rather never have seen 
 this place again than received this news ! " 
 
 He felt this then, and he thought he should always 
 feel it; but it is only the sorrows that change the whole 
 aspect of our lives which leave ineffaceable traces. 
 And even those, with a few exceptions, are healed by 
 time. New hopes, new interests, new affections, in 
 some cases, take the place of the old ones ; whilst in 
 others grief changes its nature and becomes something 
 sacred and holy — a part of our religion, a part of 
 ourselves. In future years Edgar Derwent will, indeed, 
 never forget the young girl who after joyfully sur- 
 rendering her wealth, her position, and the name she 
 had so long borne, to one who, but for her, would 
 never have been his wife, and to whom she had al- 
 ready yielded the place in his heart she had once 
 hoped was her own, had died in the morning of her 
 days, blessing him, and praying for him. He will some- 
 times sigh as he drives his wife and children in the 
 pony-chaise, which was one of her last gifts to him 
 when she was rich and he was poor, or walks by the 
 Vicarage garden where she had planted so many 
 flowers. That strong, patient, unrequited affection 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 629 
 
 will remain in his memory almost at times as a re- 
 proach ; but life is life, and love is love, and Edgar is 
 like other men. He has a wife whom he worships, a 
 child he dotes upon. He has Holmwood, which he 
 delights in, and is proud of. He has the means of 
 making others happy, and friends will gather round 
 him, and business will press upon him. And there will 
 be less and less room in his mind for tender thoughts of 
 Annie. Her mother, on the contrary, will mourn for 
 her till her dying day. The memory of her child will 
 be enshrined in her heart as in a sanctuary. Her life 
 had been for many a year one long prayer. Till her 
 daughter was found, that prayer had been a cry for 
 help. Afterwards, it became a hymn of thanksgiving, 
 and, even after her death, a song of praise. For she 
 had been lost, and had been found. She had been 
 snatched from the fold, and restored to it. Day by 
 day, Mariana said, " Magnificat anima mea Dominum, 
 et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo." 
 " Has Edgar Derwent become a Catholic ? " 
 This was the question that Mr. Neville had put to 
 his sister, in a letter which he wrote to her, some time 
 after Annie's death, from the Noviciate of the Passion- 
 ist Fathers, near Dublin, which he had lately entered. 
 Mrs. Sydney answered, " No, Edgar is not yet a 
 Catholic. He is greatly changed since the days when 
 he thought of parting with his wife on account of her 
 conversion. He no longer avoids our society, and stays 
 often with us. He has invited the Rolands and their 
 children to spend several weeks at Holmwood. He has 
 ceased blaming those who feel it their duty to leave 
 the Church of England. He thinks the successive de- 
 cisions of the Privy Council justify some hesitation in 
 adhering to her Communion, and speaks gently of con- 
 verts. He is a kind and active landlord, and assists 
 with great charity the poor on his estates. What has 
 given us great pleasure is his helping Ita to build a 
 
630 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 little school at , for the Roman Catholic children. 
 
 He sometimes does duty in the church at Bramblemoor 
 for the clergyman, who has had bad health and is often 
 absent, but not, I believe, at Holmwood. I often wish 
 you could see their baby, the new Annie Derwent. She 
 is such a pretty, attractive little child. Her birth would 
 have been an unmitigated happiness to her parents if 
 it had not brought forward in a painful manner the 
 difference of religion still existing between them. Ita 
 had almost hoped that being a girl he would have 
 allowed her to be baptized a Catholic. But this was 
 perhaps too much to expect at present, and though it 
 grieved him, I think, to refuse her request, little Annie 
 was christened at the parish church. Poor Ita felt 
 it very much, but she hopes and prays on. One day, 
 some time ago, he found her writing some lines, which 
 he asked to see. They were a simple expression in 
 verse of the strongest feelings of her soul. I have 
 copied them out for you : — 
 
 ' O Mother Church ! my spirit's home, 
 
 Long sought and found at last ! 
 Safe in the shelter of thy arms 
 
 I muse upon the past, 
 E'en in my childhood's days arose 
 
 A vision of thy form, 
 And through the thoughtlessness of youth 
 
 It showed amidst the storm. 
 
 ' Like angel visits came those gleams 
 
 My startled soul before, 
 Wave upon wave advancing left 
 
 A token on the shore. 
 Not e'en an adversary's art 
 
 The lineaments could hide, 
 And though disfigured by a foe 
 
 Thy beauty I descried. 
 
 * For thy deep love my bosom yearned, 
 
 But trembled at thy creed, 
 And while it longed to pluck the flower 
 Refused to sow the seed. 
 
MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 631 
 
 " Oh that thy creed were sound," I cried, 
 
 Until I owned its power ; 
 And almost prayed to find it false 
 
 In the last solemn hour. 
 
 « Great was the struggle, fierce the strife, 
 
 But wonderful the gain ; 
 And not one trial, not one pang 
 
 Was sent or felt in vain. 
 For every link of the long chain 
 
 That led my soul to Thee, 
 Remains a monument of all 
 
 Thy love has done for me.' " 
 
 " You have never regretted having left us ? " Edgar 
 said, with a melancholy smile, as he finished reading 
 these lines. 
 
 The eloquent look she gave him would have been an- 
 swer enough, but she clasped her hands, and said : " If 
 you could only but know what it is to be a Catholic ! " 
 
 " A Roman Catholic ? " 
 
 " Very well, so be it — a Roman Catholic. If you 
 did but know what I now know by experience, there 
 would be nothing left for me to wish on earth! " 
 
 " God would then be obliged to send us other trials," 
 he said with another sad smile. 
 
 " Yes ; I think He would," she firmly answered. " I 
 have often thought that there have been few, very few, 
 if any cases of conversion to the Roman Catholic 
 Church in these past years which have not been fol- 
 lowed by some great trial. The Cross has been visibly, 
 I think, laid on those who have cast in their lot with 
 her. Loss of fortune and position, failure in careers 
 and professions, the unkindness of friends or sorrows 
 straight from the hand of God, bereavements, bad 
 health .... Yes, when I look upon our present 
 position, so blessed with all the world can give, it has 
 struck me that if the one great drawback to our hap- 
 piness was removed, other sorrows would come . . . ." 
 The thought of her husband's sight, always more or 
 
632 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. 
 
 less threatened, brought tears to her eyes. " But even 
 if we knew for sure this was to be, if an angel were to 
 reveal it to us, it would not stop us, Edgar would it ; 
 you from doing God's will if once you saw what it was, 
 or I from praying for it, even though my own life should 
 be the price ? " Her eyes were raised to the skies with 
 one of those ardent supplications which seem sometimes 
 as if they would take heaven by storm. Edgar was much 
 affected, but the time was not yet come for surrender. 
 
 On the anniversary of Annie's death, a Requiem 
 Mass was sung in the chapel at Grantley Manor. To 
 Ita's surprise, he said he meant to go there with her ; 
 for though he sometimes went and prayed before the 
 Blessed Sacrament when he was staying in the house, 
 he had never attended in England any Catholic service. 
 When Mass was over that day, he remained nearly an 
 hour alone in very earnest prayer. 
 
 When he came out of the chapel he found Ita wait- 
 ing for him outside in the garden. He went up to her, 
 drew her arm in his, and for a few minutes they walked 
 up and down without speaking. At last he said : 
 "That dear soul gave me my wife — my greatest earthly 
 treasure. Then she gave us Holmwood, and now I 
 am sure it is her prayers which have obtained for me 
 this last, this highest gift — the gift of faith ! I have 
 held back so long ; it seemed as if I could not believe, 
 could not see the truth clearly enough. But just now, 
 during the Mass — this Mass said for her — the words 
 came into my mind, ' I will arise and go to my Father's 
 house,' and every doubt seemed to vanish." 
 
 By the following Sunday Ita's husband was a Ca- 
 tholic. As they stood together that day on the steps 
 of their ancestral home, she said to him : " I feel as if 
 Annie had been our guardian angel on earth and in 
 heaven." 
 
 THE END. 
 

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