Honour without Renown MANKRED TELI.S SISTER MARGl'KRITE OF THE PICTURE. />. 145. Honour without Renown By Mrs. INNES-BROWNE Author of " Three Daughters of the United Kingdom." A New Edition With a Frontispiece by L. D. SYMINGTON LONDON BURNS, GATES & WASHBOURNE LTD. 28 Orchard Street, W. & 8-10 Paternoster Row, B.C. PRINTED IN ENGLAND BY THE WESTMINSTER PRESS 411 A HARROW ROAD LONDON Preface. HAVING been requested by many friends to give as promised, a "further glimpse" of "The Three Daughters of the United Kingdom," I have en- deavoured to comply with the request in the following pages. It does us no harm, in these days of turmoil and incessant motion, of selfish hurry for fame and luxury, to pause now and again and realise that many of our fellow creatures of all ages, classes, and nations, have willingly cast aside these very gifts and possessions for which we so vainly strive and yearn, in order to devote their lives, their wealth, and talents to the relief and comfort of the poor and weak ones of the earth. Surely their lives stand out as an object lesson, the study of which acts upon us as a healthy stimulant, encouraging us to greater endurance and fortitude. It causes us also to ponder and search for the motive which prompted them to perform such generous deeds ; making them hold as worthless all that we seem to prize so dearly, and to count, as treasure untold, the hidden blessings of the poor and destitute. Again, we may say what we will in praise of the advanced state of society, yet we cannot deny that there still lingers a sweet halo of restful refinement, a tender memory of unselfish motherly love, in our youthful recollections of the woman of the days gone by. And, true to life, I have endeavoured to depict the lives and char- acters of these "Three Daughters of the United Kingdom." 2136521 ' Honour without Renown CHAPTER I. THE equinoctial gales were at their highest. Loud boisterous winds scoured the peaceful valleys, bent the treetops and whistled through their almost leafless branches, leaving broad visible tracks of ruthless destruction in their course. Then, as if angered at the sturdy resistance offered by the stately oaks and sheltered woods of Baron Court, the storm tore up the hillsides and swept along the lonely moors as though to revenge it- self in noisy and exultant glee upon the sparse, tall pine trees which in thin and irregular ranks crowned the highest hills and broke the other- wise monotonous line of the horizon. Yet the force of the gale served but as pastime and sport for those old veteran firs ; they merely bowed their dark green heads stiffly to the fury of the storm as it swept madly past, then rose again to their height, seeming to draw in with thirsty pleasure the sheets of pelting rain which dashed and beat with fury against their hard brown stems. " Heaven help the poor sailors this night ! " mut- ared old John Ryder, the coachman, as he tottered and struggled down a slippery lane. "Aye me," 2 Honour without Renown. he sighed softly to himself, as he paused and drew forth a large red handkerchief wherewith to wipe the dripping raindrops from his fine old ruddy face " aye me, it was just such a wild and woeful night as this when our bonnie Jack was lost at sea. The poor old woman has never looked up rightly since. Well, well ! me own time may not be so far off neither, or why should a gale like this fash me so?" He paused once more to regain his breath ; but from old custom grown a habit strained his eyes and ears to watch and listen, if perchance through the roar of the storm he might detect the sound of poacher's step or voice. It was with feelings of joy, almost of gratitude, that he descried at last the bright glimmer of a light which every now and then shone through the leaf- less branches and marked the spot where stood the quiet Western Lodge, the very one where some twelve years before dear old Father Egbert had alighted when bound on his mission of love and kindness to the young mistress of the Court. Slowly but surely the welcome light grew nearer and nearer, until at last the weary old man stood upon the gravelled walk and clutched for support the iron rails which enclosed the neat little garden surrounding the lodge. " 'Tis late, I know, but she'll admit me for a wee bit rest and shelter I doubt not, he thought ; "--^d somehow I cannot stand the storm to-night." A louder blast of the tempest than ever inter- rupted his cogitations, and howling madly around the eaves of the house shook the latticed windows, whilst it pressed the form of the old man roughly Honour without Renown. 3 against the railings. This decided him ; and as soon as the gust had somewhat abated, he opened with difficulty the low iron gate, and trudging up the short pathway, knocked loudly with the butt end of his gun at the door of the lodge. A light step moved within, and as the outer door was opened timidly, a flood of welcome warmth and light burst upon the boisterous air without, how- ever, revealing the figure of the old man as he stood wearied and wet outside. " Who knocks? Who is out on such a night as this ?" asked a sweet but timid voice. "Me, Mrs. MacDermot ! me Ryder. Can you give me shelter for an hour or so from the rain? I do be somewhat fairly done this night." " Of course I can. Come in quickly, and let me close the door, or the fire will smoke and all my work will be ruined. Poor old man ! how drenched and cold you look ! Surely," she continued, kindly but reproachfully, " there can be no necessity for an old man like you to be out in such a tempest, and with a gun too ! Have you turned burglar or keeper?" " No, no, ma'am, neither," he answered cheerfully, still shaking the wet from his coat like a huge mastiff, and meanwhile wiping the clay from his strong boots on the mat in the little passage out- side ; " but " confidentially "Jameson do be get- ting old, ye see. and weather like this tries him sorely ; so I volunteered to take his place to-night." ^"Ob, yes, I see it all, Ryder: you being so young can afford to risk your health for your friend Jameson. But, seriously, do be more careful 4 Honour without Renown. of yourself. What would your master say if he knew you were out in weather like this?" "Oh, nothing much. Maybe his little lady might scold a bit ; but he is fond of sport, and he knows that it is on just such nights as these that the poachers be out, and the young hands be not up to their tricks like me." "Granted, Ryder; but I often think that you are too kind, and should not work for every one as you do." " Nay, nay, ma'am. You at least should not speak like that, for who works so early or so late as you do ? " A deep flush dyed the face of Mrs. MacDermot as she turned away in silence ; and a heavy sigh escaped her as she resumed her work of ironing, interrupted by the sudden entrance of her unex- pected guest. She was a strange woman, this inhabitant of the Western Lodge ; and the villagers loved to talk amongst themselves of her quiet doings and the dark mystery which seemed to envelop her life. The old porter, who had lived there for so many years, was dead, and suddenly as if dropping from the skies came the new lodge-keeper, re- commended, report did say, by Lady O'Hagan. How the village people came to recognise Mrs. MacDermot as a lady, and involuntarily spoke of and addressed her as such, .vas more than they could explain. Nevertheless they did so ; yet was her employment no higher or better than their own. "She only took in washing," they argued. True, it was not the coarse, heavy clothes, such as Honour without Renown. 5 passed through their own hands, that found their way to her lodge, but all the lighter, daintier articles from the Court, as well as from the houses of the gentry around : costly laces, altar linen, rich needlework, dainty ladies' garments, and pretty children's clothes such things as these all found their way to her clever hands. "She gets the ick of everything," ejaculated the spiteful ones ; " and if she does turn her things out to look almost as fresh and pretty as when first they left the maker's hands, why no doubt, in spite of her airs, she was reared to the trade and then she's got nothing else to do." True, this was how she earned her money, "and a tidy hoard she must have of it somewhere " ; but the question that exercised their minds so terribly was, what did she do with it? They knew her to be in great favour with their Lord and his Lady, the Earl and Countess de Woodville, for both had expressed their desire that Mrs. MacDermot might not be disturbed nor unduly intruded upon in her se- clusion ; indeed, "they had heard more than once, too that the little Countess Marie, when at home, even looked over and paid the washing bills herself at the Western Lodge," and she, they knew, was not likely to be stingy in her payments. Then followed the tiresome question, upon what did this strange woman spend her earnings? Truly, not upon herself ; for her gowns, to their knowledge, were but two in number, and ihose of a plain black material, and her appearance belied the idea of one who lived or throve upon dainty fare. Then for what was she saving or hoarding her hard 6 Honour without Renown. earnings ? Ah, the correct and reliable solution tq that question would have secured a high premium, had the owner cared to offer it for auction to the highest bidder at Oakhome. Neither were there wanting spiteful and jealous tongues which hinted broadly that Mrs. MacDermot had seen better days ; that, likely enough, she had committed some ter- rible crime and was in hiding. Certainly, there was some deep, dark mystery which enshrouded and covered with shame her former life ; they could tell that by her quiet and downcast look, and the tiresome way in which she frequently sought to evade or avoid altogether their very plain and straightforward questions. Well, well ! whatever it was, they could afford to wait and watch ; "murder will out," and doubtless the terrible truth would burst upon them some day, rewarding with tenfold interest their long forbearance. Had they but watched her more closely when bowed in prayer, they could not have failed to observe the look of deep faith, and courageous hope, which lit up the dark brown eyes and gave to her quiet features that expression of brave, almost willing, endurance which surely could not be the companion of guilt. There were many others, however, who, like old Ryder, shook their heads gravely, saying: "Nay, nay! She may be a bit touched in her head with the melancholy, but she has done no wrong." Of medium height, her figure slight almost to very thinness, her movements slow almost to weariness, Mrs. MacDermot's appearance varied so considerably at times that her age had frequenti v Honour without Renown. 7 been guessed at anything between four-and-twenty and thirty-five. Her brown hair was dark, and grew prettily from her forehead, from which it was simply and naturally turned, then twisted in luxuriant coils in the nape of her neck. Two soft large eyes, matching in colour the rich brown hair, shone out from the thin delicate face, re- vealing in their depths a settled look of ever- present sorrow ; but the sadness of their expression was in a measure counterbalanced by the signs of reserve and proud endurance that lingered around the delicate lips. A thick gold wedding-ring hung loosely upon the third finger of her left hand ; it would never have retained its position there at aM but for the aid of a friendly keeper. The kitchen into which Ryder had intruded was large and airy, and possessed an air of clean- liness and refinement. Across the further end of the ceiling were suspended several rows of deal laths, and upon them hung a various assort- ment of tiny garments, which in their spotless whiteness and exquisite finish seemed well to repay the laundress for the labour she had ex- pended upon them. A large fire-place one-half of it fitted as a stove for heating irons shone conspicuously at one end of the apartment, whilst an oilcloth of a bright, cheerful design covered the floor. One low rocking chair, in which the weary mistress ofttimes rested her aching limbs, the arm- chair in which Ryder sat, and three smaller ones, together with a round centre table and dresser, constituted the chief articles of furniture, while a long narrow bracket table ran nearly the full 8 Honour without Renown. length of the wall on one side and served as a stand whereupon to iron. Outside, the storm appeared to rage with un- abated fury ; but the eyes of old Ryder followed the graceful movements of his hostess with ad- miration. Others might speak of her as cold and reserved ; to him she had always been kindness itself. Perhaps she admired unduly the coach- man's imposing presence and handsome jovial face set in its frame of silvery hair for Ryder was no mean specimen of his class, and, taken as a whole, they are a decidedly fine set of men or it may have been that she admired more the kind and manly heart within him, that, having suffered itself, yet was ever ready to help and cheer a weakei brother. Moving gently, as was her wont, Mrs. MacDermot raised a bright brass kettle which was steaming fussily upon the stove ; deftly she brewed and mixed a refreshing cup of tea, into which she poured a table-spoonful of brandy. Then she bent kindly towards the old man and bade him drink it. "Take it now, poor Ryder, and never expose yourself so recklessly to the elements again ; more than your good master and mistress would miss your kindly face if you died and left us." Then, as if to herself, " God help the poor wanderer and the homeless this night ! and clasping her hands, "Aye, more than all, may He guard those who are so safely housed that the storm will beat unheard and unheeded above and around their walls this night." He noted the impassioned action and caught the Honour without Renown. 9 burning accent of her words, as with a trembling hand he took the proffered cup and prepared to obey her with the simplicity of a child. He had always been a good husband, and vespected women, therefore he could not bear to see them suffer. Mrs. MacDermot watched her guest steadily for some minutes as he sipped his tea at slow intervals, first from the teaspoon and then in larger gulps from the cup itself; then turning away she re- sumed her work at the side table. Ryder watched her now in his turn. He had seen many real ladie-w in his day titled ladies, ladies of quality and posi- tion ; yet, save for his own dear master's wife and the two that had been linked to her so tenderly in the days gone by, there was not one for whom he had more heartfelt reverence than for the owner of the sweet, patient face before him. The heat from the iron had flushed her cheeks and caused the locks of dark brown hair to form tiny curls around the white, thin temples ; her down- cast eyes, shaded by the long lashes, were lowered earnestly upon her work, but the fragile figure drooped as if from latigue which the busy fingers refused to yield to. Presently the warm drink, together with the soothing heat from the fire, began to tell upon the old man, and a ieeling of cosy drowsiness and peaceful comfort commenced to creep over him. His gaze became riveted more upon the glowing embers before him, and, as frequently happens in old age, his memory was apt to travel back to scenes in earlier days, and to conjure up forms and faces that had left a much more indelible io Honour without Renown, impression upon his mind than any present or passing event could now achieve. Suddenly he made a strong effort and roused himself, ex- claiming : " Such a day as we have had to be sure! driving to meet every train. Mrs. Thomas will have her hands full, seeing to the comfort of all those guests. I wouldn't be a housekeeper for something." " The Earl and Countess have not yet returned, then ? " she asked eagerly. " No, and the company will e'en have to get on as well as they can without him. A telegram said his Lady was none so well, and he wouldn't travel home without her." " He is very fond of her?" " Fond !" ejaculated the old man, almost ironi- cally "fond isn't the word for it. He thinks that much about her that, if aught serious, ye under- stand, happened to her, why, I do believe he'd go clean off it. But then," softly, "how kind and gentle she is ? There's not one of us she doesn't think of, and, what's more, she makes him think of us too. Bless you ! it's a pretty sight to see her wheedle and coax him to her own way of thinking ; and all the time he's so proud to give in to her and let her have her own way? She's been the very making of him, she has ! But we all said it from the first ; we knew she was the very one for him." There was a pause. The listener had ceased her work ; her hand still retained possession of the iron, but it rested idly in its stand ; her eager face betrayed intense and increasing interest. Honour without Renown. 1 1 Presently, with a sigh, the old man turned once more to the fire ; and staring at the glowing em- bers continued in a low tone, as if to himself : " Ah me ! how time and things do be fickle and change to be sure ! It seems to me but last week since I saw the three of 'em-, as beautiful young creatures as ever drew breath standing linked together in girlish love on the terrace walks, cracking their merry jokes and speaking to me as freely as if I were one of themselves ; and then to think that she, the pride of them all our own Lady Beatrice should fling all her wealth aside, and, forgetting her father's home and all its comforts nay, even her very name go and devote her life to serve God's poor. So they told us ! Bless me, when first I heard of it, how I took on ! Ye see her father was dead, and I had known and loved her from a very baby ; and I thought to myself, if I can only make bold, maybe she'll listen to what old John has to say. So day by day I watched me chance to waylay her ; and much good I did when me opportunity did come ! " "What did she do?" " Do? "he cried, almost testily " why, just what she always did do twisted me round her thumb and got her own way, and everyone else's also." " Do tell me what she said." " I will tell you a little of what she said and did, for I can never forget it. First she listened in her own kind way to all I had to say ; then taking one of my great rough hands between both her little soft ones, she argued with me so beautifully and so sweetly that, like an old fool, I was so completely 3 12 Honour without Renown. beaten on my own ground, all I could do was to sink upon the stump of a fallen tree and cry like a child. Then, bless her little heart I can see her now, it was all so natural-like she whipped out her own dainty little handkerchief, and while ore little hand pressed kindly upon my shoulder, with the other she wiped the great tears from my face ; and thanking and praising me as though I had been a dear friend instead of an old servant, she bade me cheer up, and be as true and faithful to her brother and his dear little wife as I had always been to her and her father, and ' Oh, above all things, John,' says she, 'take care of and love my darling old Leo for me.' That was her St. Bernard dog she meant. Her voice shook when she spoke that last sentence ! I began to hope me words were beginning to tell on her. She did feel leaving us then after all ! There was a little satis- faction in that anyhow ! " " But she became a Sister of Charity, did she not?" " Of course she did ! When did a De Woodville ever give in if she had made her mind up to do anything? But we didn't blame her, just because she did it. Yet she was so beautiful she would have graced a throne ! Even when I told her she would catch all manner of loathsome diseases from the poor and die, she did but clap her hands and laugh at me. 4 No such good luck, John,' says she ; ' I'm far too strong and healthy to be so easily laid low. Never fear for me ! ' she went on ; ' but should you ever in the years to come hear of your old mistress giving her life for another, then you must be very proud Honour without Renown. 13 of me and very pleased to hear it too ! ' ' But I shan't be either,' I answered rudely enough. Yet she wasn't a bit vexed with me only laughed again. Oh, how we all loved her ! " " And where is Sister Marguerite now Lady Beatrice that was?" "Oh, where there's work to do, you may be sure ! She was in London for a few years ; but when this Franco-Prussian war broke out, of course she was drafted off at once to nurse the wounded. You depend on it they knew what they were about when they sent her. They knew she would do the work of two, and never think of herself." " I did not know she had left London. I am so sorry ! Oh, I did wish to see her just once again." "Why, ma'am," exclaimed Ryder, endeavouring to rouse himself once more, "I didn't know that you had ever seen her at all ! " "Nevertheless, I have," she answered, trying to speak carelessly, "though at the time I knew nothing of her former history." " Well, that's passing strange," he muttered. " But, Ryder," questioned Mrs. MacDermot once more, "there were three of them, you said. One was your former mistress, Lady Beatrice de Woodville, now Sister Marguerite ; the second was Marie Blake, now Countess de Woodville : all were old school friends. Was the third one Miss Margaret FitzAllen, afterwards Lady O'Hagan?" "Aye, aye! that was her, sure enough." "Tell me, had she not seen a great deal of trouble?" 14 Honour without Renown. " Now, this beats all," thought the old man ; " folks do say that this lady never speaks, and never asks no questions. Why, she's as curious as the rest of her sex ; beats my old woman, for she does know when I'm sleepy and when to stop." So he paused before he answered : " Yes, ma'am ; folks did say she had seen a great deal of trouble, and I do believe she had, for she had buried all that were near and dear to her." "But she inherited money and married happily, did she not?" again queried the hostess. " She did, she did ; and mighty glad we all were when her good luck overtook her. She was a right down bonnie Scotch lassie that she was." The latter part of this sentence was uttered slowly and was barely audible, whilst Ryder's head began to nod perceptibly. Leaning forward, Mrs. Mac- Dermot ventured yet another question, asking in a louder tone than before : " Lady O'Hagan lives with her husband and family in Ireland now, does she not?" "Either Ireland or Jericho I'm not sure which," mumbled the old man in reply. Mrs. MacDermot looked very young as she smiled playfully, saying to herself, "Sleep in peace, poor old man, I will not disturb you more. But how I love to hear of those three dear souls." She now turned energetically to her work, as though to make up and atone for the time lost in gossiping. The rain had apparently ceased, though the wind was still blowing a gale, such a one as frequently visits our shores about the end of autumn, denuding our favourite forest trees of their Honour without Renown. 15 last vestige of summer foliage, and not unfre- quently tearing up ruthlessly and cruelly levelling to the ground the tallest and proudest of our green- wood monarchs. Inside the kitchen all looked cosy and comfortable. The regular breathing of the old coachman became mixed up with the solemn tick-tick of the clock, and the constant bang of the iron as it fell upon its stand. There was a pause now, as the busy toiler dropped her iron more gently than usual into its resting-place, and looking up with a startled, timid gaze, caught her breath in short gasps expressive of fear. Her nerves had suffered undue .tension for the past few years and she was easily frightened now. From the outer door strange rough sounds proceeded as though an intruder were determined to force an entrance. "John ! John ! John Ryder!" cried she, hur- riedly shaking his arm. " Awake up ! there are strange noises outside. Perhaps one of the deer has wandered into the garden and lost itself. Help me, there's a good man ! I am too much afraid to go to the door myself." " Eh ! what's that?" he asked, starting suddenly and rubbing his head in a puzzled, dazed sort of manner. "Listen, and you willhear for yourself; some one is roughly trying the door." He arose, and drawing his big frame to its full height, he too paused and listened. But a smile broke over his cheery countenance as, striding rapidly to the door, he said: "All right, ma'am! There's no cause for fear. I warrant me I'll strangle the 1 6 Honour without Renown. burglar single-handed." She watched him open the door boldly, and saw a great rough dog with one bound spring upon him, whining joyfully, with its two great paws upon his very shoulders, while Ryder clasped it round the body and looked fondly down upon its face. " Good old Leo ! Dear old boy ! Did ve iear the old man was lost ? " he said, stroking the fine head affectionately. "No, no; lie's here safe and sound. Ye have unearthed him at last, ye see. The old dog is pretty wet, ma'am, and in no fit state to intrude among your work. What shall I do with him, do ye think ? " " Bring him in by all means," she said, advancing to meet him. Then, stooping down, she took the dog's head in both her hands, saying softly : " Dear old Leo! Where is Lady Beatrice?" She re- peated the name several times slowly and dis- tinctly. The old dog raised one huge foot and placed it gently upon her, looking entreatingly into her face the while, as though he understood full well the purport of her inquiry. Then slowly withdrawing himself from her embrace, he walked with dignity towards the old coachman and settled himself comfortably at his feet. " Now I thank ye much for the shelter and all your kindness, ma'am ; but it's finer now and I must be moving. Leo will lead me safely back to me old woman. No doubt she's worried about me, and I shall likely catch it," he chuckled. " She will be glad to find that you sought shelter from the worst of the storm. But, Ryder, will you do a kind action for me to-morrow, please?" " That I will, right gladly, ma'am." Honour without Renown. 17 " About noon I n lus t leave the lodge for an hour or two. Could you make it convenient to be any- where near, in case an y carriage chanced to pass cms way? T'ney rarely do ; still I should not like to leave the place altogether unattended." " I'll be about the premises if I'm living, ma'am, and see that all's quiet during your absence. I know well you've no taste for prying folks about." " Thanks so much, Ryder ; there is no one whom I can ask to look after my little belongings but you. Women are kind, but they are so curious. By the way, I will leave the key in the door and shall start punctually at twelve o'clock." 11 You may rely upon my being hereabouts by that time, then. Good-night, ma'am." And bow- ing courteously, the old man and his dog trudged out into the night. CHAPTER II. THE following day, precisely at noon, the slight figure of Mrs. MacDermot, neatly robed in black, emerged slowly from the door of her lodge, and for some moments stood gazing in a wistful and hesitating manner, as though searching for some one, up and down the several footpaths leading across the park. Upon one of them, leisurely mounting a rise, appeared the familiar form of the old coachman. Recognising Mrs. MacDermot, he raised his stick and waved it briskly in the air, as though to remind her that she need have no mis- givings ; for, according to promise, he would guard her premises during her absence. This signal she acknowledged by a graceful wave of the hand, ere she disappeared quickly down the avenue of leafless chestnuts. The storm had lulled ; the wind had altogether dropped ; but there had been several heavy showers during the forenoon, thus keeping the large house party of impatient sportsmen prisoners indoors ; and Ryder knew that some of them had ordered an early lunch, being determined to face the elements and try the woods for pheasants, or even for stray woodcocks that very afternoon. Sir Hugh Lons- dale, a second cousin of Earl de Woodville's, was Honour without Renown. 19 representing the host during the Earl's enforced absence ; and as Ryder sat resting himself upon the stump of a fallen tree he could distinctly hear the frequent crack of the sportsmen's guns which betokened that game was plentiful. He had been seated, smoking quietly the pipe of peace, for the greater part of an hour, when his attention was attracted by the appearance of an immense dark cloud which was gradually but surely working its way directly over him. At the same time the report of the guns sounded each moment nearer and nearer. " I'm in for a ducking, and so are they," he thought as, rising, he felt the first few drops of heavy rain and recog- nised Sir Hugh and four of his party emerging from the shelter of the trees and coming towards the lodge. "Hello, Ryder!" called that gentleman, accost- ing the old coachman in friendly tones ; " I would rather be in the middle of a bleak fifty-acre field than remain under those trees if there is thunder about I Is there any place where we can obtain shelter until that ominous cloud is safely over?" " I don't think there's thunder in it, sir," returned Ryder, touching his hat, "and the keeper of the lodge is out at present." " Dear me, how unfortunate I I should not care so much for myself, but my friend here " pointing to one of the group of gentlemen standing near my friend, Mr. Manfred, (s unnaturally afraid of thunder and lightning, and really we must find shelter somewhere, for five minutes more of this will soak us to the skin." 2O Honour without Renown. Without more ado Mr. Manfred, the gentleman already alluded to a man of moderate height, whose appearance might have been pleasing but for the look of crafty suspicion which was never long absent from his features stepped from the party and, brushing past Ryder, walked hastily up the small garden path, exclaiming almost imme- diately : "It's all right, Hugh, the key is in the door. Come along ! " And without waiting or hesitating an instant, he turned it, opened the door and sprang inside the passage leading to Mrs- MacDermot's cosy kitchen. " Confound his impudence ! " muttered Ryder, as he turned and trudged briskly after the intruder. "Who is he, I'd like to know, that he forces an entrance into other folks' houses without let or leave?" The rain was pouring nowwith avengeance, and the gentlemen, led by Sir Hugh> followed rapidly upon the heels of their companion and Ryder. "Well, I suppose there's nothing for it ; so 1 must do the honours in Mrs. MacDermot's absence,' thought the old coachman. "Come in, Sir Hugh! Come in, gentlemen. There's a fire in the kitchen, and if the chairs be short, I'll bring ye more." "Not at all," answered Sir Hugh cordially; " those who wish to rest may do so ; I and the others will watch the rain from the door, where we can enjoy our pipes in peace, and not fill this very cleanly little abode with tobacco smoke." He had observed the look of annoyance on Ryder's face when his friend Manfred had so unceremoniously entered the lodge ; besides which, Honour without Renown. 21 he seemed to recollect having heard his cousin, the Countess Marie, speak with great feeling and respect of some one or other who dwelt at this particular lodge. Beckoning to his friends, there- fore, he remained standing near the door ; and Ryder thoughtfully supplied them with chairs> whilst they charged their pipes or lit their cigars. It took the coachman some little time to supply the wants of the gentlemen, to dry the stocks of their guns and to answer their various sallies of wit and humour ; and so occupied was he that, for the time being, he entirely forgot that Mr. Manfred was left to his own devices in the kitchen. That gentleman, having leasurely lit his cigar and duly admired the taste and cleanliness of his surround- ings, set himself, as was his custom, to investigate things more closely. Rising from his seat he sauntered round the kitchen, scrutinising everything with an air of lordly approval and mentally observing, " Ah, I recognise the effect of a cleanly and orderly old housewife here : it's a pleasure to see things so decently kept." Then, noticing a door at the further end of the apartment, he crossed over towards it and opened it gently. But he hesitated ere he advanced any further There was no more definite purpose in his mind as to wherefore he should proceed any further, as he stood there with the open door in his hand, than that unaccountable feeling of danger to himself and suspicious desire to see to the bottom of everything which gave to his eyes their distrustful, almost hunted look. On the other side was a passage, a continuation 22 Honour without Renown. of the one by which they had entered ; but though Mr. Manfred heard the laughter and jokes emana- ting from his friends by the door, he was effectually hidden from their view by a sharp angle of the wall. Urged by an indefinable feeling of curiosity he stepped across the passage and turned the key and the handle of the door which stood opposite the one he had just passed through. The apartment into which he now entered was a small but neatly furnished sitting-room. A chair and footstool were drawn near the table, upon which stood a work-basket ; an article of sewing lay care- lessly beside it, a thimble and pair of scissors rested near. Upon the wall hung two oil-paintings, repre- senting Scottish scenes of rippling lochs and misty heath-clad mountains, whilst at the foot of one of them nestled a small cottage of more than ordinary design and beauty. Mr. Manfred snatched the cigar from his lips and frowned fiercely as he fixed a piercing gaze upon the pictures. A sudden spasm of pain ap- peared to seize him, for his hands shook and his breathing became short and difficult. It seemed to his excited brain that he could recognise the style and hand of the painter here, and in vain he assured himself that they were but fancy pictures and concerned him not. Stifling with difficulty a mysterious sensation of alarm, he was turning to quit the room when his attention was attracted by a curtained recess, which had previously escaped his notice. With a few rapid strides he reached the tiny alcove and roughly drew the curtains aside. They disclosed a Honour without Renown. 23 small space exquisitely fitted up as an oratory. But he noted not any of the pious surroundings, nor yet a beautiful violir. which reclined carelessly against the wall ; his distracted gaze was riveted upon a portrait of a handsome young man not altogether unlike what he might once have been which hung a little below the crucifix. With a stifled exclamation of horror, Harold Manfred dropped the curtains and nearly fell to the floor. His knees shook, and the perspiration started from his skin. Still he glared with a wild fascina- tion at the picture, whilst the gentle eyes of him in the portrait met those of the intruder with a frank, steady gaze that seemed to scorch with shame the very soul within him. Summoning all his strength, he drew the curtains together and staggered to the door, not forgetting, however, to pick up the remains of the cigar which in his agitation he had dropped. He had but just gained the kitchen when Ryder re-entered it by the other door. The old man's hearing was still acute, and he detected even the slight noise made by the cautious closing of the parlour door. 11 Well, sir," he questioned, in a tone of voice which from any other man in his position would have been termed impertinent, " and how have you been occupying of yourself the last ten minutes?" "I I am not well, Ryder," returned Mr. Manfred, sinking into a chair. " I have been seized with one of my bad turns weak heart, you know." " And did you think for to strengthen it by 24 Honour without Renown. prowling about another person's house, sir?" Ryder felt convinced that the man before him had intruded into Mrs. MacDermot's private apartments. "No, no! What do you mean? I tell you I felt ill and went in search of water." " Oh, well, if that's all, sir," answered Ryder, somewhat mollified, "I'll soon get ye that; for, Heaven knows, you look bad enough. Quite scared like," he muttered to himself, as he trudged off in quest of the water. "I am, indeed, feeling bad. Get me the water and let me be gone at once ! " He rose as he spoke, for the dread of meeting the inhabitant of the lodge gave renewed strength to his limbs ; and he longed to be out in the free air once more, far from that strange house and all it might contain. When Ryder returned with a glass of water Mr. Manfred had already passed the group of gentlemen and was standing in the garden path, scanning, with a wild light in his eyes, the road leading to the lodge. "Why, Manfred," exclaimed Sir Hugh, with some concern, " how ill you look. Come back, do ! The rain has not yet ceased." " I have had one of my bad heart attacks, and when they seize me I must have air at any cost. Thanks," he continued, handing the empty glass to Ryder, " I shall soon be all right ; don't trouble about me. I will stroll quietly back to the Court under the shelter of the trees ; since there is no lightning to fear, I do not mind the rain." "Where did you pick up Manfred?" inquired Honour without Renown. 25 one of the gentlemen. " He seems to be a strange sort of fish ! See how scared he was about the lightning ; and, I declare, he looks even more terrified now. What a nervous fellow he must be." "You think so because you don't know him," answered the kind-hearted baronet. "I tell you that at times of real danger Manfred is reckless doesn't know the meaning of fear. The fact is I met the man abroad, where he did a kind action for me ; he is only young, though at times he does look so haggard and careworn ; so, in return for his kindness, I have taken him about with me a little. Of course, I knew that my cousin wouldn't mind an extra guest, and Manfred is a good shot. He comes of an old North Country family has an estate in Yorkshire, I believe ; though, for some private reason, he seldom resides there." " Doubtless the old tale : house occupied by the family ghost," observed another gentleman. "Well, Lonsdale," laughed a military-looking man, good humouredly, " he is your friend, and in consequence we will be merciful. Only /shouldn't care to command a regiment of his calibre." " Under fire he wouldn't turn out so badly as you think, take my word for it," said the baronet warmly. They had left the lodge now and were sauntering slowly down a footpath towards the gamekeepers and beaters, who, having relieved themselves of their various burdens, came out to meet them. "Can he," asked the military man aside to the gentleman who had last spoken u Can he be the Manfred of Abbey Towers, do you think?" 26 Honour without Renown. "Possibly," returned his friend, with an expres- sive look aivi a meaning shrug of his shoulders. ' No sooner hau the visitors departed than Ryder returned to the lodgt, 2>nd endeavoured to replace the chairs and generally to ;*store order. He felt constrained to examine the parloui just to see i Mr. Manfred had really entered it, and w'fit f her he had left any trace of his intrusion. No sooner had he opened the door than the odour of a cigar was wafted towards him. " Seeking for water, were you, me fine gentleman!" he said aloud. "Oh dear, dear ! but this is bad, and me left in charge too ! I'm blessed if he hasn't dropped a lot of cigar ash here!" he exclaimed. "My eyes! I must clean it up quick or it will put the poor laay in a strange fright. The man must be more fool than knave," he muttered, as seizing the shovel he stooped down, and with the aid of his red pocket- handkerchief swept the ash on to it. This done, he carried and deposited it in the kitchen fire ; and having given one last look to assure himself that all was safe, closed and locked the door as before and returned to the kitchen. " No need to frighten her, poor thing ; and as far as I can see, the man's done no great harm. Maybe I'd best say nothing unless I'm asked ; but I'll keep me eye on the gentleman, and if I see aught suspicious like, I'll give me master a hint that's all." He waited until Mrs. MacDermot's return, when he quietly informed her how the gentlemen had been overtaken by the rain, and had sought shelter in her house. She looked a little disconcerted at first, but seemed to forget the Honour without Renown. 27 matter almost immediately in the assurance that all would be quite safe under Ryder's care. Ryder was not called upon to act as spy upon Mr. Manfred, for at an early hour the next morn- ing that gentleman bade adieu to Sir Hugh and his friends and left for town, alleging that it was imperative for him to see his medical adviser at once. "I'll drive him to the station meself, and see him safely off the premises," thought John Ryder, as he drove round to the big entrance. " Maybe I may find out something more about him too." Mr. Manfred seated himself silently by the coach- man's side in the dog-cart, not even returning his respectful salute. "I hope you're feeling better to-day, sir," ob- served Ryder, casting a side look down at his companion as they drove away. "Oh, yes, decidedly; but I don't think this place can suit me. It was oppressive yesterday." " It's mostly considered healthy, sir ; but when our minds is oppressed everything feels heavy and dull like around us." Manfred turned a sharp upward glance at his companion, but the placid countenance of the old man seemed to beam with innocence. " Not that way ! " cried the gentleman, clutching suddenly at the reins ; " I I much prefer this side of the park : it is shorter, and we shall reach the station sooner." " Oh, as you will, sir. I did but think that as the day was early and we had plenty of time, we might as well lengthen our drive by going by way 4 28 Honour without Renown. of the Western Lodge." " He's soon learnt his bearings anyhow," mused the old man, "and him only here for a couple of days." " Who lives at this lodge, Ryder? It must be a sweet little corner in the summer time." " The head gardener and his family, sir." " Ah ! how much prettier it is than the other one not so lonely, you know." "That may be the reason why some folks prefer it, ye see, sir. We ain't all made alike." The rest of the drive was conducted almost in silence, though each man longed to put a leading question to the other. It was with a sigh of relief that Ryder at last deposited his charge at the rail- way station. He hoped sincerely that the gentle- man was not "going away with more than he brought." " We are well rid of him : I don't like him, and I don't trust him, that I don't," he re- peated to himself as he jogged leisurely home. Manfred booked for London and thence made for Paris. It was a strange place to choose, seeing that the city was every day being more and more straitly besieged. But Manfred was a strange man ; he felt he needed change, excitement of some sort the more dangerous, the better would it suit his present frame of mind. The old longing to do something desperate and great seized him something that would raise him for ever in the eyes of his fellow-creatures, and stamp him as a man of unimpeachable honour and renowned courage. He had also been playing much of late had plunged deeply and lost heavily ; the know- ledge of which ought to have been of vital import- Honour without Renown. 29 ance to him and detained him well outside the walls of a starving city. But desperate men do desperate deeds ; or is it not, rather, that at times a Higher Power overtakes them and forces them hither or thither they know not why or wherefore? CHAPTER III. A MONTH later and it was Christmas time. Paris that home of the gay and festive, of the frivolous, the high-minded, the saint and the sinner wore a very different aspect now from what it had done some six or seven weeks before. Its light-hearted inhabitants were for once serious. No more was heard of that empty boasting of the speed wherewith the Prussians were to be crushed and dispersed, and how ignominiously they would retire, cringing like craven dogs, to the borders of their Fatherland. The theatres and places of amusement had long since been closed ; even the cafe's were no longer Crowded until midnight, for the gas had long since given out, and the shops and streets were lit only by dim oil lamps. The churches were crowded, and ladies were seen clad only in dark and sombre attire, many of them devoting themselves to nursing the sick and wounded The sortie made by General Trochu to Champigny had been produc- tive of little good, but it had filled the hospitals to overflowing ; and many a brave young Breton soldier lay breathing his last amidst want and cold far from his father's well-filled granaries. Previously, towards St. Denis, there had been severe fighting, and the troops in that quarter had had a hot time of it. Almost all the houses in that locality bore mark? of the strife. Here and Honour without Renown. 31 there shells from the Prussian guns had stripped off the roofs, or left gaping holes in the walls, whilst the streets and gardens were strewn with debris, the defending troops having broken up the fur- niture and torn up the flooring of many a stately building for firewood. One cold day, about Christmas time, down one of these desolate, cheerless streets came a yoifng English Sister of Charity. Some few yards be- hind her trudged a middle-aged, motherly-looking peasant woman, who was following the Sister's steps in the capacity of bodyguard. They had not very much farther to go, nor had the Sister much to fear ; for though the roughs of Belleville and Montmartre were known to collect in small numbers about this quarter and search amidst the ruins for plunder, still at that time scarce the worst amongst them would insult a Sister of Charity. The wind was strong and piercing, and little Sister Marguerite shivered as she hid her hands further in her sleeves and walked more briskly forward. Her sweet face was pale, and its ex- pression was serious. Meat was at famine prices, and like many another Sister Marguerite was feeling the want of good wholesome food. She was hungry. Was she thinking with regret of the wealth, or the boards of plenty in her old father's home, or of the bright Yuletide fires which even now glowed in its merry halls? No! no such thoughts as these filled her mind or caused that troubled look to linger on the kind young face. Once, just for an instant, her lips trembled with pity as her quick eye detected, in passing, the 32 Honour without Renown. hungry half-starved form of a large dog, which slunk away at their approach, as though desirous of hiding from men. Then a sudden feeling of gratitude rose to her heart as she thought of the comfortable bed and board provided for her dear old Leo at home. A faithful attendant on the sick and wounded after that terrible carnage at Sedan, she had followed them with her gentle ministry, even to the heart of the capital itself. Her kind heart had been almost overwhelmed with the sorrow and suffering she had witnessed. It was in no half-hearted manner that she had given herself to God, and devoted herself to His cause. The poor, the sick, the suffering, were His ; and she tended and loved them with almost a mother's love ; for being His, were they not her special charge also? Many a sick man and care- worn woman, many a dying youth and sorrowful maiden had gazed with reverent gratitude upon her face, had hung upon her words, and had poured into her ears their complaints, certain of imbibing from her courage and strength to shoulder their cross, or to lay down the burden of this life with calm and sweet resignation. It might be said that when she was near "Sad hearts forgot their sorrow, rough hearts grew soft and mild, And weary little children turned in their sleep and smiled." Sister Marguerite was always cheerful. Does not Heaven deal ever thus with the generous giver, and fill the heart with a secret joy which none can take from them. Why, then, this present little Honour without Renown. 33 cloud upon her face? She had a troublesome case on hand, and she longed for help from abler hands. Under her special charge was a stubborn old French officer, who neither by word nor look could be prevailed upon even to acknowledge his God much less to make his peace with Him ere it was too late. "And he is dying," thought little Sister Mar- guerite ; " I know that there is no hope for him, my poor, brave old soldier ! I must do something for him ! " And in her old impulsive way she hastened her steps almost to a run ; then she slackened her speed as a happy thought seemed to strike her. Her eyes brightened with a gleam of hope, and the old merry smile parted her lips, as she whispered joyfully to herself in her own native tongue : "But wherefore should I so fret and worry about my poor old patient? Have I not charged the dear inmates of old St. Benedict's to beseech Heaven in behalf of all my suffering poor, and this old man in particular. Their prayers will obtain for him all the graces he needs. After all, is it not such as they who do the real work ? Whilst I am tending the body they are pleading for the poor neglected soul ; together we will checkmate him, and my poor old soldier, who has been so brave in battle, shall turn in penitence to his God ere he goes forth to meet Him as a judge." A few steps more and they paused in front of a poorly-built cottage. Alone among its more pretentious neighbours it bore no trace of shell or bullet. "Now, Sister, I shall leave you. But wait for me: I shall return in a few hours to escort you back." 34 Honour without Renown. " It is most kind of you, Minnette. Ma Soeur would have accompanied me, but there was so much to do at the hospital that I offered to come alone." " It is a lonely walk for such as you, Sister ; and every day the discontent amongst the people in- creases. My husband hears much, and he tells me that he fears even the religious habit will not protect the wearers soon ! " "Well, Minnette," said Sister Marguerite cheer- fully, " those who work for the good God need fear nothing ! It surely matters little whether we go to Him by the hand of a ruffian or by that o disease." "But the poor cannot spare you yet, Sister. However, just listen to the noise old Mere Cor- bette is making upon the floor with her stick. I pity you sincerely, Sister, if she is in one of her fierce moods. Shall I remain with you?" "Oh, no, thank you, kind Minnette. It is all my fault : I have annoyed her by standing talking to you. Au revoir" ; and with a bright smile Sister Marguerite opened the cottage door, closing it quickly after her, in the face of the piercing wind. She advanced towards a small table which stood in the centre of the little kitchen, and depositing her bag of provisions upon it, turned kindly towards the figure of an old woman who, propped up with pillows, sat in a large old-fashioned chair near the fire. "How are you to-day, Madame Corbette?" she asked. " Much you care how I suffer, or whether I live Honour without Renown. 35 or die," responded the old woman savagely. ''Here have I sat since early morning, having only once broken my fast, no one to bring me food or attend to any of my wants ! Yet you can find time to stand and gossip outside my door while you know I am starving ! " " Nay, nay ; do not be too hard upon me. I thought Jeanne would have been here as usual and given you your dinner. I am so sorry I could not come sooner," said Sister Marguerite soothingly, as she raised the old woman in her chair and endeavoured to make her more comfortable. " Why did not Jeanne come to-day ? " "Who said she didn't come?" inquired the old woman tartly. "She did come. But she said I was unreasonable, and flew into a passion and left me to do for myself; and my legs ha\ r e been more painful than ever to-day." Sister Marguerite took out the contents of her bag and placed them upon the table : a bottle of light wine, one small pie the meat of which was, perhaps purposely, disguised with strong seasoning two eggs, a small bag of freshly ground coffee, two rolls of bread, and a small tablet of chocolate. Hurriedly pouring out some wine into a chipped cup which stood near, and breaking off a portion of the bread, Sister Marguerite took it to the old dame, saying sweetly : "There, poor old mother; I am so sorry that you have suffered. Drink this, and I will make you some nice warm coffee before attending to your wounds." "You'll have to make the fire up first, and there 36 Honour without Renown. are no dry logs in. It's bad management when folks don't get the wood in overnight." " But why did not old Pierre come last night ta cut the wood as usual? " "Why? How can I tell you why he suddenly threw down the saw in the garden at the back and fled. I suppose, like every one else, he has gone mad with fear of a few Prussian dogs. If I had but the use of my limbs once more, I would show some of these cowards how to go out and meet an enemy. Is not every house around save mine deserted? and yet no Prussian shell has dared to touch it. We want the Reds to the fore ; they know the meaning of courage ! " Sister Marguerite was now upon her knees, sweeping up the ashes and endeavouring to revive the dying embers. She was feeling tired, and a sensation of giddiness crept over her, caused by the stooping position, when the sharp voice of Mere Corbette again roused her. " I should like to know where you were brought up!" she snarled impatiently. "Your mother ought to be ashamed of herself for not having taught you to clean up a fireside better than that Why you are wasting all the best of the ash ! " "Am I really? I am grieved to be so stupid, but" with a merry laugh "you see my education was so dreadfully neglected ; you must excuse me ; and I will try to do my work better and be more careful in future." "I hope you will," grunted the old woman, as she drank her wine and ate her bread greedily. "You don't look too old yet to learn ; but Ma Soeur, Honour without Renown. 37 as you call her, informed me that you came from England ; and one cannot expect much from an Englishwoman." With the aid of an old pair of bellows and some dry wood which she discovered hidden beneath the rubbish in another apartment, Sister Marguerite succeeded in making a glowing fire ; and having placed a kettle of water upon it, turned towards the irascible woman in order to dress her helpless limbs. In her legs were large ulcerated wounds, whilst similar ones had broken out in her neck and side. With infinite pity the Sister skilfully dressed and bound them, thinking in her sympathetic heart all the while: "Poor old soul, she has indeed cause for her anger and irritability. It is terrible to be afflicted like this." The old woman was a well-known character. Her temper had driven all her friends from her ; and when the siege commenced no one could prevail upon her to leave her cottage. It was her own, she protested, and she would live and die in it in spite of Bismarck and all his Prussian rogues. So gradually every house in the neighbourhood save this little cottage was vacated, and the Sisters of Charity were requested to visit her daily, as no one else could be depended upon to do so. Merry little Sister Marguerite was generally selected for the task, and she was wont to laugh as she related to the Sisters the amount of courage it sometimes needed to beard the lioness in her den. Having poured out some coffee, and made the meal appear as tempting and appetising as possible, Sister Marguerite drew the table within easy reach 38 Honour without Renown. of her patient, and said coaxingly : " Now enjoy your food. I will remain longer with you and assist you to your couch in case Jeanne should not come to-night." " Had you not better go in search of wood, or how do you think the fire is to be kept in or relit in the morning?" "Ah, yes, I had forgotten that. Where does Pierre generally find the logs." " Outside, of course. Those who seek can generally find if they wish." Sister Marguerite made no reply, but turned humbly to obey. Leaving the kitchen she went towards a low door which she knew led into the neglected back garden. The short December evening was closing in : a dark cloud obscuring the pale sun made it appear even later than it really was. Large snowflakes were gracefully fall- ing ; the wind had suddenly ceased, and the leaden clouds threatened a heavy snowfall. The scene was one of utter desolation. The boundary line of the old garden wall was to be distinguished only by the heaps of ruined stones which lay around ; whilst tall roofless houses seemed to stare with vacant gaze through their shattered and paneless window-frames upon the scene of ruthless destruc- tion below. Sister Marguerite stumbled across the uneven ground, searching in vain for the logs of wood ; all that came to view were some old and frozen cabbage stalks, a scanty scrub or two, various pieces of iron, and several broken utensils which lay scat- tered around. At last, towards the centre of the Honour without Renown. 39 desolate garden, she descried a stout block of wood, and lying near it, partly hidden by the long weeds and rubbish, the trunk of a small tree, evidently the remainder of that from which old Pierre had cut the logs. " And here is the saw," smiled the nun, as she stooped to raise it, all wet and rusty as it was. She shook it playfully for a few seconds, then the hand which held it fell listlessly to her side, and for some moments she stood like a carved and beautiful statue, the only visible living thing in all that dreary waste. She was listening ; and as she listened her thoughts wandered. For who can control the heart of man? His thoughts are as free as the wild winds of heaven, which search alike the most silent, hidden nooks in the ocean's dreary waste, and the crowded alleys in our busiest cities. With what ease, too, he can recall to the vision of his mind loved forms of the past, and oblivious of time and passing events, can conjure up dear faces, hear once more sweet low-toned voices that for long years have lain hushed and silent in the tomb. Nay, he can almost feel the warm pressure of strong or tiny hands which once he called his own. Sister Margaret heeded not the pure snowflakes as they fell upon her white cornette and feathered her blue-grey habit. There she stood, in the centre of that scene of desolation, in an attitude of listening thoughtfulness. Over away to the south she could distinctly hear the heavy report of the Prussian guns, answered by those from the French forts. "Alas," she sighed, "poor Paris ! how will it all end? Will you resist 40 Honour without Renown. until all your brave inhabitants starve or perish? Or will the discontent which smoulders in the hearts of so many of your children burst forth into flames, and destroy you with a destruction more cruel? Ah me ! I fear things will be worse ere they end." Then amidst the confused sounds of war and de- vastation came the peaceful sound of a convent bell tolling the Vesper hour. " And this is Christmas Eve," thought the Sister. Then away once more flew her thoughts to that Christmas Eve, when her dear old friend, Marie Blake, had first visited her at Baron Court. She pondered in loving memory each word and act of the sweet Irish girl, as she strove so patiently to win back to God her own proud, stubborn heart. When she re- called to her mind how wilfully she had resisted all their efforts and striven to stifle the voice of God calling to her to resign herself to Him when she remembered all this, the warm blood rose to her cheek and she humbly bowed her head, asking forgiveness for the weakness and faults of her girlhood. She thought, too, of dear old Madge, the brave Scotch girl ; of the time when they all three were thoughtless schoolgirls together, of the heavy trials which Madge endured so patiently, and she blessed God for the peace and happiness which she now enjoyed. But the little bell had ceased, and the snow was falling even faster than before, when Sister Marguerite suddenly roused herself and collected her roving thoughts. ''Time is fleeting swiftly and I have not yet cut one single log. How do men saw wood?" she asked herself as, stooping, she raised one end of Honour without Renown. 41 the small trunk and looked at it seriously. Then she cast an anxious look at the large rusty saw. " It is bitterly cold, too, and old Madame Corbette will die if she has no fire to-morrow,'' said the distracted Sister. " How can I manage to cut this wood? It is quite useless as it is, being so long." Then a thought struck her ; for a tiny picture of the interior of the Holy House of Nazareth rose before her vision, wherein the Divine Infant was assisting His great foster-father in his workshop, whilst His Holy Mother sat near them silently watching, listening, and pondering. " Now, dear old St. Joseph," said Sister Mar- guerite, playfully but reverently, " do please come to the assistance of your stupid little apprentice, and teach me a little of your trade. See, this is the way you had the wood in your picture." And raising the fallen trunk she drew it partly across the block until one end of it projected a little over the side; "then one of your knees was on the wood so, and your saw was buried half-way through the plank ; but, however did you manage to get it there, I wonder? I have seen men in the woods at home working the saw up and down ; it did seem so very easy ; I will try it too." Poor Sister ! She did try, and for some time with little or no success ; the saw sprang from its place, jagging the other little hand which vainly en- deavoured to steady her work. But she was deter- mined. One more earnest petition to St. Joseph for help for love of the Divine Infant who assisted him a few more vigorous thrusts of the clumsy saw, then, lo, a soft spot was found and the saw 42 Honour without Renown. was soon buried, even like that in the picture, deeply in the wood. She was becoming an adept at the process now, and the saw was already half-way through a second time when she was compelled to pause. The un- wonted exertion had brought a high colour to her cheek, and a troublesome fit of coughing inter- rupted her work. It was some time before she recovered sufficient strength to resume it. For half an hour longer she worked and coughed, coughed and worked, until quite a little heap of logs rewarded her exertions. Then flushed and elated at her success, Sister Marguerite collected together her spoil, and placing it tenderly in her coarse apron, carried it in triumph into the cottage, and deposited it near the little stove to dry. For a wonder Madame Corbette abstained from abusing her for tarrying too long over her work. Perhaps she was touched by the delicate expression on the sweet young face ; and a pang of remorse may have shot through her as she noticed the snow falling and listened to the hacking cough which so frequently shook the merry Sister's frame as she gently helped the old woman to her couch. Ere all her kind ministrations of charity were com- pleted the honest peasant woman made her ap- pearance and bade the Sister hurry. It was late, she said ; the snow was falling heavily, and it was a dreary night outside. In the stillness of that Christmas morn, before so many altars of God, in thousands of churches, knelt countless faithful souls, all united in one act, that of offering the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, Honour without Renown. 43 Surrounded by the community of Sisters, in the stillness of their Convent chapel situated in the very midst of that terror-sticken and beleaguered city, knelt this young nun. Her head was bowed low, her hands were tightly clasped together, and her beautiful eyes were closed. Gone was the weariness which had almost overpowered her during the day. She remembered no more the aching of her limbs, heeded not the throbbing of the temples, caused by overwork and want of food ; even the troublesome cough had for the time being ceased, for the soul of Sister Mar- guerite was reaping her reward, it was absorbed in prayer. Time was fleeting, the time that of all was most precious to her, in which no duty was allowed to interrupt her close communing with God. Without disorder, upon the keen vision of her mind arose those forms she loved so well. Her poor, her sick, her suffering ones and they were of all nations, of all creeds the dear home friends, the departed, for each and all she must offer special prayer. How distinctly she could see the dear old school friend, Marie, as at this very moment she was kneeling beside her husband, her pretty face buried in her hands, praying in the beautiful chapel at Baron Court. She could not feel her presence bodily, nor was it given to her to catch the exultant tones of that Gloria which she herself had sung on that memorable Christ- mas Eve so many years ago ; but so well did she know and understand the heart and mind of Marie that she could almost catch the burning words of 5 44 Honour without Renown. prayer as they fell from her lips : " O God, bless, protect, and reward my darling Sister Marguerite." What wonder then if warm responsive supplica- tions streamed to Heaven from the heart of the nun. Close beside her in heart, though bodily in the Emerald Isle, kneels that other loved one, Margaret O'Hagan Madge. The clear eyes are raised in petition and trust, and the loved name of Sister Marguerite lingers upon her lips until her fearless eyes grow dim with tears. Into the heart of Lady O'Hagan there steals a dread lest some unknown evil should befall the dear companion of her youth. Is not little Sister Marguerite in the midst of terror and disorder! Heaven shield and protect her. Grouped more closely still around the altar kneel the dear inmates of St. Benedict's those guides and friends of their happy girlhood, whilst the earnest prayers and petitions of their old children seem gathered and collected by the virgin band, and, united with their own, to ascend to the throne of the Most High. Her brother Percy, too, now a priest of God, she felt sure he was even at this very moment offering the Holy Sacrifice for her especially his only little sister. Then what of her father? whom once she had almost dared to love too well ; and the poor repentant mother, whose death, though sad, had been so hopeful? The chair of dear "Aunty "Blake, also, was vacant, and, followingher faithfully in death as in life, " Old Peter" too had gone. But those loved ones were still within reach Honour without Renown. 4.5 of her prayerful aid, and from the depths of her heart arose the cry, ' Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine : et lux perpetua luceat eis ! " How swiftly the time had flown ! Silently the Sisters had risen from their knees, and had left the chapel. The lights upon the altar were all extin- guished, leaving but the dim light of the sanctuary lamp, when Ma Soeur arose, and walking towards the still kneeling figure of Sister Marguerite, touched her gently, bidding her rise and go in search of the rest she so sorely needed. CHAPTER IV. THE tedious winter of 1870 was over. Proud Paris had drunk deeply of the cup of humiliation, but the dregs were still to follow. Surrounded by a powerful and persistent army, harassed by want and hunger, she had courageously held her own, presenting a bold front to her stern and dauntless foes. But the piteous cries for food from the mouths of her helpless ones had wrung the hearts of her generals, and gay Paris, bleeding and battered, had bent her proud knee and sued for a cessation of hostilities. The strong March winds had blown more fiercely than usual, or the long-tried constitutions felt their piercing edge more keenly ; certain it was that the first gentle breeze of April was doubly welcome, for it wafted dreams of rest and peace to many worn and sickly hearts. Lucky birds that had survived the late season of terror and strife awoke to life and hope, and twittered joyously in the gardens of the Tuileries. Why should they mourn indeed? What was it to them if human blood had been shed profusely, the lives of brave men sacrificed Honour without Renown. 47 freely? They had no time to weep for foolish human beings, they must work to build their little nests, and, whilst so doing, fill their tiny throats and sing for very joy the praises of their Maker. " Sweet birds, that breathe the spirit of song 1 , And surround Heaven's gate in melodious throng, You remind us that we should raise The voice of devotion and song and praise ; There's something about you that points on high, Ye beautiful tenants of earth and sky." Little recked they, poor birdies, that ere the fresh green leaves had fully developed, shading with Providential care their little nests ere their tender broods were capable of self-protection great hungry tongues of fire, lit by the malice of men, would burst from the palatial buildings around, and destroy every green and beautiful thing within their reach. Who in those hours of wild frenzy and excitement would spare one thought for the beautiful songster or care one jot for the fallen sparrow? Only He to whom they warble and sing. His will alone, then, was their law, and with no thought for the morrow, they worked and sang so sweetly that the gardens were alive with their merry twitter. And now, when Paris might once more have raised her head and breathed in peace, the fierce passions which had smouldered in the hearts of the most depraved of her children burst forth into flames, dealing indiscriminately death and destruc- tion around. It was surely bitter enough to lie bleeding at the feet of a foreign enemy ! But far more bitter was it to stagger and faint through pain caused by the 4.8 Honour without Renown. cruel sword-thrusts dealt by ungrateful children. Yet, to the honour of France be it recorded that, though wearied and heart-broken by all she had endured, she remained still dignified and deter- mined ; with one accord the better part of her arose to revenge and punish these rebellious children. Thus we find her one bright day in the very early April of 1871 ringing with disorder and confusion. So long as the siege continued and the gates of Paris were strictly closed, Harold Manfred had chafed at the enforced imprisonment, had paced the boulevards cursing fate and his ill-luck. But now that he could escape if he would, he still lingered, curious to see the end, and, if possible, earn for his name some renown or glory. He had made no friends ; he had not even sought to do so ; and the few acquaintances whom he met were of a gambling type. His morose manner had kept the more sociable Frenchmen at arm's length, and the manner in which he had doled out his payments for the necessaries of life had caused him to be looked upon with suspicion ; in no sense did Jie correspond with the ideal of an English milord. His object, after all, in remaining where he was was mainly to gain time, and for the present to be forgotten. His exchequer had run low very low indeed. His estate was burdened with heavy charges, and without drawing upon his investments he had not the wherewithal to meet them. No, he would allow things to take their course. Fate, the love of adventure, an unconquer- able craving for renown, had driven him thither ; he must make such means as he had go as far as Honour without Renown. 49 they would. He had left no address, and creditors were not likely to search for him in Paris. Had it not been for the ill-luck which had discovered to him the contents of that chamber in the lodge of Baron Court, he would have played his cards so wisely and so well that even now he could have been vegetating at that luxurious English home. So he thought, as he strode moodily along the Rue de Paradis, past the prison St. Lazare, casting every now and then scornful glances upon the ill- conditioned and discontented-looking battalions of National Guards from Montmartre and Belleville, as they paced the streets gesticulating and boast- ing wildly of the cold-blooded manner in which they had despatched their luckless generals. So far the Communists had refrained from deeds of outrage upon peaceable citizens, and it is a ground for congratulation to the inhabitants of Paris that the conquering army still lingered out- side the town, prepared to enter it at once should the line of railway be cut. But how long the motley and disordered force could be kept under control, composed as it was, in a great measure, of Socialists, Democrats, and Freethinkers enemies to religion, order, and morality was growing a grave question. Already rumours were gaining credence that an immense body of troops was collecting at Versailles; and the Communists knew that to retain possession of Paris they must fight hard, and that the blow for liberty must be struck boldly and at once if they would ensure a perma- nent effect. Utterly regardless of the taunting jeers and 50 Honour without Renown significant grimaces of the mob, Harold Manfred stalked proudly on. He scorned foreigners, as in duty bound, and would neither trouble about their language nor conform to their manners. Was not every Englishman worth three foreigners? That at least was the creed in which he had been reared, and he longed to show some of these low rebels what a cool-headed Britisher could do in the moment of danger and doubt. Now he moved to one side as two Sisters or Charity glided hurriedly by. Now, if there was one form of religious dress that Manfred loathed more than another he disliked them all it was the white cornette of a Sister of Charity. The sight of it never failed to recall to his mind how, on board a steamer crossing the Channel, he had been ignominiously and publicly snubbed on its account by a young and beautiful English girl. The Sisters moved quickly. One was apparently some years the senior of her companion ; this was Soeur Angela, who being the Superioress was more generally known as " Ma Soeur." Over her pleasant face there hung an expression of grave anxiety ; and so engrossed was she in serious thought, that it was rarely she raised her head to note what was passing around. Not so the younger Sister, who, seeing that the stranger stepped aside to let them pass, and supposing it to be a movement .of kindness and courtesy, raised her bright face, and recognised at a glance the presence of a fellow-countryman. But the glad light died from her eyes, and she drew herself together with dignity, as she met his look of disdain. Where on earth had she Honour without Renown. 51 seen that same ill-natured face before? Was there not something familiar too in the whole aspect and bearing of the man ? She thought so ; but this was no time in which to trouble herself about a passing likeness when so many weightier matters laid claim to all her strength and skill. So Sister Marguerite dismissed the subject from her mind, and sped cheerfully along on her errand of mercy. As for Harold Manfred, no sooner had he caught sight of the Sisters' faces than the expression of his own changed to one of astonish- ment. He stood and stared at their receding forms until a turn in the street hid them from view. Surely he had seen that elder grave face before ! And how like were the eyes of the younger Sister to those beautiful proud ones that once flashed so scornfully upon him as he stood upon the white deck of an English steamer 1 Wheeling hastily around, he resumed his walk at even a more rapid pace than before, and laughing satirically called himself a fool for endeavouring to trace a con- nection between the English girl of bitter yet glorious memory and a common Sister of Charity. The bare idea was monstrous ! Nay it was dese- cration to the very memory of that girl, and he dismissed the thought indignantly. He was now on the Boulevard Barbies, a con- tinuation of which would lead him by way of the Boulevard Ormano to the Porte de Clignancourt. He felt a strange fascination in gazing upon the ruin outside the walls, and he would stroll in and out of the deserted houses and weave romances 52 Honour without Renown. out of the feelings and fortunes of their previous owners. Not far from the very place where he was making his lonely explorations stood the little cottage of old Mere Corbette, to which the Sisters were then directing their steps. " You are very tired, Ma vSoeur," remarked Sister Marguerite, looking affectionately at the grave face and noting the languid step of her companion. " Yes, I must own to that at least ! Never did I feel the distance so long or so wearisome before. I have made up my mind, now the last two soldiers have recovered, that unless Madame Corbette leaves her cottage and takes up her quarters at a more convenient distance from the Convent I cannot allow my overworked Sisters to attend upon her." Sister Marguerite was silent for a few minutes, then remarked : " But so far the cottage has proved of great utility. Several soldiers, who were too badly injured to be moved to any distance, would cer- tainly have died unassisted by us had it not been for that convenient harbour of shelter. It is strange how useful the tiny house has been, and how bravely it has withstood the siege ! " "It has been comparatively sheltered from the fire of the enemies' guns by the large buildings at the back. That will be so no longer if our own are levelled against it, as they inevitably will be unless this terrible rising is quickly subdued. And, more, the Sister who traverses these streets soon will have a dangerous task to perform ; and con- sidering her arduous duties elsewhere, she ought not to be compelled to undertake it." Honour without Renown. 53 Kind and motherly Sister Angela ! Since the first day upon which you met that bright school- girl, Beatrice de Woodville, and she so nobly stood your champion and that of the sick Sister whose journey across the Channel you were endeavouring to ease your heart has yearned towards her with a strange love and admiration. Yet oft-times you tremble for her, knowing so well to what heights of self-sacrifice the heart of Sister Mar- guerite is capable of rising. They had now reached the small wooden porch, and, springing lightly up the steep stone steps, Sister Marguerite thrice rapped briskly with the knocker upon the rickety door. The call was immediately answered by Jeanne, who, after great persuasion on the part of Ma Soeur, had consented to resume her night watches at the cottage. Perhaps the hope of inheriting the stocking of gold reported to be possessed by the old woman encouraged the niece in her charitable ministrations. Ma Soeur walked straight towards Madame Corbette, and, addressing her kindly, sank exhausted in a chair beside her. Now, if the old woman feared any one on earth it was Ma Soeur. She could not but feel that she owed her much ; still, as she turned her hard, plain face, framed in its large white cap, and fixed her beady black eyes upon the nun, she did not forbear to remark in a sarcastic tone : " Ah, it's better, after all, to be able to walk, ever) if one should feel some slight fatigue, than to be aged, decrepit, and in constant pain, as I am." Ma Soeur looked at her, perhaps, a little sternly as she answered with quiet dignity : " Possibly so. 54 Honour without Renown. But look at little Sister Marguerite ! See wiih what care she has brought you a more dainty repast than usual. It consists chiefly of her own share of a kindly gift which was yesterday presented to us for our own table." "One is lucky to get a few crumbs now and again which fall from the table of a religious ; it brings a flavour into one's mouth of better days," was the ungrateful reply ; for a Red Republican to the backbone was old Mere Corbette. " How- ever," she continued in a grumbling tone of voice, " I cannot eat until my wounds are dressed." " And I am quite ready to attend to them now," said Sister Marguerite, kneeling down quietly and commencing to unwrap, with clever and tender care, some of the bandages which covered the un- sightly sores in the infirm old limbs. It was a most revolting form of skin disease from which the old woman suffered one which should have received special hospital treatment ; but Madame Corbette had steadily refused to leave her cottage. And the Sisters had given a promise to her hus- band on his death-bed to continue, if possible, their care of his atheistic wife, and endeavour to win her back to God ere she died. Ma Soeur could not express a shudder of horror as she saw the gaping wounds exposed ; and yet it was sur- mounted by a feeling of sublime admiration as she watched the sweet face and movements of Sister Marguerite. It was lessons like the present that had subdued the proud heart of Beatrice de Woodville, and Ma Soeur was able to measure, in a small way, the Honour without Renown. 55 great grace that had been needed to change that spoiled and dainty girl into the humble nun before her. Yes, surely there was a soft place in her heart for Sister Marguerite. But listen ! what was that? Ah, their ears were too well practised to mistake the rumbling of cannon, followed as it was instantly by the sound of a shell which exploded not more than two hundred yards from the cottage, shivering to splinters the remnants of a shattered wall. Signs of deadly strife had appeared outside. One small detachment of the National Guard, led by a brave young officer, refused to yield or join the ever-increasing mob of Communists which each moment threatened to overpower and destroy them. So they bravely manned the few guns remaining in their possession, and opened a de- structive fire. But the advance of the Communists continued steadily, sheltered as it was by the half- fallen and deserted buildings. This was sport in which Harold Manfred revelled. Born to be a soldier, the clash of arms had ever Eaade his pulses thrill, the flash of sword and whiz of bullet fired him. He would not go out of his way to fight for France, neither would he turn and flee if danger threatened him ; but he would aid those around him and defend himself if need were, showing these curs how an Englishman could fight. Eagerly he watched the strife ; and when oppor- tunity offered, without one thought of fear, seized the rifle and ammunition of a wounded soldier and advanced with the mob. He would strike 3 blow 56 Honour without Renown. for liberty and France ! Several shells had fallen, but all had not exploded ; so far but little serious harm had been done. A small force, of which Manfred was one, had been thrown forward and was sheltering in a long, low building, the floor of which was thickly strewn with damp and well- trodden straw. Evidently the place had been occupied during the siege by cavalry ; for though the roof had given way in several places, and the large windows were long since denuded of every vestige of glass, the walls were yet strong and afforded good shelter for the time. Between this building and the next intervened some eighty yards of open ground, on which the men would be exposed to a deadly fire. An excited discussion was taking place as to the advisability of rushing it or of taking a more circuitous route, when straight through one of the open windows into their very midst hissed a shell. There was a stifled cry, followed by an instantaneous rush for safety ; but quick as thought Harold Manfred seized the deadly thing and dashed with it through an open doorway. Alas ! he tripped and fell ; the bomb exploded, and where was the gallant Englishman? Few had witnessed the act ; men still crouched and hid behind each other in dread of what was coming, when they were roused by the report of the explosion outside. But the keen eye of their leader had seen it all ; and his heart was stirred with admiration and pity, as he bade the men gather gently the mutilated body of the English- man and carry him where? For a moment he Honour without Renown. 57 stood and gazed in bewilderment around, then the order came : "To yonder cottage, from the chimney of which issues the curling smoke." Back again through the crowd of howling fanatics they bore their unconscious burden, whilst many an eye gazed upon him, recognising in the face of the sufferer the proud Englishman at whom they had jeered that day. Poor Manfred ! you have paid dearly for the renown which you craved so much to earn or has the day of reckoning overtaken you at last? CHAPTER V. A MEDICAL man had staunched the blood and joined the small procession ere they reached the cottage door. Short and peremptory was the knock they gave ; yet ere they halted Ma Soeur had recognised the rhythmic tramp of soldiers' feet, and knew that another case awaited them. Opening the door she gazed with pitying eyes upon the still handsome features of the Englishman. His face alone was exposed to view : the rest of his body had been mercifully covered. "Sister Marguerite," she cried; "prepare and open at once the bed in the small back chamber." But the shrill voice of Madame Corbette echoed loudly in their ears : " No, no, I say ! Back with the wretch ; he shall not enter here. Death, death, to each and all the troops, and all who fight against Liberty and Freedom. To no more of the false- hearted knaves will I give shelter or rest." "Nay, shame on thee then, old Mere Corbette, for a hard-hearted fiend," spoke one of the men. "This man is no enemy of thine; he has fought gallantly, and has struck a blow in the cause thou lovest so well." "His last blow, "commented the doctor. "Come, Honour without Renown. 59 carry him in ! We have Citizen Barlet's orders to do so, and must obey," " You lie ! You are deceiving me, "shrieked the woman as, forgetting in her excitement the pain and helplessness of her limbs, she dragged herself into a standing position and stood without support screaming and swearing that he should not enter there. "Where are his decorations?" she shrieked ; " where the glorious red that should mark him for a true patriot?" u Behold," said the doctor, "the red dye where- with he is stained ; more than his heart's blood he could not give for France. Move on, my men, and heed her not. See, he sighs ! he breathes more freely ! Each minute now is worth an hour. Carry him forward quickly." 11 1 defy you ! You shall not do it !" now yelled the old fanatic. " If you bring him in here it is at your own peril. The house is mine, and it shall not shelter an aristocrat!" The covering had partly fallen, and exposed to view the dress of an English gentleman. " Madame Corbette," said Ma Soeur, turning with dignity towards the wretched woman, and speaking sternly and with authority, while she forced her back into her chair, "be silent! Cease once for all this disgraceful language and behaviour, or I shall leave you to your fate, and no Sister shall ever darken your doors again. You shall be left to die as you deserve, neglected and forgotten, if you dare to refuse shelter to this gentleman. The hospitals are full, and to carry him further would be to kill him. This very day did I come to tell 6 60 Honour without Renown. you, that unless, you left this house, and changed your quarters, we should attend your case no longer. Now refuse your roof to this stranger and instantly we discontinue our care of you. Do you understand me? I am not one to go back upon my word." Madame Corbette, faint and exhausted by her physical exertions, sank heavily back into her chair. She had measured swords with Ma Soeur before to-day, and she knew who would come off victorious. So puckering her unpleasant face into an expression of black and sullen disapproval, she continued to mutter hoarsely in an incoherent and unpleasant manner. Rapidly Sister Marguerite had spread the little bed. Narrow as it was, the sheets were spotlessly white, and a fragrant odour of lavender pervaded the tiny room. With the greatest care they raised the unconscious man and laid him gently upon the open bed. Then a sight met the Sister's eyes which well-nigh overcame her. The face, arms, and body of Manfred seemed little injured, but the whole of one leg appeared to be smashed to a jelly ; cloth, flesh, and bone were mingled in an indistinguishable perplexity. As high as the knee the other leg too had suffered considerably ; but that, perhaps, might be saved. "And it is the poor sullen Englishman!" thought the kind-hearted nun, as she forced her- self to overcome her nausea, and bending low ex- aminei closely the ghastly features. " My God, what a dreadful thing ! Will he live, doctor?" she inquired eagerly. Honour without Renown. 61 " Not at all likely to, Sister. Few constitutions could survive such a shock." " Poor fellow, poor fellow ! " she repeated to herself in English ; " how sad to die all alone and so far away from home : surely some one will miss and mourn him! His papers, where are they? They must be saved and examined." "So you also are English, Sister. It is lucky for the unfortunate man ; for in extreme cases like this, should men speak at all, it is almost certain to be in their own tongue. However, let us to work at once and seriously, for I am told that he met his death in the execution of a bold deed ; and it shall not be said that France was slow or forgot to repay a generous act." "Bold, daring, and brave, of course he was; that goes without the saying ! Was he not English ? " thought Sister Marguerite ; and a flash of patriotic pride lit up her face, as she remem- bered how unnumbered were the famous deeds of heroism recounted in history of her own dear countrymen. Stooping once again she loosened yet more the clothing around the sufferer's throat, feeling gently about his neck and chest in the hope of discovering some crucifix, scapular, or medal, which would entitle her to call to the sick man's aid the kind old Abbe Marliere. But search as she would no object of piety or value could she discover, nor any clue to his identity. One waistcoat pocket contained two golden English coins, and a little change in silver ; but that threw no light upon the man's identity. His linen was fine, so likewise 62 Honour without Renown, was the cloth of his suit ; but they bore neither mark nor initials. Hat he had none ; doubtless it had fallen off in the fight. Still under the effect of a strong opiate, Manfred groaned and breathed heavily. Once, as he sighed, his lips moved, as though he were endeavouring to frame a sentence, but Sister Marguerite only caught the word " water." " There is no time to prolong the search further, Sisters ; you must go into it more fully afterwards. At present render me all the assistance in your power, for this is a terrible case." So saying, Dr. Arno speedily made his preparations, and with the help of the Sisters cleverly, if roughly, severed the mutilated limb and bound up the stump. The other leg was tended as best it could be, for the time being, in accordance with the medical man's present opinion. It was from scenes such as these that the gay Beatrice de Woodville would have turned away in sickening disgust ; but Sister Marguerite braced herself to face and aid it to the utmost of her power. " For the love of Thee alone, my God, will I tend and nurse this poor stranger," she prayed ; " and if he must die, let him go to Thee with the full knowledge and trust in Thy love and mercy. Thou hast sent him somewhat strangely to my care ; give me strength and grace to aid him for Thee." When the operation was over, the doctor could not but admire the oilence, method, and dexterity with which the Sisters cleared away all trace of it. Being a kindly man, he even aided them in their Honour without Renown. 63 labours, feeling a great admiration and pity for the bright-faced English Sister, whose hacking cough ttas such a constant trial to her. Soon the small room assumed a more cleanly, peaceful appearance. The balmy air, penetrating through the open casement window, pervaded the apartment, chasing away the former stuffy atmos- phere, and fanning with grateful coolness the fevered cheek of the silent sufferer. All was still save for the heavy breathing of Manfred when Sister Marguerite resumed her search amongst his clothes. No letter or pocket-book was to be found ; nothing that could convey the smallest clue as to the man's identity, or tell from whence he came or whither bound. It seemed as though the man had purposely left them all behind in order to perplex them. The handsome gold English lever watch, which Dr. Arno was even now examining, had once had a crest engraved upon the back of it, but rough usage had almost entirely defaced the tracing, and try as he would he was unable to decipher it. "Ah, here is something," cried Sister Marguerite, holding up to view a beautiful mother-of-pearl cigarette-case, mounted with silver " here in this corner are the letters H. M." " Even they do not advance us very much," said the doctor, smiling. "Try again, Sister." " Now I have found a gold match-box, Doctor . and here are the two letters again. But stay ; there are three letters here: they are E. T. L., woven into a monogram. Upon the other side 1 find an almost effaced crest. There has been a 64 Honour without Renown. coronet, I think; but I cannot tell what else ; the motto is still readable. It is, ' Dum spiro speroS Poor man, that is very nice." " I think the wisest thing to be done is to collect all these little valuables, and placing them some- where in safety, to wait until the sick man recovers consciousness sufficiently to be able to tell us more of himself." " You are right, Doctor," said Ma Soeur, as she assisted Sister Marguerite in folding whatever clothes were not so much damaged as to be utterly valueless ; and having placed them and the afore- said treasures carefully in a drawer, she continued : " Sister Marguerite must watch patiently for the first glimmering of consciousness, and after ques- tioning the poor man cautiously, must note carefully his answers." " Can either of you remain the night with him ? " inquired the doctor. " No, it is against our rules to do so. But we know of a kind woman and her husband who would, no doubt, share the night work together. If they are unable to assist us, I may, perhaps, secure the aid of a Sister of Bon Secour : many of them understand English well," said Ma Soeur. " And Sister Marguerite shall be here early and late." 11 1 feel peculiarly interested in the man," said the doctor, as he stood eyeing his patient with kindly, critical eyes. "There is something about him which bespeaks him to be of gentle birth. These hands," he continued, taking up one of Manfred's listless ones from the coverlet, "never worked for their bread, Sister. Observe how soft r ' Honour without Renown. 65 and delicate they are, yet how beautifully formed or strength and power. Poor Englishman ! It will be a terrible awakening for you ! Remain near him, Sister Marguerite, and watch carefully for the first sign of returning reason. In fact, do not leave him until I return, for I shall pass the night here. Besides, I understand a little English, which may be of service at present. Who knows," mused the doctor, " but that his friends may be wealthy ; they may also be most grateful for my care. Yes, I will certainly make it my business to tend him to the utmost of my ability. I only wish the man may live 1 " CHAPTER VI. ABOUT nine o'clock the following morning Haroltf Manfred opened his eyes and gazed vacantlj around him. He felt as though there were but part of himself left a heavy painful trunk whicb he was powerless to move. His head alone seemed real and alive ; but the horrible vision conveyed from his eyes to his brain rendered him terrified lest his mind should have given way. At the foot of his bed, distinctly defined, was the white cornette of a Sister of Charity ; and closer to him at each moment nearer to him came another. He must be mad, and these were his keepers ! Then they multiplied themselves into twelve fifty nay, he could count them no longer. Above him, beneath him, around him on all sides were those hateful cornettes ! Was he dead ? and was this to be part of his everlasting punishment, inflicted for the hatred he had harboured towards them in life ? If so, what about the graver sins of his past ! He closed his eyes to shut out the horrible vision, and endeavoured to turn upon his side ; but to move his body caused him such intense pain that he dared not stir ; and with a groan of helplessness his head drooped wearily upon one side. And then a small, cool hand was placed upon his burning brow, and a delightful Honour without Renown. 67 beverage was held to his parched lips, whilst the accents of a sweet, low voice fell upon his ear. " Drink this," it said ; "it will help you to get better. I am so sorry for you." Sorry for him ! any one on earth sorry for him \ Why, where was he then ? What was the matter with him? He dared not open his eyes, lest the horrid vision should once more overpower him. But the voice, oh, how passing sweet and kind it was, with its tones as tender as those of an angel ! Whence did it proceed? Would it speak to him again ? He would obey it and drink, for a parch- ing thirst possessed his body, and the draught was grateful. Then once again the small hand stroked his head, as though gratified by the effort he had made. " Where am I ? " he ventured to ask in a whisper, still keeping his eyes tightly closed. " What is the matter with me?" "You are quite safe at present. Through your own bravery you have been badly injured, but the good God has spared your life." " Then it is not all a dreadful dream. I am still alive ! But I feel so strange so ill ! " "If you are very good and quiet God may give you the strength you need ; but you must not excite yourself one little bit. Is there any one whom you wish to see? Have you friends in Paris ? " " No, none ! " was the curt rejoinder. And the kind questioner, fearing to tire her patient, turned to Ma Soeur with tears of gratitude glistening in her eyes. 68 Honour without Renown. " I am so thankful that he has not passed away whilst in that state of unconsciousness," she whis- pered. " Now, if only he may have the grace of a holy, happy death, how joyful I shall be ! " " Well, little Sister, you must pray hard and use all your influence. It is wonderful what strange cases God gives to your special care. What a glorious death was that of your poor stubborn old officer. Courage, dear Sister ; for, if I mistake not, you will have many grateful hearts awaiting you in Heaven," "And right sorely shall I need their aid, Ma Soeur," she replied gaily. " But it strikes me that this countryman of mine is somewhat like myself, and will require some planing and re-modelling ere he is fit to join the angelic host. I seem also to feel that he has a great aversion to us." " He will overcome that when he has fearnt to know you better Sister never fear," replied Ma Soeur, as she crossed the cosy apartment occupied by Madame Corbette, and made for the outer door, accompanied by Sister Marguerite. " Since he seems better, and, I think, likely to rally, at least for a time, I shall leave you to tend him and the old woman ; but should you find the task greater than you can accomplish, send a messenger to acquaint me of the fact, and I will endeavour to send you aid at once. And, above all things, take as much rest yourself as you can ; for you look dreadfully tired and worn out." "Thanks very much, Ma Soeur ; but I hope to oe quite able to manage both patients ; and I am very strong, you know." Honour without Renown. 69 Ma Soeur stepped out into the open street alone, but there was a sad, wistful look upon her face when the door had closed, shutting from view the cheerful countenance of her younger com- panion. "I do hope," she said to herself, "that the walk or ride here in the open air will do dear Sister Marguerite good. She is looking so dreadfully worn and overworked, and her cough is terrible. I fear it is getting very serious, though she always makes so light of it. As soon as she can be spared, she must return to England to recruit." The sun was shining brightly ; there was a de- licious freshness in the air ; though all around looked desolate and neglected, yet here, at least for the time being, a calm seemed to prevail. Some of the 'buses had resumed their running ; and a little farther down, where the houses had suffered comparatively little, Ma Soeur hoped to be able to hail one. It was about three o'clock that same afternoon when Manfred awoke once more, with a sudden start, to consciousness. "Where am I?" he demanded suddenly; but this time his voice was stronger. Sister Marguerite had stationed herself near the window, at the head of the sick man's bed, whereby an old curtain she was hidden from his view. Her patient was too ill to be worried by the sight of her at present. She must endeavour to ascertain whether he had a wife, a mother, or friends of any kind, who ought to be informed of his critical condition, ere it was too late. So she answered kindly : . jo Honour without Renown. "You are ill in bed, but safe from further danger of the war, and shall be well cared for." " What is the matter with me? Am I very ill? Why can I not raise my legs? And why do I feel as though I had been severed in half? " " You have been severely wounded, poor man ; but do not distress yourself ; you may recover and get quite well again." "Surely I am in no danger of death?" he cried, raising his head. "Oh, not death just yet!" I must not die now ! I want time time ! " "Hush, hush!" came the sweet voice; and a strong little hand pushed him back upon the pillow. " Do not distress yourself, or you will cer- tainly die. Be calm be quiet and you may yet live. Why should a brave and noble man feat death? You have been both, and God loves the brave ! " "Oh, Edmund, Edmund ! " he cried, in tones ot agony, "forgive me! I cannot must not die and leave you thus I I dare not face your God and mine." Sister Marguerite stepped from her hiding-place. This was no time in which to indulge a sick man's whims : her duty was before her, and she must be at her post. Strange was the tone of powef and solemnity that that gentle voice could assume in moments of difficulty or danger. " Hush ! " she repeated, laying her hand firml) upon his." " You must not speak like that. You will not die until time has been given you in which to repent. If you have in any way injured another there is still time to repair the wrong ; and I know Honour without Renown. 71 you will act nobly, generously ; and God will reward infinitely for the difficult act of self- abasement. " " / repair the foul deed ! I cannot ! " and he laughed a bitter laugh. " It is too late now ; things have gone too far for me to face them. And who are you?" he cried, in angry excitement, " that dare to bid me do it ?" "I? I am but a servant of the good God ; yet ready, for the love of Him, to stand by you and aiu you to the uttermost ; and I bid you be quiet ; Have confidence ! Trust Him, and all will be well." As she said this she stood revealed before him a simple Sister of Charity. He tu'rned and looked at her for an instant, aversion "nd helpless misery depicted in his eyes; then, covering his face with both hands, he groaned heavily and murmured: "Go away go away! Cease to torment me ! You do not know of what yoi re talking. " She drew a chair to the bedside, and, seating herself upon it, waited patiently until the paroxysm should be over. She had been bidden to tend and nurse this man, and to the best of her ability she would do so. Fearing lest his excited feelings might overcome him, she rose and prepared a soothing draught, and uncovering his face ad- ministered it to him. Then reseating herself, she took one of his hands in hers, and said: " Close your eyes, and tell me quietly, if you can, where your home is, that I may send for your friends." He did not heed her question, nor yet did he seek to withdraw his hand from hers. He merely 72 Honour without Renown. murmured pettishly, "Oh, that such a voice should emanate from such a form." There was a pause, during which Sister Marguerite continued to stroke soothingly the hand that still lingered within her grasp. Say what we will, and endeavour to explain it as we may, there is a strange magnetism, a strong power to control and comfort in the mere touch of some favoured few. The hard, horny palm, as well as the soft, delicate one, can convey alike that unspoken sympathy, often so grateful to the weary patient, that by its power alone actual pain is oft-times eased and new hope inspired to the sinking heart. Manfred's mind was becoming calmer each moment until the Sister, in en- deavouring to stifle her cough, relaxed her hold of his hand. Then the excitement seemed to return to him, and he enquired hurriedly : "Tell me, if you can, what ails my limbs? Why can I not raise them ? " She did not immediately respond, hoping that the draught would presently take effect, and that after a thorough rest he would be better able to endure the shock. Endeavouring, therefore, to evade the question, she spoke in a soft, dreamy tone, so as not to fret him, upon a subject which she thought would help to obliterate the present from his mind. "Perhaps," she said, "your dear mother is thinking fondly of you now." " My mother? Alas ! no. I have no parent living now." "Your sister, then," she urged more softly Honour without Renown. 73 " how sweetly and tenderly would she nurse you now." "She is where I shall never be," he cried with more energy. "She died in all her youth and innocence." " But your brother how his heart will beat with pride and joy when he hears of the gallant deed you have done ! Is he near, that I may call him?" Had a bomb fallen and exploded in the room it could scarcely have had a more startling effect upon her patient than had that last sentence of poor Sister Marguerite's. "My brother!" he cried, raising his head and rolling his eyes around, as though in terror lest some one unseen should be crouching near ; and the veins on his neck and forehead stood out swollen and distended "who dares to mock me? Who says that my brother would grieve for me would be proud of me ? Don't you know that he could not come if he would that his weary eyes have wept till they are dry and can weep no more? Oh, in mercy cease, and spare me ! Breathe not his name or I die." With a vigorous push he threw the bed-clothes from him, and in another moment would have rolled upon the floor, had not Sister Marguerite caught him, With the aid of Dr. Arno, for whose opportune arrival she was more than grateful, she lifted the helpless man to his couch. " His case is almost hopeless, Sister," remarked the physician, shaking his head, despondingly. " I am sorry to say that fever has set in, leaving 74 Honour without Renown. small hopes that we may be able to pull him through." " But God is good," interrupted the Sister, still breathless. "Merciful Heaven!" she ejaculated to herself, "do not permit this poor man to die with this heavy load upon his mind." To many tales of sin and hidden heroism she had lent her patient ear and the willing aid of counsel and advice ; but here before her lay, she feared, not a hero but a culprit. "And yet," she argued within herself, "delirious men must not be taken at their word. My poor countryman shall have the benefit of the doubt. I will neither judge nor condemn him." "Have you made any important discoveries regarding our patient, Sister? His name, his home, or his relatives? It is incumbent upon us to try and learn all we can about him. Has he told you anything? " " No, nothing of consequence," said the Sister. " But I gather that his parents and sister are dead. He is very reticent, and appears to resent any particular inquiries. It was owing to a careless question on my part that he became so excited." " vVell, more's the pity, Sister; we shall, I fear, be compelled to *mry your countryman as a name- less hero, for nothin b save a miracle can sustain him through this fever. Let the Sister of Bon Secour continue her night watches, and do both of you make a note of his ravings : they may be of service to us some day." CHAPTER VII. THREE weeks later Harold Manfred lay an ema- ciated wreck upon the bed. Death had fought hard for the mastery, but day and night the Sisters had toiled indefatigably, and, with the aid of prayer, their devotion and skill had wrenched the victim from its grasp. Sceur Marie Fran9ois, the clever night nurse, had caught the zeal and earnestness of her fellow- tvorker, and together they had striven with all the energy possible to save the sick Englishman. During the past few weeks Sister Marguerite had often sat and watched her patient ; she had caught words and phrases which to a casual lis- tener would have conveyed nothing, but which her active mind pieced together into one of the saddest stories which it had ever been her lot to hear. She had studied Manfred's features too, and the thought that she had met him before often perplexed her, until one day, when the iever rendered him more ungovernable than usual, he cried out in delirious awe, glaring at her: " Ah, there she is again, the beautiful English girl who snubbed me so publicly because I jeered at some nuns." In an instant the little scene in which she had played a part flashed before her mind ; and though 7 7 6 Honoui without Renown. altered and aged, she recognised in her helpless invalid one of the young men whose conduct she had once so boldly upbraided. But soon Manfred was raving again : now it was of a great house raised upon and from the scattered ruins of what once had been an abbey. Perplexed indeed be- came his nurse as she wondered who her patient could be. As the days succeeded each other she collected from his ravings the names and places of people which tallied vaguely with the story poured into her ears by one who had sought her aid and sym- pathy, binding her at the same time to secrecy. Little wonder, then, that Sister Marguerite had struggled hard to save his life. His death might mean a continuation of sorrow to those who had already suffered long and patiently ; should he live well, it would go hardly with her if she could not succeed in mitigating their suffering, if she might not altogether disperse it. " How novel, and yet how altogether marvellous, are the chances and changes of life," pondered the Sister ; and the old mischievous smile twitched her lips as she recalled the discomfiture of the two young men. " Yes, they were astonished enough at my conduct then ; but who could have foreseen that he, whose delight it was to jeer at and make public sport of nuns, should, in a few years later, owe his life, under God, to their care and zeal. Nay," she laughed, you cannot even yet cry quits, my friend ; for when your reason returns, should it ever do so, you assuredly will never recognise me." For the last two days the sick man's fever had Honour without Renown. 77 materially abated, and for the first time during his illness Dr. Arno had spoken almost hopefully of the case, jokingly informing Sister Marguerite that he had come to the conclusion that there was no killing an Englishman. " He is dreadfully weak, doctor, and will need no end of care if he is to rally, even when the fever has entirely passed away." " True, Sister ; but what can you expect after all he has endured? Do you know," he said seriously, seating himself by the sick man's bed and looking earnestly at his poor thin face, " I have often mar- velled why you have been so indefatigable in this case, as though you were determined that, in spite of himself, the poor man should live. Do you think he will altogether thank us for his life when he realises what a pitiable wreck he is? I am almost afraid that it will be necessary to amputate his remaining foot : it is not healing as it should Indeed, speaking most seriously, I have often though! that it would have been a charity to let him die. Don't you agree with me, Sister? ' ' No, no ! " she cried ; "he must not die if we can save him." II But why? You do not seem to realise how henceforth life can be but a burden ts> him." " Life is always sweet ; there is never a greater burden than we can endure." II 1 fear you do not understand what a terrible sTiock it must be to any man to feel that he can never again move as of old in society to be unable, as this man will be, to move at all, save by the aid of another." 78 Honour without Renown. "Ah, doctor, there are higher aims in life than are recognised by soc : ety. They are often hollow and worthless." "You speak severely, Sister. One might be tempted to think that you had tested them and found disappointment." The quick colour dyed her face ; she made no reply, but turned with dignity to resume her duties. Dr. Arno watched her as he had frequently done before. Accustomed as he was to all classes and descriptions of nurses, never yet had he met with one who had displayed such unselfish devo- tion as the nun before him. He knew, he could see, that she was far from strong physically ; yet never once had she spared herself or complained of the least ailment or fatigue. So great was his respect for her that a pang of remorse shot through him when he noted the blush on her face the effect of his careless words. Poor long-suffering little Sister ! He hoped he had not wounded her feelings. " Au revoir, Sister," said the Doctor, rising and moving towards her ; "and pardon the thoughtless speech of an old man. We are clumsy creatures, even the best of us : and I am no better than the rest of my sex." " Oh, it is nothing ; we are used to all kinds of things," she answered brightly. " You are always very kind. It is my patient whom I fear ; for, you must know, he cannot endure the sight of a nun near him." "Then he had better hide his feelings f-om me, the ungrateful wretch ! and I shall tell him sd Honour without Renown. 79 when he rallies sufficiently to understand my words. But for nuns, what would have become of him I should like to know? He would cer- tainly have been permitted, as a charity to himself, to die ; so if he values his life and what there is left of him, let him thank your unwearied care and exertion." " Under God, doctor ! " " Oh, yes, yes, of course, if you will have it so. But I must not linger here, neither shall I be able to call so frequently as formerly. The terrors outside are increasing hourly, and I am needed in many places at once. So, au revoir, Sister, our patient is safe in your hands ; but should you ur- gently need my aid, send for me at once. And may I ask that you will take a little care of yourself sometimes." "Can you doubt it?" she answered laughing; and bowing her adieux, she closed the door gently after him. We are not relating the history ot old Madame Corbette, therefore we will assure the reader that her presence, though most unpleasantly evident to the Sisters, shall not trouble us much. Every moment that could be spared from her patient was spent by Sister Marguerite in attending to the wants of this ungrateful woman. It was well the poor Sister did not look for gratitude in return for all her kindness, as most certainly she received none/ and in spite of the fact that Ma Sceur presented the old creature with two of the gold pieces found in the Englishman's pocket, she grew more and more exacting and jealous in proportion 80 Honour without Renown. as she observed the attention and care lavished upon the unwelcome stranger. Once again Harold Manfred awoke to con- sciousness : and though this time his mind was easily fatigued, it was much clearer and steadier than formerly. The window was open, the cool spring air danced through the apartment ; whilst the clear notes of a singing bird, which had alighted near, seemed to fill the room with joyous song. After listening some little time, and endeavouring to collect his thoughts, Harold opened his eyes and looked around. How very small the room appeared 1 How low the ceiling ! But how bright and cleanly the aspect ; and whiter and purer than aught else in view was the white cornette of a Sister of Charity ! Wearily his eyes rested upon the face beneath it. Sister Marguerite was stand- ing in a rapt attitude of attention, listening with obvious joy to the thrilling notes of the little songster. The violet eyes were raised and fixed ; flushed with pleasure were the fair cheeks ; and the merry lips were parted as though her own soul could well have burst forth into song and joined the happy chorister. For the first time in his life the sick man's eyes dwelt with pleasure upon the features of a nun. The face looked so young, so pure, so innocent, so full of human sympathy and kindness, that so long as she con- tinued to listen his gaze was riveted upon her. At last, with a sudden spring into the air, the birdie ceased ; away it flew, perhaps to brighten with its cheerful song the heart of some other sufferer. Honour without Renown. 81 " Sweet little visitor," said Sister Marguerite to herself, as she moved to the window and looked fondly after it ; "would that you had tarried with us longer." As she turned her gaze fell upon her patient ; their eyes met, and in his she recognised at once the steadfast light of reason. " You are better ! " she exclaimed joyfully. "Oh, I am so glad!" Then taking his hand kindly, " Tell me how you feel." " Tired so tired and weak ! and so perplexed," was the faint rejoinder; "and my foot hurts me so." "Does it?" she asked somewhat anxiously. " Now that is too bad ; but never mind, we will try to relieve the pain if you will endeavour to be patient, and not worry yourself." "Tell me all about it. How long have I been here?" he asked faintly. " What time of the year is it ? I can listen to you now : your voice soothes me, and I seem to know your touch." " You ought to do so," she said, smiling ; " you have experienced enough of it lately to be weary of it. The fights you and I have had, to be sure I Sometimes I have almost given you up in despair,- you were so obstinate." He felt grateful, and endeavoured to smile in return. Then, as he passed his hand feebly over his face, his eyes expressed some distress when his hand came in contact with a stubbly beard. " Do not allow trifles like that to disturb you," she said cheerily. " When you are a little stronger it can be easily removed." '*> " Come nearer to me and listen, for I can speak neither long nor loudly." 82 Honour without Renown. She drew a chair closer to him, but facing him ; and seating herself listened carefully whilst he continued faintly : " What am I to call you ?" "At present 'Sister' only; when you are stronger you may call me ' Sister Marguerite ' if you wish." " Well then, Sister " the word came with a little jerk ; even now it cost him a small pang to apply that name to a nun " do not try to hide anything from me. I have lost a limb?" "Yes, you have; but it was absolutely neces- sary ; and there are many poor men in this city at the present moment who are even worse off." " Dreadful, dreadful ! " he groaned. " But I was sure of it. The loss has been terribly present to me all the time. What on earth shall I do? " And in the sigh which followed utter misery was expressed. " Try to get well and live as you have never lived before," was the prompt reply, spoken kindly and distinctly. " I am certain God has some great design in restoring to you your life. Gather together, then, the remainder of your strength, and devote it to deeds of greatness and generosity : then, indeed, will England add one more name to the long list of her heroes, and " (taking his hand kindly) "even I, only a poor Sister of Charity, shall be proud of my countryman." Manfred was surprised by the thrill of pleasure which shot through him when he anticipated earn- ing her praise. Surely he must be verifying the prediction he had uttered years ago, when first he encountered that indignant schoolgirl : " Some one will be proud to call her friend some day." Honour without Renown. 83 When next he awoke after a refreshing sleep, though she forbade him to talk, she drew a chair nearer to him, and unfolded to him gently and with wonderful tact all that had occurred ; softening the hard facts down, smoothing the rough points where she felt his pride would most be wounded, lighting the future with the glowing colours of happiness reaped from duty accomplished, so that tears, arising from feelings that had long been unknown to him, filled his eyes, and he hung upon her words endeavouring to draw strength from the brave spirit which possessed her. Two days had elapsed, and Dr. Arno was astonished when he found the patient so far re- covered as to be talking rationally to his nurse. Sister Marguerite glided from the room, hoping that the doctor might be more successful in obtain- ing information regarding her patient's affairs than she had been. "I'm right glad to find you on the road to recovery at last," he began, seating himself and feeling Harold's pulse the while. "We've had precious hard work to pull you through, I do assure you. It's chiefly owing to the care of that little Sister there that you are a living man 1 " " I am convinced of that, doctor; but you should not say a living man, for I am merely a portion of one." "Yes, yes. But you see that was quite unavoid- able ; your leg, nearly as far as the thigh, was smashed to a jelly. I have tried my utmost to save the other. Well," he continued cheerfully, "no doubt the Sister has written to your friends in 84 Honour without Renown. England, acquainting them with your condition and all that has occurred." " No ; I see no reason to distress anyone on my account." " Come, that is scarcely fair to them. Of course, it was in the execution of a grand deed that you met with your accident ; still, had we abandoned you to the mercy of those in whose cause you enlisted, in all probability they would have left you to die ; certainly, they would never have nursed or cared for you as we have done." "I am well aware of that, doctor. But" and his lips expressed a faint shadow of scorn as he spoke "upon one subject set your mind quite at ease : you, and all who have aided me in my ex- tremity, shall not go unrequited. I can afford to repay a generous deed. My name is Harold Manfred ; my parents are dead. I have no wife, and need render to no man an account of my actions." The first part of the sentence he spoke haughtily enough, but the latter portion stuck in his throat. "Of course, of course," responded the medical man, moving uneasily in his chair, but immensely relieved : for to do him justice, the winter had been a weary one ; he had worked hard day and night ; his expenses were almost overwhelming, and taxes were likely to be a heavy burden for some time to come. "You must pardon me," he continued, " but we feared lest an anxious wife or mother might be mourning your mysterious disappearance." j " Well, you understand me now," was the blunt rejoinder. "If you and Sister will continue your Honour without Renown. 85 kind care of me, on my word of honour as a gentleman, I will amply requite your generosity." ''There, there! my dear comrade!" exclaimed the doctor, patting the thin white hand which lay nearest to him, " France is not mercenary. It has, I assure you, been an honour as well as a pleasure to attend so brave a hero ; I was but anxious on account of your friends." "Once for all, allow them to rest, then: accept my thanks for all your kindness, and forgive me if I abstain from talking much ; your language was always difficult to me, and it is doubly so just now. Will you, instead, tell me how things are progressing outside?" "Thank God, the troops are advancing surely, if slowly. Yet we live in absolute dread of what may occur when these rebels are driven to bay. I pity our dignitaries of the Church, and every one who wears the religious garb. Having brutally murdered their own leaders, they will strike without remorse at religion, if only to slake their rage and disappointment upon some one, the loss of whom will be a cause of public mourning." Manfred listened attentively. Was it possible that, only a few weeks ago, he too had hated the religious garb nay, had even fought for these bloodthirsty Revolutionists? Now what if these lawless wretches should set upon and murder poor little Sister Marguerite on her journeyings to and fro her errands of mercy and charity to him ! The very thought caused him to break into a cold perspiration, and all that was manly within him rose wp in arms at the bare idea of such an atrocity. 86 Honour without Renown. How could she defend herself, poor, helpless little thing 1 " Are the streets safe, doctor? I mean, can women traverse them unprotected ?" he gasped. "Decidedly not; but our ladies do not run that risk at any time ; they usually have an escort. Now they rarely venture out unless it is absolutely necessary." Again Manfred was silent. Twice a day Sister Marguerite ran that risk for his sake, and if she had an escort it consisted only of a poor man or woman. "Well, Monsieur Manfred," said the doctor, noting the softened expression on the man's face, " Would you like to see a priest? No ? Then an English clergyman, or a religious minister of any description ? I will endeavour to aid you to the best of my ability, for I do not consider you out of danger." " Thank you "in a stiff and stilted tone" but similar assistance has already been offered me, and I have declined it with thanks." "Oh, well, Monsieur, no offence," and the doctor rose as he spoke " it is part of our duty, you know, to remember the soul as well as the body. But if yours needs no spiritual aid, it's lucky for you that's all. But one question more, and I will relieve you of my presence, Our hospitals are full ; still, should you desire more comfortable surroundings and it may be better advice, I will endeavour to have you removed to some locality where you may stand a better chance of meeting with both. What do you say ?" "Simply that I have a strange fancy to remain Honour without Renown. 87 where I am for the present." He endeavoured to bow a courteous dismissal to the doctor as he spoke, but much of the dignity he wished to express was lost from the strained position of his neck. Taking the hint, and wishing Manfred an abrupt adieu, Dr. Arno quitted the room, and after issuing a few last instructions to Sister Marguerite, passed from the cottage. " A cold-hearted, unsatisfactory sort of creature," he muttered to himself. "And now that he is on the fair road to recovery, I'll leave him to the Sister's care, and not trouble myself about him more than is absolutely necessary." v CHAPTER VIII. "I WONDER what I shall owe youto what amount I shall be indebted to you for all this? Let me see ; for how many weeks have you been in attendance on me?" She was standing with her back towards him, facing the chest of drawers, engaged in spreading some cooling salve upon a linen cloth intended to relieve his foot, when he thus addressed her ; and not quite comprehending his meaning, she turned with a quick but amused glance of inquiry towards him. " I mean," he went on to explain, " what shall I owe you for all your services?" He was beginning to regain strength, and the softer part of his nature was departing. There was a ring of condescension in his voice which chased the bright smile from her face. She raised her head after the manner of the dear, wilful school- girl, Beatrice de Woodville, but continued her work in silence. Receiving no reply, he addressed her again. " Don't be ashamed," he said, " to name a sum ; you have saved my life, and, what is more, you have actually taught me to respect a nun." Honour without Renown. 89 " I am not ashamed, unless for you" she answered as calmly as she could ; and there was inborn dignity in her bearing as she turned and faced him. "But if it be true that I have taught you to respect a nun, then why seek to humiliate me?" He rose upon his elbows, staring at her in astonishment. How like she was now to that beautiful girl. What a marvellous resemblance ! "How humiliate you, Sister?" he exclaimed, feeling strangely moved as he gazed upon her "I meant what I said in good part." " I suppose you did," she answered, lowering her eyes and struggling with herself. " I must excuse your ignorance." "On my honour as a gentleman, I will pay you in current gold for your services ! " She faced him fully now, and the old flash of scorn lit up her eyes as she spoke ; for in her secret heart she despised the man before her and longed to bring him to reason. " Are you then really so ignorant as to suppose that a Sister of Charity devotes her life to works of mercy in the hope of earning gold as her reward or that she lives only for the good opinion of those for whom she labours? No, you cannot think it ! You know it is not true. Keep your gold ; or rather bestow it, if you will, upon the poor, the sick, and the orphan, that they in return may plead for God's mercy in your behalf; perhaps you need it 1 " Sh? paused abruptly, as though the subject was distasteful to her, and it was some seconds ere he dared to speak again. Without taking his eyes from her face, he ventured to ask in a low tone : 90 Honour without Renown. "Then if not to earn a livelihood, why do you doit?" "Why?" and the words issued with living fervour from the mobile lips, whilst her eyes, gazing through the open window, were fixed upon the blue sky "why? I will tell you. For the sole love of Him to whose service we consecrate our lives. It is His will alone we seek, His love and approval alone we heed, and to Him alone do we look for recompense. Do you think," she con- tinued and a flash of pride mingled with the almost sublime look on her face "that money could ever repay or satisfy the heart that has learnt to love and live for its God alone, that untold wealth could suffice to stimulate our weak nature, or to give us courage ? Ah, you do not understand the meaning of words like these; -you, who have lived for yourself alone. But rather would I belong to God and be the poorest beggar upon earth, than be the wealthiest of earth's monarchs without Him." He held his breath as he listened to her, but could not still the beating of his heart. What did she know of him? What would she say next? Who was she ? Strange, too, how her voice and face haunted him I But she, seeming almost un- conscious of his presence, walked slowly towards the casement, and leaning her arms upon the sill pressed the crucifix which usually hung at her side to her lips, apparently buried in prayer or reverie. Was she asking for strength and courage for aerself, or for grace and mercy for her patient? Perhaps for both. Honour without Renown. 91 In a few moments she turned, and with a half- suppressed sigh resumed her work at the chest of drawers which served her as a table. Having at last spread the salve to her satisfaction, she carried the dressing to the still sore and aching foot, and commenced gently and in silence to unfold the old bandages. Her face was more serious than usual, and her mind seemed preoccupied, for every now and again she paused as though thinking deeply. "Sister," at last ventured Manfred, who had never taken his eyes from her face during the operation, "forgive me, but you are the very image of some one whom I met some years ago." " Am I ? " she said, scarce heeding his remark. "Yes; and when you speak as you did just now, the resemblance to her is more striking than ever." "The resemblance to whom?" she asked, looking up with more interest. " Ah, I will not say who she was ; of course, you cannot be she. But hers was the most beautiful face I ever saw." "Was it really? Then I fail to see how I can resemble her." "Yes, it has been a puzzle to me ever since I saw you. Nevertheless, you do resemble her, and more than ever when you are moved ; then you act and speak as she did." "You must have known her intimately for hei conduct to have left such an impression upon you." "On the contrary, I saw her but once; yet, should I live to the age of Mathusala, I shall never forget the scene. It was on board a 8 92 Honour without Renown. steamer crossing the Channel. The wind was blowing fresh and keen, the crested waves were rolling merrily, and the steamer rose and fell as she cut her way defiantly through the bright waters. There were man) passengers aboard, and most of them were thoroughly enjoying the invigorating breeze, whilst a friend and I were amusing ourselves at the cost of two French nuns poor sickly-looking creatures they were ; one of them could barely stand when bang down in our midst bore this English beauty. She was swelling with indignation, and constituted herself their champion and protector." " I hope you felt thoroughly ashamed of your conduct," said Sister Marguerite with spirit. " I did ; but I felt also a strange presentiment that I should meet her again some day, and that she would play an active part in my destiny." Sister Marguerite made no reply, but her head was lowered a little ; she seemed to be examining the wound more closely. Manfred continued : "You should have seen how she treated those nuns. Why, if they had been her superiors her behaviour could not have been more deferential." " Pray how do you know that they were not her superiors in birth as well as in sanctity? " "Have I not already told you that she was of noble birth, that she was young, wealthy, and beautiful? It could never have fallen to her lot to become " he hesitated. "One of us? Why not say it out ?" " Well, Sister, it does not seem to me probable that such a thing could occur." Honour without Renown. 93 " I believe you ! How should you understand the motives of self-sacrifice ? " " You are severe, and for all you know unjust, in your judgments, Sister." " I hope I am neither the one nor the other ; but you are both, or why should you deem it impossible that none save the lowly, the ignorant, and the destitute should be the chosen of God?" " I have always read and been told on the very best authority, that none save the miserable and disappointed seek refuge in a convent." "And / am supposed to be a specimen of the poor disconsolate ones," she said, springing lightly to her feet. "Well, well, at least have the kind- ness to reserve your pity and sympathy until I crave them. But what became of the wonderful girl of whom you spoke ? Surely you followed her destiny?" "I saw her met by her friends; I traced her birth, her parentage ; then other matters claimed attention ; and when next I sought for her she was gone, having left no trace by which I could pursue her." "'Tisapity,"she answered, adjusting his pillows; " had you traced her destiny, it might have been a revelation to you." " I shall meet her again some time ; I know not when nor where : but since I have been lying here ill and alone, her influence has frequently seemed to be upon me." She had finished her duties for the present, so passed from the smaller chamber to attend to the more immediate wants of old Madame Corbette, 94 Honour without Renown. who day by day was growing weaker and more imbecile. The harsh voice was heard less fre- quently now whether from sheer inability to scream or because pangs of remorse visited her occasionally is unknown. But Sister Marguerite redoubled her exertions to ease the sufferings and soften the heart of the old woman. And to a small extent she had her reward : for though com- pletely bedridden now, the hard visage would brighten perceptibly at the sound of " Sister's " voice or step, and even the distorted old fingers would occasionally seek the kind hand and press it as though in gratitude. During the rest of that morning Manfred lay silent. He was meditating as he had not done for years. Something in the conversation he had had that morning with the Sister of Charity had re- newed the lively vision of girlish loveliness which had been secretly cherished in his heart for years. He allowed his mental gaze to rivet itself upon the picture, until, groaning inwardly, he cried, "Oh, if only it had been my happy lot to be led by such a mind as hers, never should I have fallen to such depths ! " The words of Sister Marguerite seemed to vibrate in his mind. Why did her voice, and hers alone of all whom he had ever met, scurd the selfsame note of scorn ? Why had her face the same inspired look as hers, whose image he had so long and so silently revered ? There was a mystery somewhere. Surely he was distraught, or were there stranger things in real life than were ever fancied in fiction ? No, no ! he must bear in mind the fact that his nurse was after all but a simple Sister of Honour without Renown. 95 Charity ! But since the other had passed from his sight for ever, he would yield to that strong impulse which day by day was gaining force within him ; he would endeavour to shake off the old life and transfer this long cherished respect to the minister- ing angel at his side ; yes, he would trust to her hearing what he had never revealed to a fellow- creature ; more than that, he would even look to her for counsel and advice. "The burden is becoming too heavy for me," he cried, "and I knov no one to whom I can turn in my distress save this little Sister of Charity." "Besides," whispered his good angel, "remember, that if you should die, reparation will then be impossible." CHAPTER IX. "You are not Avell to-day," observed Sister Mar- guerite a few days later, seating herself near the couch of her patient. "Is your foot more painful that you look so depressed ? " " It does hurt me unmercifully at times, but it is not only that which disturbs me. I have been thinking." " It does us good to think sometimes ; we realise then how short, and therefore how precious, are the fast fleeting hours." " I was never deemed a sentimental man. Whether this illness has unnerved and weakened me I know not, but now and again I feel stirred and overpowered by impulses and feelings which are altogether foreign to my nature." " If the impulses produce softer and purer senti- ments than any you have experienced heretofore, yield fully to them, and be assured that they will bring peace." Manfred's large brown eyes wandered round the little room, settling themselves at last upon the face of Sister Marguerite, who was stitching quietly. She might well speak of peace and joy, for was she not the very personification of both as she sat there, her pure brow unruffled and her merry eyes and lips ready to break into laughter at the smallest Honour without Renown. 97 provocation thought her patient as he lay gazing upon her. Wherein lay the secret of it all? ah, he would give worlds to know. "Sister," he said solemnly, and their eyes met : "do you really and honestly think that I shall recover? I mean sufficiently to enjoy life again." "Even though you should have to endure yet more bodily pain, I trust that, considering your strong constitution, you may yet recover ; but to enjoy life?" and the honest eyes looked volumes "to do that, one must possess a conscience free from grievous stain." "I know not how it is," he said, with more earnestness than usual, " but I trust yoti as I have never trusted human being before, and I would fain tell you something confess to you a story which lies like a load upon my heart. Would you listen to me?" " Why not tell it to those whose office authorises them to listen to such tales ? Their advice would be of service to you." His good angel had well-nigh conquered when the evil spirit whispered again, "Caution! why place your liberty in the hands of anyone? " He hesitated a moment, then shaking off the evil influence, continued, " If I may not tell it to you, Sister, then I will never reveal it to any living soul." " Since it must be so then, Mr. Manfred, speak to me openly, and rest assured that to the utmost of my ability I will aid you." She spoke calmly, but her heart was beating quickly. "Sit where I can see you better, Sister; let the 98 Honour without Renown. light fall upon your face : the sight of it will give me encouragement. Yes, that will do ! " as she moved her chair in the endeavour to please him, tnd taking up her sewing, fixed her eyes upon the work as though her mind were concentrated only upon the size and evenness of her stitches. Again Manfred paused, and each instant the spirit of evil seemed to be gaining ascendency over him. At last he began : "What I am about to tell you, Sister, relates entirely to friends of mine ; you understand?" She did not, but feeling she must do something, nodded her head. "It is most unpleasant to be the bearer of these secrets," he continued, smoothing the coverlet with one hand nervously, "and I feel convinced that to share it with you will ease my heart of a consider- able load, and I can look to you for counsel. Moreover, I feel certain that you will treat my confidence as sacred." " Listen ! " she answered, allowing the work to drop upon her lap, and looking steadily at him. " I do not seek your confidence, neither will I be bound by any obligation of secrecy. I simply state my desire to assist you as far as I may be permitted, and as regards anything else you must leave me the use of my own discretion." What could she do? To refuse to listen might be to deprive the man of his only chance of repent- ance ; and if he should die, might she not then be better able to right the wrong if the opportunity occurred ? Once more she tightened her grasp of her work and prayed to do only what was right. Honour without Renown. 99 Manfred scarcely heeded her remark. If he noted it at all, it did not trouble him ; for he felt convinced that a nun, whose interests were so far removed from the world in which he was known and lived, could not possibly come in contact with any of the actors in such a drama. The silence was becoming a trifle monotonous, only the click of the little steel thimble being heard as it drove ihe needle vigorously forward. " Well !" she said at last, allowing her work to drop once more upon her knee, whilst she looked up with an amused glance of inquiry "if the rest of the story is not more interesting than that which you have related to me during the last five minutes, I must beg of you to allow me to withdraw my chair to a more shady part of the room ; really as I sit here the glare of light is most trying." "No, no ! Do please remain where you are. I was but wondering where to begin. Bear with me and be your own kind self; it will give me more confidence to speak." Once more the merry eyes were shaded by the long dark lashes, and the sweet face gradually assumed that trustworthy look of enduring patience, so often now its necessary ex- pression ; and Manfred, as he gazed upon her, felt that desire increase within him to lay open to her judgment sorrows and troubles which he had never dared to expose to mortal before. "Doubtless you are fond of children," he re- sumed, after a pause, " so let me tell you that once, a long time ago, there were two little boys, half- brothers, with a difference of but two years between ICO Honour without Renown. them. Their mother was a woman of deep pas- sions, of violent likes and dislikes. She was devotedly attached to a man whom we will name Manly, and was engaged to be married to him. Unfortunately, she grew frantically jealous of the necessary and innocent attentions which her lover bestowed upon a cousin, and flying into a blind rage, she quarrelled with her fiance and dismissed him. All his endeavours to pacify her, to assure her of the falsity of the reports which had reached her, were futile. Blinded by jealousy, she would not listen to reason : so taking her at her word, he left her and set sail for Australia. Now, as fate would have it, the cousin for reasons of her own, but unknown to Manly took a passage in the same ship, and gossip was not slow to report that they had been privately married. Shortly after this another gentleman, one who for a long time had secretly loved the aggrieved lady, came forward and offered by his faithful love to heal her wounded heart. In her resentment she accepted, and married this generous and warm-hearted man, whom we will call Edmund." The Sister started : surely the busy needle must have pricked her finger. But Manfred, engrossed in his story, noticed nothing. He continued : " Edmund was a distant cousin of his wife's, and was also the youngest son of an old baronet who, just before these events took place, had joined the majority, leaving to his eldest son a beautiful estate, comprising a hall and the broad acres of an old abbey, with its stately ruins. Sir Henry, the elder son, was many years older than Edmund ; Honour without Renown. 101 and these two, between whom the closest ties of brotherly love existed, were the sole living descen- dants of a family whose representatives had been favourites at the Court of Henry VIII. Edmund inherited for his portion the Manor Farm of two hundred acres, which adjoined the estate of his brother; and thither he brought his stately wife. " Ere a year had elapsed a son was born, and he also received the name of Edmund. He was but two months old when misfortune fell upon the master of the Manor House. Manly returned, as he had gone, a single man ! To depict the grief and remorse of his former fiancee would be im- possible. Edmund, her husband for whom she had never really cared had always been delicate. Comprehending but too plainly how matters stood, he lost heart and his health quite failed him. Generous as he was, he never once upbraided his wife for her neglect of him, but left her the sole inheritor of the house and all that he possessed. But before he died, this good husband and father made a great effort. Struggling to his feet, he dragged his weary limbs up the steep grassy walk which led to the old Abbey Towers, bearing in his arms the infant whom he loved so tenderly. Ever and anon he sat and rested ; for small and light as the burden was, it was more than he could sustain for long. All that he now realised was that he was carrying his little treasure, his tiny Edmund, to give him to Henry's charge Henry, who had been to himself as a father. To no one else would he trust his darling. He had reached the very spot where for centuries no blade of grass had been IO2 Honour without Renown. visible the nave of the old Abbey church. This place had ever possessed a strange fascination for him ; and a feeling of security, almost of peace, stole over him as, having laid the baby tenderly down on the soft earth, he sank upon a broken buttress." "Poor man!" ejaculated the tender-hearted listener, as drawing forth her coarse handkerchief she wiped the sympathetic tear from her eye. Then in a low tone, as though communing with herself, she murmured : "Poor weary sufferer, alas I might he not well feel a sensation of peace and calm steal over him when seated amid the magic influence of such surroundings." Then warming to a subject which was always most dear to her, she continued. " Have you not often experienced a mysterious thrill of inexplicable awe, as strolling through the melancholy ruins ol our ancient monasteries and abbeys you have realised as surely you must have done that warm living hands, like your own, toiled with labour and pride to pile together those massive walls ; that for centuries men and women of all ages and degrees, guided by the light of faith, flocked to these sanctuaries to pour out before God's altar the burning love of their hearts. Has no feeling of desecration moved you ? No voice, as from the silent dead, sounded in your ears, bidding you tread with light and reverent step the consecrated ground wherein once your an- cestors were wont to lay the sainted bones of their noblest and best? Ah, believe me that they who reared those walls had no stinted notions of what Honour without Renown. 103 tvas due to God. Their conceptions of Him were great and vast, as likewise were the temples they raised to His honour. And you have felt nought of this?" she asked again, reading aright the look of astonishment on his face. He shook his head, but ventured no response, simply signed to her to continue. The neglected needlework fell to the floor as suddenly she rose to her feet, and advancing towards the window, fixed her eyes upon the narrow space of sky perceptible through the small casement, and as though gazing upon one of memory's living pictures she continued : " 'Tis a marvel I Nay I can scarce conceive how men of one generation can so easily forget all that their forefathers prized and held most dear. Often, indeed, they forget even the very resting- places of those whose wealth or sacred possessions they rightly or wrongfully hold as their own. There are no spots in all the kingdom half so dear to me as are the consecrated spaces whereon once stood our venerated abbeys. For hours I have wandered amid these desecrated aisles. Often have I toyed with the massive stone work in their dilapidated walls, marvelling at the strength and solidity of its masonry. How proudly I have stroked and caressed some magnificent remnant of carving, which chance, not pity, has rescued from the ruthless hand of destruction. So soft, cool, and soothing the stone felt, a<- reverently I pressed my burning cheek upon It, praying inwardly for him whose able hand had wrought and traced the unique design. If seated upon a carved or mossy IO4 Honour without Renown. stone, the very ground beneath has claimed my homage and respect, for lo ! deep below the sod and ruins repose the blessed bones of ancient saints laid peacefully to rest. And though I may have sat alone in body, \vnere once they knelt, who perchance were my kith and kin in blood as well as in heart and faith, still, believe me, I was not, nor did I ever feel alone. And you?" she questioned, turning fully towards him : "you have perhaps lived amid such scenes, and never felt the least enthralled by the power or fascination of the past?" "Never ! I forgot it all. I never thought of it like that," he answered in a low tone, as though fearful to disturb the earnestness of her words and manner. " Never thought of it," she repeated to herself. " How strange ! Then surely it were an almost /'mpossible task to explain to one like you the joy that I have felt, the sweet but realistic visions that my fanciful brain has oft-times conjured." She raised her eyes with a rapt, upward look, and continued in a low, impressive tone, as though tommuning with herself, and still regretful that he should have lived unmoved amid such scenes : " Never thought of it ! And often, oh, how often With throbbing heart I've sat and watched The weeping ruins round, Till fancy lent her magic wand, Transforming' sight and sound. No more were columns flung apart In desecrated heap ; With one gigantic bound they rose, As from eternal sleep. Honour without Renown. 105 Leaping- from pillar to pillar, Spanning the vacant space, Rose row on row of arches, Unrivalled of their race. Strong and massive, light and graceful, Oh, who could count their cost ? Riveted, I gazed upon them, In raptur'd wonder lost. Then higher yet and higher still The mighty roof arose, Crowning the sacred edifice In bold and grand repose. From marble steps the altar glowed, All shining white and gold ; The tapers gleamed, the organ pealed, Exultant volleys rolled. While soaring amid the sunbeams Which pierced the jewelled glass, Floated clouds of perfumed incense, At high and solemn Mass. Or rolling as mighty billows, From chancel back to nave, Came full-toned chant of liturgy, In rythmic wave on wave. Small need was there to bid me kneel In adoration low ; I felt the breath of multitudes Seething to and fro. I bowed my head in humble prayer, I felt no more alone ; Prelates, monks, babes, all suppliants, We knelt around the throne. She ceased abruptly, as though suddenly re- called to the present. A deeper colour flushed hei cheek as she quietly sank into her chair once more and resumed her work. "Please forgive this ill- timed interruption to your story," she pleaded io6 Honour without Renown. "And yet, 'tis a subject I love. Never, nevei ] will dear old England realise the sorrow and regret which fills her children's hearts as they wander through the neglected ruins of her most venerated shrines. Enough of this! I must endeavour to restrain my feelings by keeping them under more severe control." " Nay, why did your song cease so abruptly? You carried me with you, and as though a veil had suddenly dropped from my eyes, I was looking upon familiar scenes with a keener interest and clearer perception than I had ever done before." " Call it not a song!" she replied, merrily shaking her head. " Nor mistake a little warmth of feeling, badly expressed, for real genius. I possess no talent whatsoever. Even if able to conceive, I cannot portray. But," as if to herself, "I knew one dear girl who could." She thought of Madge. "Now, please proceed with your story. You left the father and child in my beloved old ruins." " Yes ; and there they remained until the sun was well-nigh sinking to rest. Too weak and ill to move, Edmund gave way to the lethargy that had stolen over him, and seated with his elbows on his knees, he rested his weary head between his hands, and perhaps who knows may have seen visions and heard sounds similar to those you but now recounted to me. And still the baby slept." CHAPTER X. " SIR HEN-RY had been from home for a few days, but returning suddenly, learned with horror from his servants of the serious illness of his brother. Waiting for neither rest nor refreshment, he sum- moned his favourite dog, a black retriever, and struck hastily across the park in a direct line for the Manor House. At the ancient ruins he paused impatiently to ascertain the cause of the dog's sudden bark of recognition. Looking through a broken arch, he beheld a scene that henceforth he never forgot. For half a minute he stood as one petrified, powerless to advance. What was the meaning of the picture, framed in the broken arch, half covered with lichen and ivy, lighted by the rays of the setting sun ? Was that wasted form indeed that of his younger brother? Near him, on the grass, lay what? Sir Henry started. A little roll of white clothes, from the midst of which appeared a tiny head, bare of any covering save the silken golden curls. " ' Down ! Bosco, down !' And at the sound of Sir Henry's voice the shadow started. Overcome with delight at the welcome vision of his elder brother, poor Edmund stretched forth his hands, exclaiming : io8 Honour without Renown. "'Oh Harry, dear Harry, I knew you would come ! Take care of my boy for me.' But the sudden relief and joy were too much for him ; bounding forward, the elder man was only just in time to catch his brother as he fell forward in a heavy swoon. "Supporting the poor weak frame with one arm, the stronger man drew from his pocket an envelope, and scribbling hastily upon it an appeal for assistance, called the dog and bade him carry it back to the Abbey Towers. Bosco, seeming fully to take in the sad situation, needed no second bidding, but scampered off, the note be- tween his teeth. Then Sir Henry, with a sor- rowful countenance, still supporting his brother's helpless form, set his teeth and waited. " The dog performed his errand faithfully. Scarcely five minutes had elapsed ere, almost breathless, the coachman and stable-boy arrived. Addressing the latter, the baronet said sternly : "'Take the child and carry it carefully to the Hall, and give it at once into Mrs. Turner's charge.' " With soiled and trembling hands the boy stooped and raised the sleeping mite, almost let- ting it drop in his extreme nervousness : he had never before seen his master so disturbed. Sir Henry watched his exit from the ruins ; then, without another word, he motioned the coachman to raise his brother's feet, and placing his own arms firmly and tenderly under poor Edmund's shoulders, bore him back to the old home of his boyhood, even to the very room that had always been his Honour without Renown. 109 own ; and there, with the tenderness of a mother the elder man watched and nursed his brother till he died." "Ah, I feared he would die." "Yes, he was half delirious when he left his home." "And where was the heartless wife all this time?" "Shut up in her private chamber, rocking herself to and fro, overwhelmed in such grief that it was feared her reason would succumb. But do not call her heartless ; she was not that, nor did her hus- band reproach her. Almost his last words were : ' Don't blame her, Harry, she only made a mistake. But to your sole charge I leave my boy. She will never need him, and must never have him. You will bring him up to be a good man like yourself! teach him to love his father's memory. God bless you, Harry ! ' So he died." " Poor man ! " ejaculated Sister Marguerite once nc * e ! and even Manfred's voice shook as he said : " If I am i* continue, will you kindly remove your seat to some piaC^ where I cannot see your face quite so distinctly? " " Willingly," she replied, smiling to herself; for was it not at his own particular request that she was seated where she was? It was with pleasure then that she withdrew her chair from its promi- nent position, and placing it out of sight at the head of his bed, seated herself and resumed her work in silence. " The services of the old family nurse were called once more into requisition, and after the quiet but no Honour without Renown. sad funeral of his brother every one knew that from henceforth, to be friends with Sir Henry they must be good to Edmund's boy, It seemed as though the guardian uncle was registering a vow, for ere the remains of the parent had been lowered into their last resting place, he knelt beside the coffin, and taking the baby in his arms, prayed silently for some moments ; then, after fondly kissing the tiny brow, gently restored the little fellow to his nurse. Are you listening, Sister?" " I am, indeed. Sir Henry, as you call him, was a good man. I suppose he had another name? Could the widow not afford one tear for her husband's grave? " "Why should you be so hard upon her?" he inquired testily. "She never cared for her first husband?" " But recovered sufficiently to marry again, did she?" and Sister Marguerite made a significant grimace, which, however, could not be observed by her patient. Manfred took no heed of her remark, but continued : "Sir Henry, having taken upon himself the guardianship of the boy, Edmund's widow let her house and left the neighbourhood. Then, of course, she married Manly ; and before a year had passed another son was born. It has taken a great deal of telling, but this is how there came to be so little difference in age between the two half-brothers." "I understand it better now. What was the name of this new baby little Edmund's half-brother?" " Let me see," he said, in a slow, hesitating tone of voice. Honour without Renown. 1 1 1 "Suppose we call it Harold?" observed Sister Marguerite quietly. "Harold!" he exclaimed excitedly, raising his body on his elbows and straining his neck to catch a glimpse of her face. "Why call it Harold, I should like to know?" " Oh " gravely and slowly "it is a good old Saxon name, and seemed to come uppermost in my mind at the moment." As she spoke she held her work at arm's length, as though deeply engrossed in keen criticism of it. He watched her as closely as his position allowed for a few more seconds, then sank back upon his pillows, and with a half-satisfied expression in his roice continued : " Well, Harold let it be then, since you seem to /ike the name so much. But it is all in keeping with the rest of your strange notions to fix upon a name which no one else would ever have dreamed of." In her place of vantage Sister Marguerite felt she could now indulge in tears or grim faces as the mood should suit her. At this moment she looked very knowing, but wisely held her peace. He con- tinued : " Of the early years of Harold's life I know little or nothing, but believe that they were spent abroad. However, when he was about six years old his father died ; and the grief of his mother at the loss of her husband was as sincere and deep as had been her love of him. Almost broken-hearted, and tvith but small means of existence, Mrs. Manly returned, a widow for the second time, to the old H2 Honour without Renown. Manor House. From Sir Henry she received but a cold welcome, and strict orders upon no condition to interfere with young Edmund. She had chosen, he said, to desert the boy and his father in their hour of need, and henceforth she had no claim whatever upon her son. She did not seek to vindicate herself, and appeared to take no interest in any one or anything save the child of her second marriage. Upon him she concentrated all the passionate devotion that a nature like hers was capable of bestowing. I shal! not linger un- necessarily over incidents that are of no very special consequence, but simply state the es- sential facts. " It was pretty hard, I can assure you, for Harold as he grew up and began to realise more fully how matters stood, to see his half-brothd treated as a young prince, to know also that he would inherit the old Towers and all Sir Henry's wealth, whilst his own portion would consist of the Manor Farm alone, which, by the way, was mortgaged to the hilt. It seemed unfair for Edmund was richly endowed by nature also, as such favourites of fortune sometimes are. He was handsome and talented. With study and diligence he could have made a living by his brush ; besides which he had a splendid voice, and a very good ear for music. No doubt he had the best of masters that money could procure, and every advantage was his ; but he did not seem to value his position and gifts as he should have done ; at least, had Harold changed places with him, I dare say he would have appre- ciated them better. The two boys became friendly. Honour without Renown. 113 Edmund, you see, could afford to patronise ; he could also afford to be generous ; and to give him his due, he always did his best to make Harold's life happy. But under such unequal circumstances one boy possessing all things, the other only that which was doled out to him by his more fortunate brother it was but natural that Harold should grow up dissatisfied and jealous. Scarcely a day passed but he sought relief from his mother's sym- pathetic heart, pouring into her ears the insults and wrongs he had to endure from Edmund ; making her the recipient of all his griefs, real and imaginary. Being comparatively but poorly off, she could only hold out hopes to her darling which to him seemed improbable and unreal. Year by year he grew more gloomy and discontented, until envy and jealousy took such deep root in his mind that they grew into positive hatred ; and by the time they were respectively sixteen and eighteen years old, poor Harold could not endure the sight of his handsome, cheery half-brother. Nor could I blame him ! " declared Manfred with vehemence. " It was hard indeed that by a freak of Nature one should have everything and the other next to nothing! Don't you agree with me, Sister?" "Did it never strike Harold," was the quiet rejoiner, "that the very house in which he lived belonged by hereditary right to Edmund also? Really, I cannot see how any one could blame the boy, if his uncle chose to make him his heir ! I suppose he liked him ? " " Liked him? Why he simply worshipped him idolised him lived for him ! " Manfred ground H4 Honour without Renown. out the sentence between his clenched teeth. " Edmund never knew then what it was to want for anything ! He had all the luck. Poor Harold had none." "Still, one could hardly blame him for being fortunate. Was he not kind to Harold?" "Kind? Yes, that was the worst of it: he shared everything with him as far as he dared ; but Sir Henry did not like the younger boy, and he had too much pride and spirit to beg from either of them ! " "Well," said Sister Marguerite, nodding her head emphatically. " Had I been Harold, I should have made up my mind to face the situation manfully ; and in order to make the best of things, should have endeavoured to earn my own living, thus winning at the same time the respect of Sir Henry and my half-brother, who doubtless would have admired my spirit and as- sisted me in the future." "Which proves how little you can fathom the feelings of a gentleman like Harold, to whom work was not only distasteful, but derogatory." The words were spoken hastily, and in an injured tone of voice ; whilst a pair of arched eyebrows rose significantly, and two little lips smiled an amused and superior smile as they inquired : " Pray were the brothers at all alike in appear- ance, and did not Mrs. Manly admire her elder son?" " No, she did not. She was true to Harold, and the memory of his father. Day by day mother and son discussed the unsatisfactory state of affairs, Honour without Renown. 115 until they persuaded themselves that there was a gross injustice somewhere, and that if Sir Henry did not equalise matters of his own accord, well, then pressure of some sort should be brought to bear upon him. Cost what it might, Harold should have his share, and the longer he waited for it the greater should be his portion." There was a smothered sigh from the little corner, but no remark. "You asked if they resembled each other in appearance ; yes, in features there was a strong likeness. But Edmund was taller, of more muscular build ; his eyes were the same dark blue as his father's. Of course he was always well dressed, and being looked upon as the heir, folks said he was much the handsomer of the two." "Did he turn out well?" "No, he didn't. And as Manfred gnashed out the words, he glared like a wild animal, whilst his hands were so tightly clenched that the sharp nails pierced the delicate skin. Neither the gesture nor the expression was lost upon the observant listener ; but fearing the effect of too much excitement upon her patient she came forward, and taking his hand kindly said : " It is getting late, and I hear voices in the little parlour. You must not talk any more now. To- morrow you may continue your story." Large beads of perspiration stood upon his brow, but at her gentle touch his features re- laxed. Seizing both her hands he exclaimed : "Don't go, Sister. Don't leave me yet! I do not feel myself. Oh, why did you hide in the ii6 Honour without Renown. dark background? I feel quite a different being when I see your face. Come early to-morrow," he pleaded, "and sit near me close beside me whilst I finish my story. An evil influence seems to overpower me when you are not near. Why did you hide?" She fed him, soothed and quieted him with marvellous skill and patience, and did not leave until pence and calm reigned once more within him. CHAPTER XI. *' THANK GOD ? " gasped Sister Marguerite the following morning, as she sank breathless into a vacant chair near Madame Corbette's bedside. " Thank God for safe shelter at last. Oh, I have had a race for it indeed? Once I feared the ruffianly soldiers would overtake me. Listen ! " laying her hand upon the coverlet and assuming an attitude of fearful attention " can you not hear the roll of musketry ? They are but a mile or two off now. Mon Dieu ! but it is terrible how they fight ! What must it be like in the city ? Poor dear Ma Sceur ! God grant that she and the rest of the Sisters are safe. It was so good and thoughtful of her to attach me to this branch Con- vent close by : otherwise I must long since have discontinued my visits to you." A bony claw was stretched forth, as though in grateful response, clutching tightly the little hand of the speaker in a grasp almost expressive of pro- tection. How, indeed, would the painful hours, and the weary days, ever have passed but for the cheery presence of the kind little heart beside her? Her departure from the cottage meant darkness again ; her return, sunshine, comparative ease, and renewed hope. So thought Manfred, as the welcome tones of her voice fell upon his ear ; and he heaved a deep sigh of relief and actually thanked u8 Honour without Renown. God that He had raised up these gentle creatures, endowing them with such charity and skill. Was it possible that only a short time since, only a few weeks ago, he had treated with contempt a wearer of the cornette. What a fool he had been ! " My foot has been so painful, Sister," he moaned piteously when, having at last finished her minis- trations to the old woman, she cheerfully came forward to attend to him. She made no immediate reply, but a look of anxiety passed over her face as she bent and examined carefully the troublesome wound. Then she shook her head solemnly, merely observing : 11 No, it is not healing as it should do." Mentally she concluded : " It is worse, far worse than it was ; the colour is bad, and the pain great ; there is internal irritation somewhere ! Alas, the knife will be necessary after all, I fear. It is dreadful ! " After fulfilling all her tedious duties, Sister Mar- guerite, at the request of Manfred, seated herself once more with the still unfinished garment upon her knee, awaiting the continuation of his story. Every now and again a brisk shower would patter against the window pane, while the room grew dark. Then the fresh keen wind would chase it away, ana the bright sunshine flash into every corner of the apartment, revealing the now delicate, almost ethereal, features of the sick man, and lighting up the rosary beads, spotless cornette, and poor habit of the gentle Sister, as she listened in rapt attention to the sad narrative of her patient. " Keep your seat to-day, please ; don't withdraw into the corner as you did yesterday ; and if I Honour without Renown. 119 appear to get nervous or excited, do not DC sur- prised or astonished. You see, I know some of the actors in this drama rather intimately." " I understand" with a comprehensive nod. " You were telling me that Harold and his mother had made up their minds that, by fair means or foul, he should have a share of his brother's in- heritance." " Yes, just that ; and when such people make up their minds to do a thing it requires a strong force to prevent them from achieving their object. In this case circumstances favoured them. A mind stronger and more crafty than theirs came to their assistance in the son of the family lawyer. He was a daring and unscrupulous rogue, such as I hope never to meet again ! But for him but for his un- ceasing importunity and cunning advice Harold would never have fallen as he did." As Manfred spoke his eyes had a wild expression in them, and he struck the bed-clothes with his doubled fists as though striking at a bitter enemy. "This wretch this wily, clever knave took a violent fancy to Harold, listened patiently to his version of the injustice and unfairness of existing circumstances, and enlarged so adroitly upon the subject that he actually persuaded the poot youth that Edmund was an interloper, possessing no real right to exist- ence at all ; that but for him Harold himself would have been the only legitimate heir to the title and Abbey lands. How he persuaded Harold of the truth of all these representations I cannot now well remember. But, oh, how easily we can be induced to commit the foulest deeds if only we are certain I2O Honour without Renown. to profit by them ! To cut a long story short, all three young men were sent to Cambridge together, to complete their education ; Sir Henry consenting, after much persuasion on the part of the old lawyer and Mrs. Manly, to pay Harold's expenses. " From the time they were all placed upon an equal footing and launched on their own resources, as it were, the star of Edmund began to wane. He was no match for the others Good-natured, un- suspicious, careless, how could he guess what evil genius dug the pits into which he was so constantly falling. He had no chance from the first. Who has when surrounded by bitter enemies, who all the while are playing the part of constant friends ? Was there a disgraceful row or dishonourable act into which he could be innocently beguiled, Ed- mund was always made the scapegoat ; and as he was proud to a fault, they played upon his weak- ness, knowing he would never betray a friend. Often Harold watched the fierce, proud glance of his eye and his haughty bearing as he turned away in disdain when confronted by a false accusation. Yes, he watched him, and envied him even more than before longing even sometimes to acknow- ledge the fault, and thus spare another wound to the magnanimous young man. But no such chance was permitted him ; his evil genius stood at his elbow, and he dared neither speak nor act. He was already too deeply involved to retract. There was but one course open now : he and his accom- plice must stick together and strike unmercifully if they would win their cause." A tear rolled down the soft flushed cheeks that Honour without Renown. 121 were bent so earnestly over her work. It flashed in the sunlight, then fell gently on to the sewing. Manfred observed it. It was a valued tribute to the memory of poor Edmund, and stirred the softest feelings in the sick man's heart, as he thought, " It is much better that she should sit where she is : following the lights and shades as they flit over her face eases my heart, and gives strength and nerve to my voice." " Did Edmund never suspect the truth or fealty of his boasted friends ? Did it never strike him that they were bent upon his ruin ? " " I think not. You see, he was far too honour- able to doubt their assurances of friendship. I never really did know how it all occurred ; but enormous bills were run up and sent to Sir Henry. Worse still, debts of honour, that is, gambling and betting debts, were laid upon his shoulders. Now, if there was one vice which more than another irritated the old baronet, it was gambling ; and for the first time he began to lose confidence in his nephew. "Things grew so bad that at the end of two years the young man was peremptorily recalled home ; and, strange to say, there were not many who regretted his sudden departure. The character of Edmund was an enigma , he seemed to be a curious mixture of generosity and meanness, of honour and baseness, truthfulness and deceit ; whereas Harold, though he was almost hated by his companions, stood high in the opinion of his tutor as a youth of unimpeachable morals and stout integrity." 122 Honour without Renown. " But surely Sir Henry discovered that half the things said of his nephew were false and un- founded?" " No, he did not. I told you it was a long story, and that I could not enter into much detail ; but, briefly, things went rapidly from bad to worse. Edmund resented at first sorrowfully, then indig- nantly his uncle's changed manner towards him ; and, finding himself wrongfully suspected, and even falsely accused of grave deeds of which he was entirely innocent, he grew desperate. He left his uncle's roof, sought relief in dissipated pleasures and amusements, which, though they helped to dull the pain caused by his uncle's unjust anger, failed to heal or satisfy his heart. To destroy Sir Henry's confidence in his nephew Edmund, and to induce him to turn to Harold for comfort, were the objects sought after by these two false friends. Again circumstances favoured them. Thomas fol- lowed the unfortunate young man to the scenes of gaiety and amusement with which he sought to drown his injured pride, and aided him to plunge deeper and deeper into debt, taking care that Sir Henry should be kept we 1 ! informed of all, and far more than all, that occurred. Meanwhile, Harold's policy was to remain at home, apparently studying hard, and yet ver ready at Sir Henry's beck and call." " Mean, miserable impostor ! How could he act thus?" burst from the indignant lips of the listener. " He was driven to it. He dared not refuse to play the part. Ah, of course you do not know what it is to be the tool, the slave, of a rascal. Honour without Renown. 123 But you waste your anger and indignation," he said coldly. " Rest content to know that poor Harold never won either Sir Henry's love or his confidence. Deep in the old man's heart lay the memory o his dead brother ; and, stern as he strove to appear in his conduct towards that brother's son, he still loved him better far than any- thing else on earth. ' The boy has been spoiled, he is young and thoughtless,' he argued to himself; 'a little judicious severity will cure and win him back to steadier ways. He has, perhaps, built too much upon my forbearance and his own inheritance. These I will appear to withhold from him for a while. It will a salutary lesson. Old Thomas shall inform him of my intentions. Poor dear boy ! How I miss him ! ' "Often in those days the old gentleman was almost unapproachable ; he was aging rapidly, and was daily becoming more and more morose and irritable Hour after hour he would lock himself up in his private den, upon the walls of which hung portraits of the two Edmunds, father and son ; but how he occupied his time when thus alone no one ever exactly knew. Once, after being en- sconced in his private sanctum for three solitary hours, he encountered Harold on the threshold, where the youth had been waiting in the hope ot rendering Sir Henry some courtesy. Upon the furrowed cheeks of the elder man were distinct traces of tears ; but perceiving Harold standing meekly, as if in attendance upon him, he glared at him fiercely. 'What are you doing here, you miserable, servile, grasping wretch?' he cried, and TO 124 Honour without Renown. lurching forward endeavoured to seize him. ' Go away ! I don't want you. Never let me see you darken my doors again ! ' "You are smiling, Sister Marguerite. You are pleased to think that Harold did not advance much in favour with the old baronet. Well, well ! you may come to pity Harold yet ! " There was a pause, but still the Sister said nothing. Then, in a voice filled rather with shame than spirit, Man- fred resumed his story : " Would that the remainder of the story might be blotted out ; but, alas ! I must force myself to relate it. I must tell it to the bitter end. Soon after the compact had been entered into by Harold and the younger Thomas the compact, I mean, which bound them to stand by each other in this wretched business of ousting one brother and replacing him by the other they were masters where before they had been as nonentities : at least Thomas was master ; for Harold learned but too soon not only to fear and despise his ally, but to hate him also." " What else could Harold expect ? His fate was the certain portion of every one who sells himself to the Evil One. These two wicked youths were far more to be pitied than was poor Edmund." " Wait a little," said Manfred in a trembling voice ; " wait until you hear of all that occurred to him, and you may think differently then. He soon grew weary of the life of pleasure into which he had been driven ; and hearing from the old lawyer (who must also have been in the toils of Honour without Renown. 125 his son) that Sir Henry was offended past recon- ciliation, and that Harold was to succeed to the estate, Edmund sold all he possessed, and with the proceeds in his pocket, and his painter's gear upon his shoulders, set out to earn his living by the work of his hands. He chose the mountains of Scotland as the first scene of his labours. One event of his tour I must tell you, for it played an important part in his career. In a cottage at the foot of a mountain he discovered Marion Mac- Dermott." The name had slipped from him in an unguarded moment, and had not Sister Marguerite suddenly started at the mention of it, he would have been quite unconscious of his indiscretion. "Why did you start so, Sister?" he inquired, raising himself upon his elbows so as to get a clearer view of her features. She hurriedly ex- cused herself, and he went on : "This girl lived with her mother. Her father had lost money, and being gifted with great musical talent, had entered the profession in order to gain a livelihood for himself and his loved ones. Wishing to shield them from undue contact with the world into which this profession threw him, he bought sind furnished a beautiful little cottage about two miles from a small town, and at the foot of one of his native mountains In this sweet seclusion, for the greater part of the year at least, dwelt this lady and her daughter, the mother devoting herself to the education and bringing up of the girl." " Was she pretty? was she good?" 126 Honour without Renown. u I never heard that she was beautiful, but refined and distinguished-looking. Her chief at- traction was said to lie in the beauty and purity of her mind. She and her mother were Catholics, like yourself; they belonged to an ancient Catholic family." "So Edmund was attracted by her fell in love with her? Did he marry her?" "Yes, he married her; but he did something still more hurtful to his interests something which aided Harold and Thomas in their schemes more than anything he had yet done. You would never guess what was his final imprudence." " Perhaps not. It is difficult to imagine him doing anything very wrong. But wait, I hear the Angelus bell," and down upon her knees fell the little nun ; nor did she rise until she had breathed a fervent prayer for poor Marion Mac- Dermot and all who were dear to her. Then she said quietly : " Rest, and take your refreshment now; I have other duties to perform. All being well, you may resume your sorrowful tale this afternoon. Dear, dear!" walking to the window "how close sounds the roar of the cannon ! It is terrible terrible ! Each hour it grows nearer and nearer. I was told that the troops were expected to enter the city by nightfall. If so, may God have mercy and spare His own ; for these infuriated rebels will pause at nothing. Who knows which amongst us may be the next victim I " CHAPTER XII. THE sun had ceased to pour its rays in at the little casement. They were centred now upon that side of the cottage from which no window peeped ; so the small room looked more gloomy than it had done some hours previously, when with a heavy heart the Sister of Charity resumed her seat. Alas, her heart and brain were in a turmoil of fear and alarm concerning the safety of Ma Soeur and her energetic community, to say nothing of the number of others for whose welfare she trembled. Twenty-four hours more of this ter- rible disorder must decide the fate of Paris : in the meantime what awful atrocities might not be perpetrated by its enemies, driven frantic as they would be by defeat and the fierce passions of hatred and revenge. Almost mechanically she seated herself, and with a half-smothered sigh took up once more the neglected flannel garment, and endeavoured to concentrate her attention upon her present duty and forget her anxiety. Manfred appeared not to apprehend any danger from the riot without. He knew he was far enough removed from the scene of it to have no immediate 128 Honour without Renown. cause for fear ; besides, was not Madame Corbette well known fora rabid Revolutionist? Her cottage, then, was a secure refuge. At any rate, having travelled so far in his story, he felt compelled to finish it. "Shall I go on, Sister Marguerite?" he asked. " Are you prepared to listen ? " "Yes, yes," she answered, quickly, once more endeavouring to collect her thoughts. "You were telling me that poor Edmund committed some awful act of folly." " Yes, he did the very worst thing that he could then have done for himself and his prospects. He became a Catholic ! " " Before he married Marion ? " " Yes. And as soon as Sir Henry heard of this last misdemeanour he sent for him. There was a stormy interview. I believe the old man would have forgiven him everything would have re- instated him gladly had the young man but consented to relinquish Marion and this other new-fangled notion. As it was he looked upon his nephew as a renegade and a disgrace to his name. And after using every argument he could think of to turn the young Tian from this wild folly, the old baronet lost patience and bade him choose between his uncle's love, with the Abbey lands as an inheritance, and poverty, with his new- fangled notions and Marion for his wife. Harold and Thomas, who were ensconced as conveniently near as they dared to be, overheard much of this conversation. They heard the sad pleadings of the old man and the firm and respectful, though foolish, Honour without Renown. 129 replies of Edmund, as he assured his uncle that even should death deprive him of his Marion, yet he would never relinquish the Faith he now loved better than his life. So, nerving himself to the utmost, Sir Henry arose and, walking towards the door with a firm step but bursting heart, opened it and bade his obstinate and misguided nephew begone. The hot tears rolled down Edmund's cheeks, for he dearly loved the stern old man, as humbly he crossed for the last time the threshold of his ancestors." " Ah, believe me," interrupted the listener, " if he still lives, Heaven will yet come to his assistance. Where is the heart that ever suffered for, and trusted in, its God and was deceived?" Then folding her hands tightly together, she said in alow voice : " Poor Edmund, may God speedily have pity on you and aid you ! " " Amen," he muttered fervently to himself; and as if in answer to the prayer, an unfamiliar glow of charity stole over his heart and seemed to pene- trate his secret soul. Yes, it was certainly easing his mind, it was doing him good, to tell her all this ; surely she who was so wise, so full of resource, would be able to tell him how best to shift this weary burden from his mind, the weight of which had oftentimes well-nigh overwhelmed him. After a thoughtful pause he continued : "A year passed, and in one way and another Edmund had contrived to save a little money. Marion's mother was dead, and her ailing father, desirous that his child should have a protector, gave his consent to an early wedding. By some 130 Honour without Renown. unknown means the knowledge of this fact came to the ears of Sir Henry, whose health, by the way, was fast breaking up. He lived a very lonely life, and there were, I believe, hours when he blamed himself as having been too hard on Edmund's boy. A craving filled his heart to see, to be reconciled to, and bless him once more before he died. His physiciany might try to hide the fact from him, but he knew too well that his days were numbered, that at any moment of undue strain or excitement the weak thread of his life might snap asunder ; and what would become of the boy whom, in spite of all, he loved so well? No, they had both been punished enough ; he would forgive him everything and reinstate the plucky fellow in his favour once more. But it must be done by degrees yes, by degrees. " Pacing the floor of his library with impatient steps he sent for the older lawyer, Thomas. A kindly smile played around the lips of the baronet that morning, his heart felt lighter than it had done for many a day. His mind was made up at last ; he would restore his ill-guided but beloved nephew to favour ; gradually should all be given back to the boy, even the unfortunate wife must be endured, for his sake. " When the door opened and admitted young Thomas, instead of his father, a chill fell upon the spirits of Sir Henry. A. stern expression chased the smile from his lips, while an ominous cloud of displeasure gathered on his brow ; for, try as he might, he could not trust this clever son as he had ever been wont to trust the father. He turned Honour without Renown. 131 abruptly upon the young lawyer, and sternly demanded the reason why his father had not answered his summons in person ? "Young Thomas, bowing deferentially, ex- plained that his father was confined to his bed with rheumatism, that he had desired him to express his sincere regret to Sir Henry, and, at the same time, to assure him that if he would confide the business to his son, it should have his very best attention. There was no help for it ; the kindly flame still burned in Sir Henry's heart, he would endeavour to overcome his prejudice to this young man, for the time being at least ; so desiring him to be seated, he plunged his hands into his trousers pockets, and, resuming his walk, launched into a declaration of all his plans regarding the future of Edmund. He would begin by sending the dear boy a wedding present of a thousand pounds ; and after the return of the young couple from their wedding tour he would invite them to the Abbey Towers for a visit of indefinite length ; but this latter portion of the programme must be kept a profound secret at present ; it should come upon them as a surprise just when Edmund was thinking of settling down to ill-paid drudgery again, in order to keep his wife, chuckled Sir Henry, as he rubbed his hands gleefully together. " During the disclosure of these plans the young lawyer had gradually turned pale. During the pause which ensued he ventured, with a sickly smile, to force the inquiry : ' Am I are we to understand, then, Sir Henry, that you are about to reinstate Mr. Edmund at the Towers, with the 132 Honour without Renown. ultimate object of making him your sole heir?' 1 Of course that's just it !' answered the old man testily, turning his hawk-like glance upon the crest- fallen knave; 'and what is more,' he continued firmly, ' you can tell your father from me to destroy at once that bogus will which he and I concocted to frighten Edmund into compliance with my wishes I mean that one in which I pretended to leave everything to his half-brother, Harold : tell your father to bring it here ; I will destroy it myself and abide by the old one in which dear Edmund inherits everything ; and Harold may look out for himself.' Finding that the young lawyer made no reply, Sir Henry moved a few steps nearer to him, and demanded in no very patient tone if he fully comprehended his meaning, or if it would be necessary for him to write or repeat his instructions. " ' I understand you perfectly, Sir Henry,' stammered Thomas rising ; ' I was but thinking that surely all this will be somewhat rough upon Harold, seeing that he has been taught to believe latterly at least that you would do something nay, a good deal for him.' " ' Well, then, those who took upon themselves to bid him hope for what was never by any right or title his own, may comfort him now for the loss of what he never possessed. Stay one moment longer, Mr. Thomas ; I will even now write a cheque for one thousand pounds on my city bank, payable to my nephew, and you shall take it to your father, who, I am sure, will forward it as a wedding-present. It must reach my nephew the Honour without Renown. 133 day after to-morrow. I will not send it directly from myself, but will wait a little and bide my time, until the first flush of oilling and cooing is over. Then he will have more leisure in which to attend to his old uncle. Here is the cheque, and don't fail to tell your father about the will. I am ii no immediate hurry; still, it is better to be on the safe side. However, I can trust him ; he knows my ways, or ought to do by this time.' "Almost staggering, young Thomas rose to depart. Were they then to lose everything, he reflected, just when all had seemed so nearly within their grasp ; How pay his own pressing debts now? Edmund and his wife once installed at the Abbey Towers, little hope of a life of ease and comfort remained for him nothing but hard work and small pay to look forward to. Was there nothing that could be done to lower Edmund once more in Sir Henry's eyes? Was all their past strategy to be thrown to the winds? Surely it would not take much to make the old gentleman lose confidence in his nephew again ! Something must be done, and that at once, if they were to frustrate this mad scheme of Sir Henry's. At any rate, there was little to lose by the stroke, and much, much to gain ! The old baronet's life was worth little now; a severe shock might make him change more than his mind. Oh, Sister Mar- guerite ! " cried Manfred, stretching out his arm imploringly towards her, "believe me when I assure you that Harold knew not all this, nor the following facts, until they were accomplished. Thomas urged him to go to France on some 134 Honour without Renown. imaginary business for himself, but in reality that he might be out of the way. When he returned he found himself a prosecutor unde'. Sir Henry's will so, at least, it was represented him." "And he tried to believe it no doubt? But tell me, for I do not understand things rightly, did Edmund return to the Towers?" "Never. But how can I explain it all to you? Briefly this is what occurred. Between the time of Edmund's receiving the cheque which arrived upon the morning of the marriage and the day on which he presented it at the bank, to be cashed and paid over to his account, the cheque had been tampered with. When Edmund handed it in it was for the sum of ten thousand pounds instead of one thousand, which was a decided overdraw on Sir Henry's account. The cheque was duly forwarded to him to confirm ; and when he beheld it, the deceit which he believed to have been practised upon him by his nephew came upon him with such force that his remaining strength gave way, he lost consciousness, and neve, really recovered it for the two days that he lingered. But Thomas the younger made hay while he might. For two hours he was closeted with the old baronet on the day of his death, to /eceive, it was supposed, his last instructions ; and when at last he issued from the room, he was armed with a paper which certainly bore the feeble signature of the baronet, and the contents of which meant worse than death to Edmund. It stated that Sir Henry believe * his nephew to have Honour without Renown. 135 committed forgery by tampering with the cheque, and that he desired that Harold should succeed to the title and estates. Furthermore, that the base conduct of Edmund should be taken up by the law, and treated as it deserved to be. How can I ever tell you how it all came about? Everything seemed left in the hands of the lawyers, the elder of whom was brought to believe that the young man was not only guilty of the crime, but was the indirect cause also of his poor uncle's death. He did not spare him, you may be sure of that." "Did they seize him?" inquired the Sister, almost below her breath. " They did, just as he and his bride of two days were taking their tickets for the Continent, where they purposed spending the remainder of their honeymoon." "But why did not Edmund notice that the cheque had been altered before it was presented for payment ? " " He was always too careless about money matters ; he swore, when questioned, that he had never touched nor looked at it again from the time he received it to the moment it was handed in to the bank, and yet to his knowledge it had never left his possession." " Was there no one to come forward and plead his cause, and try to prove his innocence?" " Yes, Mr. McDermot employed a clever counsel, and sadly impoverished himself in his endeavour to save the name of his daughter's husband from shame and ignominy. But it was all of no avail : the case for the prosecution was unusually clear ; 136 Honour without Renown. every doubtful act in the young man's former life was raked up and exposed ; the bogus will was read, and it, together with Sir Henry's sad and sudden death, and the ban of his uncle's dis- pleasure under which he was supposed to have lived these, and a hundred other things, all told against him ; his case was hopeless. Besides, his health and spirits gave way ; and, breaking down altogether, he was completely unable to defend himself." "And so was unjustly condemned by both his friends and his country for he certainly never altered the cheque." " Yes, he lost all his earthly possessions ; his wife, his good name ; and received in return a sentence of five years' penal servitude." " My God ! " exclaimed Sister Marguerite, rising abruptly, "he is perhaps suffering still! Is this unjust sentence not yet completed? And you you live to say it? You who know in your inmost heart that he always was innocent of this charge ! Oh, how can you bear to lie there and realize what he must now, even this very moment, be enduring, alone, isolated from his equals and those whom ne loves, and treated by those beneath him as a relon his youthful frame, perhaps, bent and w akened by cruel labour; his brow bowed in shame and branded with the stigma of dishonour ; his kind heart crushed, nay, it may be, broken 'ong ago, by months and years spent in weary w Jting ! Why do you not rise and rescue him ? If you would hope for mercy yourself, hasten to save him ! " She paced the small apartment with quick and Honour without Renown. 137 nervous steps, and gasped as though for freer air. Then, turning suddenly upon him, she asked quickly : " Where is this Harold this shameless coward in whose heart lies hid this terrible secret? Why does he not come forward and confront that villain Thomas, and vindicate the honour of his brother's name?" " Alas, how can he do it? The old lawyer and his son have both gone to their account. I assure you, indeed, that it was not until just before the death of the latter that Harold learned the full truth of all these facts that young Thomas himself had done the dishonourable act, bent, for reasons of his own, upon poor Edmund's ruin." " Then, having learnt that, why did not Harold at once stand forth and proclaim his brother's innocence? " "Oh, be merciful in your judgments, Sister Marguerite. How could he do so ? " demanded Manfred in tones of bitterness. Can you not understand that Thomas had so managed the affair that to clear Edmund's name meant to implicate his brother's? Both could not be free. If Harold dared to make the attempt, overwhelming evidence was there to implicate and condemn himself. What could he do but let things drift ? Three years are already over, and Harold will atone to his brother by rendering him every possible assistance on his release from " "Atone!" and with ringing scorn the word echoed through the room " atone ! Oh, base the heart to conceive the thought ; and baser still the 138 Honour without Renown. lips to frame it ! Atone ! How can he atone to his innocent brother for the unnumbered wrongs he has wrought against him ? How heal the sickening pain of those weary hours, days, and months spent in a felon's cell ? How can he restore the fair name and build up once more to health and strength the manly form bowed down by meagre fare and cruel work? How dry the bitter tears from the girl- bride's heart, or bid her cease to weep and mourn for her husband's sufferings and his tarnished name ? No, 'tis cowardly to breathe the word in that sense. Atonement must be meted even as was the injury publicly freely ! If not, believe me, the nour of Harold's retribution will arrive ; he cannot escape his punishment. Either here or hereafter it will overtake him ; then may God have pity upon him ! " She looked down upon him, the fire of -ndigna- tion lighting her eyes. Writhing in agony of soul, and cringing in terror, Manfred gasped : " In mercy to poor Harold, say that there is hope for him yet. He has not enjoyed his ill-gotten goods indeed he has not ! Wealth has not been his, for blackmailers have well-nigh ruined him. And as for happiness or peace of heart God is my witness, he has never known them." All feeling of pain in his injured limb seemed forgotten in the mental torture he was then endur- ing. His lips quivered and his hands shook with misery as he endeavoured to clutch the nun's hands ; as though the very contact with her would ensure for him the peace and safety he craved. But instinctively she raised them ; in her agitation Honour without Renown. 139 she had caught up her rosary beads and, without intention, had backed further from his reach. He noted the movement and caught the ring of distrust in her voice as she answered : " Heaven and earth must bear witness to the sincerity of Harold's repentance, ere he finds mercy." Carried away by the vehemence of her nature, she had miscalculated his strength, nor taken into account the effect that all this agitation might have upon his frame, weakened by illness. Before her mental vision had risen the tear-stained, suffering face of Marion MacDermot, as she had poured forth this terrible story into the kind nun's sympathetic ear, and her heart burnt with indigna- tion at the thought that here before her lay the accomplice, if not the originator, of all that misery and shame. Further and further she moved from him. Then, as if all hope had departed from him for ever, as if the flood of despair, let loose, had overwhelmed him, Manfred turned, and with a groan fainted away. With a startled cry the little Sister of Charity sprang to the side of her patient. She realised the full danger of the situation. She had been too hasty, too stern, towards the poor fallen creature before her, when he had sought mercy at her hands. "My God, forgive me!" she cried as, falling upon her knees, she bowed her pale face in her hands and prayed. Alas, who was she that dared to sit in judgment upon a fellow-creature? What rough lessons of humility did she not yet need to subdue that proud spirit and calm the fiery im- II 140 Honour without Renown. pulses ot her nature ! Would death but find her still a victim, never a conqueror ! " Heaven for- give me," she cried again, "and sweet Mother of God come to mine aid." But she must work and pray together. Seizing Manfred's clammy hand her own were trembling visibly she eagerly felt his pulse. There was hope yet ; he might revive. Tenderly she bathed the weary temples, chafed the wasted hands, and forced drops of a powerful restorative between his lips. "Sister Marguerite! Sister Marguerite!" rang out the shrill voice of Madame Corbette from the adjoining apartment ; " hear you not the clamour? My old spirit is stirred and warms within me at the sound of war. We shall be conquerors yet ! I know it well. The Reds are to the fore ! " "Yes, yes; I hear God help them all," answered the agitated Sister. Little heeded she now all the noise without ; but one thought, one fear, was in her mind. Had she, unwittingly, hastened the presence of a despairing fellow- creature before the dread Tribunal ? How she racked her brain in the endeavour to discover some remedy that perchance in her excitement she had omitted. Her life would be but a small ransom to offer in exchange for his soul ; and how gladly would she make the sacrifice ! If only Heaven would restore him to life, how she would speak to him of the goodness and mercy of God, and endeavour to win him to repentance. And Heaven was kind to her. CHAPTER XIII. IT was after a weary time of anxiety had elapsed for the Sister that Manfred once more opened his eyes, listened strangely for a while, then inquired feebly : "What is the matter? What has happened? Why are you kneeling there, Sister Marguerite, with the crucifix clasped to your heart and the tears dimming your eyes? Are we in danger from without?" "No" rising quickly " I am but pouring out my heart in gratitude to God for a great favour that He has granted to one whose hateful priue rendered her unworthy of it." "Ah, I know now; I remember it all!" And an expression of pain passed over his pallid features, "You you said that Harold's sin was almost too great to be forgiven ! " " No, no ! I was severe, hard, but I did not say that. Believe me, that were poor Harold's sin multiplied ten times over, yet it would not compare with the unlimited mercy of God. Harold has but to seek for pardon, and he will obtain it." " But," he hesitated, " he must surely he must make restitution ? " 142 Honour without Renown. " Hush ! even thathe will do, nobly, generously." And she laid her hand upon his brow. " Do not talk more now, but I know, I feel that Harold will do his duty. Rest at least for a while ; forget your troubles, lay them with confidence at the foot oi the Cross ; and whilst you sleep I will keep watch, and pray for you." " Pray for me ! Do you then pray for me, Sister Marguerite? How beautiful ! One thing I have often longed to ask you for, but dared not do so ; give me your crucifix, let me kiss it. Often I have scoffed and jeered at the sacred emblem, but now, for the love of Him who hung thereon, let me kiss it once." She handed it to him, and after pressing his lips reverently to the foot of it, he looked up with a sweeter smile than she had yet seen him wear, and asked in a pleading voice : " Do not condemn me to silence. I am feeling better much better. I have still something to relate something which must be told ; but since hope is once more dawning within me, it will not be so hard a task. Are you too weary to listen longer, or may I ease my heart and tell you?" " You may do just as you wish, only do not overtax your strength anew." " It is about the poor wife, Marion. After losing her husband she nursed her father with tenderest care until he died ; and when Harold would have sought for and aided her, like another, she dis- appeared from his sight, leaving no trace of her whereabouts." " I fear you are but a sorry searcher," was the Honour without Renown. 143 smiling reply. " Have you no idea now of her whereabouts." " Strange to say, a few months ago I almost miraculously lighted upon what must be her lair." " You? You did? Oh, tell me where and how." " It happened thus." (It gave him pleasure to see her so interested.) " I was a guest at one of England's lordly homes. Ah ! if only you, who so admire the works of God's creation, had but known what it was to live and breathe in such an atmosphere of refinement and elegance ; to ramble at will amidst the luxuriant foliage and artistic beauties of the ancient home and park of which I speak; your poetic nature would have been so enthralled therewith, that not even the exalted life you now lead and to which you appear so devoted could have had the power to charm you from such an existence." "Nay," laughing outright, "in that now you surely do me wrong. If choice there must be, who would not willingly barter the fleeting things of time for the lasting goods of eternity ! For, listen ! The stateliest castle that ever was reared will assuredly crumble to ruin. Not so the mansions of Heaven, they will flourish and continue for ever. Earth's proudest names save those of God's saints are but a faded memory of the past. Scarce are their owners buried ere others usurp their place and they lie forgotten. Not so the memory of the blessed. Day by day we salute them with loving words, and greet with joy their festivals, pondering deeply the glorious example of 144 Honour without Renown. virtue they left behind. Nature is beautiful ! most glorious indeed I and yet the noblest forest tree must decay, bend, and fall. Earth's fairest flowers wither and fade ; not so the mighty standard of the Cross, or the martyr's palms. They will flourish and thrive for all eternity. But, not to weary you, pray tell me where in this drear old world of ours is this beautiful Eden, this garden of Paradise in which the daughters of Eve are to be held captive by its charms, even against their will?" " You never tire me. I love to hear you talk, but the time of your departure creeps on apace, and I must finish my story. The Eden of which I speak is in one of our Southern counties. It is the beautiful home of the De Woodville family, and known as Baron Court." Though listening for the name breathlessly, she actually trembled as he pronounced the words. It seemed so odd to hear the dear familiar names uttered in this far-off cottage, and by a stranger's lips. A full minute elapsed ere she could so still the beatings of her heart, so calm the tell-tale quivering of her voice, as to venture a further question. Then, in as indifferent a tone as she could assume, she inquired, " Do you then know this Earl? Are you a friend of his?" " No. For entirely private reasons in fact, to seek a lost trail I procured an invitation to make one of a shooting party through a friend of mine who is his cousin. We were to have spent some weeks at the Court, but, unfortunately, I was compelled to leave suddenly." " Doubtless Lord de Woodville is married ? Honour without Renown. 145 Did you see his wife?" she asked in a strange, unnatural voice. "No, they were both away from home at the time, but I heard her spoken of as a sweet little woman ; and if she resembles her portrait, which hangs side by side with her mother's in the gallery, she is as pretty as she is sweet. Of Irish extraction I believe she is." It amused him to discover this trait of feminine curiosity in the nun's character. He smiled a superior smile. " Of the pictures one rivited my attention even to fascination, and aroused my envy. It was oi three girls. There was something in the face of each subject a simple purity, a look of innocence, and yet a depth of soul that suggested a likeness between them. It bore the title, ' The United Kingdom.' The centre figure, which represented England, was that of a lovely girl, graceful as a nymph, attired in white ; a single rose decked her gold-brown hair ; lilies lay upon her youthful breast, and grew about her feet. A sweet emblem of purity thus she stood, but from her eyes thfe gleamed a lofty spirit, as pure as it was bold. On her right, her little hand fast locked in England's, seated on an ivy stump, rested Ireland's gentle daughter, dressed in emerald green. The shamrock wreath crowned her dark and wavy locks ; modesty peace, and beauty dwelt in the drooping eyes and on the broad white brow. On the mossy grass be- side these two, the hand of England resting lovingly on her neck, knelt Scotland's child, attired in richest plaid. The purple thistle decked her chest- 146 Honour without Renown. nut hair ; steadfast and true the light that shore from her brave eyes." The blood had rushed to Sister Marguerite's face, and suffused it with a rich crimson glow ; for well did she remember how her brother had insisted upon having the picture painted before she left her home for ever. How clearly had her patient sug- gested the portraits of dear Marie and Madge ; the thought of them was dearer to her now almost than ever. "Surely you are not well ?" inquired Manfred, noting her flushed and downcast face. "Oh, yes, but perhaps the room is a little close," she answered, rising and moving towards the window, which she threw more widely open. "The air will soon revive me." There was a slight pause, during which the cool fresh air played grate- fully upon her burning cheek, and helped to calm ner mind. "At this Baron Court of which you speak, saw you aught of an old dog or servants retainers grown old in their master's service. Oftentimes such places possess these faithful treasures." "And true enough this one lacked not its due in that respect. Few young faces were there to grace the servants' hall ; whilst one huge St. Bernard paced with stately tread the most private garden walk. There was one old man especially, who loved the dog, and seldom lost him from his sight ; this was John, the aged coachman, quick-witted, but too presumptuous and bold ; to speak the truth, I cared little for either man or dog, nor did I trust them either." Honour without Renown. 147 The friendly cornette hid her face ; it was well her back was turned, for a look of triumph lit her eyes as she thought within herself, " Dear old Leo ! you never failed to chose the brave and true!" " Was the dog very old and infirm, or likely, do you think, to live a few years longer? Being fond of animals, I like to hear all about them." "Really, I bestowed very little attention upon the animal. We took a mutual dislike to each other. But why do you take such interest in un- necessary things? It is not of dogs or men I wish to speak, but of Marion, poor Edmund's wife. The rest has no concern for us." "Well, I am once more all attention," she said presently, as she turned from the window and patiently reseated herself. " What of Marion? Did you see her?" " No, I did not ; but chance threw me across the Western Lodge, into which, with the coach- man's aid, we entered, the owner being from home. Curiosity persuaded me to explore the dainty cottage, and there, hidden in a private room, I saw poor Edmund's portrait, and hanging on the walls were pictures of Scottish scenery, in which I recognised his touch. His violin a 'Strad' was there also ; everything spoke of him. I fairly gasped for breath. Never had I felt so near to him as then. Scarce dare I move or breathe lest face to face I'd meet him. I feigned sudden ill- ness and rushed out from the door, thankful to make my escape at any cost. Nothing could have induced me to linger near the spot ; so you see 148 Honour without Renown. that even this beautiful Eden held for me its avenging angel, and in dread of it I fled." " It would surely have been more dignified and manly as Harold's friend had you remained to aid poor Edmund's wife?" "Yes ; now by the new light which is gradually penetrating my mind, I see how insane and cowardly was my flight. But since my panic drove me here, the hand of Providence may have been the motive power ; for some little time ago a secret impulse seemed to promise me peace of heart once more, could I but unburden my soul to you." "And have you been true to that impulse by unfolding to me all, simply and plainly every fact?" " Not quite all ; one thing of importance alone remains. I am afraid and ashamed to tell you that to-night ; to-morrow, on your return, I will humble myself still further, and you, dear kind Sister, will then talk to me and teach me how to act." And thus, like many a better man, Manfred deferred the essential and, to his mind, most humiliating act. To-morrow would be soon enough to tell her who he was: he could not force himself to act to-day. He could not foresee all that was to happen all the terrible atrocities that were to be perpetrated between the setting and the rising of the sun. He knew not that the next time he should gaze upon the sweet features of his gentle nurse his own would be so distorted with fear as to be scarcely recognisable. Few of the inhabitants of the city of Paris closed their Honour without Renown. 149 eyes during the hours of that awful night, when the Communists had sworn that where they could not conquer they would destroy and reduce to ashes. "Only one question more ere I bid you farewell," said Sister Marguerite. You have never told me Edmund's family name. His poor little wife, you say, still bears her maiden name of MacDermot ; what is that to which she has a right? I mean the name of her ill-used husband ; for, indeed, so I may call him, seeing all he has endured." " To-morrow, dear kind Sister, I will tell you all: but you must promise not to be too severe, or you will kill me outright." "I do promise!" she said, with her sweetest smile, "for to-day I have received a lesson which I trust never to forget. A few more such," she added brightly, "and the proud spirit of Sister Marguerite will be subdued, please God, at last." "Must you really go?" he cried nervously, as he listened to her rehearsing her last instructions for the night to Jeanne, who had already been waiting ten minutes to take her place. "I feel unstrung to-night : the noises outside alarm me ; you must not face it alone. Stay with us do stay, Sister Marguerite, I entreat you ! " " Now I am ashamed of my patient," she said merrily, in feigned anger. " Why should you fear for my safety more to-night than at any other time? He who protects the birds of the air will surely cast His loving care o'er His little spouse ; and if a stray shot should hit me well, it would only be one Sister of Charity less : that to many 150 Honour without Renown, would appear a boon and no loss, you know ! Only one of those horrid white cornettes the less," she laughed mischievously. But seeing a look of pain and self-reproach upon Manfred's face, she stepped quickly to his side and, handing him her crucifix, knelt beside his couch, saying : " Take this in your hand, and repeat after me what I say ; you will feel better for doing so : ' My God, I believe in Thee, I hope in Thee, and I love Thee, and from the bottom of my heart I grieve for all my offences against Thee.' There" rising " now if you are kept awake by fear and terror, repeat that little prayer, and all will be well." And with a kindly " God bless you all," she was gone. Manfred heard the cottage door close after her ; then with a heavy sigh he buried his head on his pillow and wept tears of sorrow sorrow for the miserable and sinful life he had led, sorrow for the grief he had caused others ; and, most of all, he wept for very shame as he realised the almost immeasurable distance that existed between him and the once despised little Sister of Charity to whom, under God, he owed his life. CHAPTER XIV. IT is an acknowledged fact that to authors are accorded privileges which assuredly are denied to ordinary mortals, and amongst the most startling of them is the marvellous power and speed where- with they whirl their kind and patient readers from one half of the hemisphere to the other. No sooner have they secured our sympathy and impressed us with the surroundings of a fellow-creature dwelling in the heart of a crowded city, than with a dexterous twist of the pen they have landed us in the centre of the most distant and silent solitude of the desert. Or, from the summit of some snow- capped mountain peak, they alight with ease and grace upon the white deck of some proud steamer battling hopelessly with the cruel breakers. There appears to be no limit to the magic power of the pen. A few inspired words culled from the mind of a saint, are able to fill our hearts with peace and joy and raise our souls to higher and better things, just as those drawn from the opposite source may pollute and defile us, almost to the level of the brute beast No motive power will ever be discovered, able to stir and urge our bodies forward with anything like the velocity of speed wherewith that of the magic pen can force our minds 152 Honour without Renown. hither and thither, above and below, through the past into the future, until we are almost lost to the things of the present. And now with quiet noise- less tread and reverent mien, I too would be bold and lead my readers even as the angelic guide did the great St. Peter through bolts and bars and prison walls, nor pause for breath or speech until I land them safely within the narrow confines of a dim and dreary cell. No sound was here save the dull, monotonous tread of the jailer, as he paced the silent passages, peering every now and again through the small iron grid let into each prison door. Yet the same sun which rode high over restless Paris, dazzling the eyes of Sister Marguerite as she listened to her patient's tale, shone also upon the ugly roof and bare walls of a convict prison, and pierced the iron bars let into the cold grey wall. They fell with a welcome warmth, and seemed to linger about the form of the occupant of a certain cell, who, though worn by toil and disfigured by the prison garb, still struck the eye and filled the heart with interest and pity. It would have been difficult to guess his age just then, for he was seated upon the regulation stool, one toil-stained hand hanging listlessly by his side, the other resting upon his knee and supporting his handsome head, with its clearly cut features. There was nothing to distinguish this cell from the others; the hard mattress and the blanket lay tightly rolled up in one corner, whilst the rough wooden stand which supported the tin jug and basin added but little comfort to the place. But no visitor Honour without Renown. 153 gazing upon its occupant could fail to be impressed by a sensation of wonder. Some there were amongst them who, animated by kinder feelings than curiosity, crossed the threshold of the strong iron-bound door to examine more closely the surroundings of so interesting a prisoner. And such as these oft-times left that cell more deeply moved than they could well have explained ; a halo of romance and mystery hung over the lonely, silent man. Like the illustrious but ill-fated Philip Howard, Edmund Leadbitter had, by the aid of an old rusty nail, traced in the stone of his prison wall words which proved the height and depth of an exalted nature, and accounted in some measure for the steady eye which was never bent or lowered in shame before his fellow-creatures. In one corner of this darksome abode that in which the light fell least, as though a longing for privacy had guided the artist's hand was traced with no little skill the outline of a crucifix, and beneath it the words : " Even should He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." Then, as though the mind had wandered to familiar scenes fast burnt into the brain, and guided and given strength and nerve to the powerful hand, the nail had traversed the wall once more, leaving in its masterful trail the graceful outlines of a ruined abbey. A harder month's labour than usual had just been accomplished by the convicts ; but the health of several of them, notably that of Edmund Lead- fitter, or of " No. 75," had gradually succumbed under the extra strain, and after having fainted 154 Honour without Renown. twice in the forenoon, he had been conducted back to his cell to rest a little, in order to be ready for the next day, when the services of every available man would be required to assist at some important work in the quarries. But No. 75 was not alone. One who sympathised with him much more than he dared express was near him, endeavouring- to comfort and aid the unfortunate man. Leaning against the wall opposite, looking upon the convict with eyes in which pity and admiration strove for mastery, stood a Capuchin Father, dressed in the familiar brown habit and white cord of St. Francis : he was one of the chaplains to the prison. Ap- parently they had been conversing for some time, for No. 75, looking up with a pleasant smile, remarked in a refined voice : " It is discourteous of me, Father, to permit you to stand whilst I sit here resting all the while." "You know well enough that I shall never permit you to stand one instant longer than you must. The state of your health troubles me. Why do you object to my calling the attention of the doctor to your case? Why will you persist in making so light of your sufferings, when with a little trouble on my part I could obtain an order for your admittance into the infirmary at once?" " After to-morrow, dear Father after to-morrow. Grant me yet one day more ere I give in ; then you may do as you will. Only one day more surely I can stand that ! " and the honest eyes looked up at the priest with a strange entreaty. Father Lawrence lowered his own, for the look cut him to the heart ; he longed to evade it, but i* Honour without Renown. 155 haunted him long afterwards to the destruction ot his peace of mind. Accustomed to the presence of vice in all its forms, in the prisoner before him he had discovered such magnanimity as he could not but reverence. Thoughtfully stroking his brown beard with one hand, whilst with the other he held the beads at his side, Father Lawrence at last inquired : "Why 'to-morrow' again? For the last week it has been the same cry. When to-morrow comes you will still plead for twenty-four hours more of harder labour than you can endure. Do you want to die at your post? " " Not to die, Father ! It is not that I may be overworked and die that I ask more time. Believe me, there is no one in all this wretched abode who courts death less than I, or who fears it more. No ! But though men may fetter the limbs, and bow the body down, yet no earthly power can fetter or cripple the spirit of man when in unison with the will of his Creator. Be patient with me yet a little longer ; for hope burns bright within me, and I will not stifle it. This coarse shirt " holding it between his fingers "with its ornamental design of ill-shaped arrows, shall yet give place to a softer garment. These horny hands shall be soft and white as of old ; and casting aside the pick and spade, shall ply with joy the pencil and brush, and draw forth sweet music from a loved old instrument. Fear not for me, then, Father, nor seek to sadden me with baseless apprehensions ; rather bid me have courage, and remember that no heart ever yet trusted its God in vain." it 156 Honour without Renown. Father Lawrence felt himself once more baffled. He knew well that hope and faith in God alone had sustained the strong spirit before him, and yet he was aware that the poor prisoner's frame was sc weak that any undue bodily exertion might easily prove fatal ; therefore he paused ere he answered as cheerfully as he could 11 At least you will allow me to ask a day off for you to-morrow. I hear that water has burst into one of the quarries, and the work will be both heavy and dangerous. You cannot object to one day's rest, when you know it to be so essential for your health." The prisoner bowed his head still lower ; he did not wish to meet the kind eyes of his friend ; and answered with slow, indomitable persistency: "After to-morrow, dear Father after to-morrow; then I promise to listen to and comply with yout every request. Ah, you do not realise how sweet it is to me to feel the free air of Heaven upon my brow. You have not felt what joy it is to gaze upon the faces of your fellow-creatures, to mark the pure innocent look of the children, and to note the pitiful eyes of the women as they fall upon you, and to be able to bless God that they, at least, are still free and unfettered. And Father," continued the man, burying his face in his hands. " since you will have my reason (which, however, remember, is sacred between us), there is just a chance that on the way to or from the mines to-morrow I may catch a pass- ing glimpse of features that are dearer to me than aught else on earth. I have waited so long, almost a year now, yearning for the sight once again ; you Honour without Renown. 157 cannot deny me just one more trial. To-morrow is the anniversary of our wedding-day, and I feel certain that my wife will be somewhere near on that day." With difficulty Father Lawrence forced back the tears that welled to his eyes. Why had he been placed in such a position as chaplain to his poor imprisoned fellow-creatures, to some of whom his heart went out in such overwhelming pity and compassion that he had often no power to eat or sleep ? Now, however, he felt that the conversation was taking a dangerous turn ; he must not connive at any act contrary to prison rules. Besides, the excitement of it was telling upon the weak frame of poor No. 75 ; he was breathing too fast and heavily, and the perspiration was standing upon his brow. Moving towards him the priest laid his hand firmly upon his shoulder, saying in an abrupt voice, as though the better to recall the man to himself: "Answer me one question. You have already recounted to me so many details of your history that I seem to know it almost better than my own. But rouse up now for a moment and endeavour to recall to your mind if any one visited your apart- ments during the time you had that wretched cheque in your possession." "How strange!" exclaimed the prisoner, look- ing up suddenly. " How strange that you should have hit upon the very keynote to the whole mystery ! And yet, what is stranger still, is the fact that at my wretched trial all remembrance of the circumstance had left me. Indeed, the terrible suddenness of the whole tragedy upset my health 158 Honour without Renown. so seriously that for the time being my mind became a complete blank ; so that in my endeavour to aid my defence I did but involve myself the deeper." " Yes, I remember well that for a long time after your entrance here you were too ill to leave the infirmary ; but now calm yourself for a moment and endeavour to recall to your mind who it was that visited your apartments, and at what hour of the day or night this visit took place." The prisoner crossed his legs, clasped his thin hands around his knees, and looking steadily in front of him, answered calmly : "One evening, the second after my marriage, I took my wife to see a play of Shakespeare's, and on my return my old landlady informed me that during our absence a young man had called, wish- ing to see me on urgent business regarding my half-brother. At the same time he pleaded fatigue, and begged to be allowed to rest a little and wait for us. Good-naturedly enough she consented, and begged him to take a seat in my sitting-room, which opened into the bedroom. In about twenty minutes he came out, and after thanking her for her kindness, said he really could not wait any longer^ but, if possible, would call again the next day to see me." "Had you the cheque in your own possession that evening?" "No. With my usual carelessness I had left it enclosed in my pocket-book in my morning coat." "Arid who was the visitor? Were you able to recognise him from the description given of him by the landlady?" Honour without Renown. 159 " My thoughts were so happy and pre-occupied at the time that I paid little heed to the fact of his calling at all ; but later, in my hours of dreary soli- tude, all she said has returned distinctly to my mind, and now I see it all." "And whom do you conclude it to have been ? " " My one enemy, and my poor brother's evil genius ; no other than young Thomas, the lawyer's son." " But why was not the fact of this visit brought forward at the time of the trial ? Your defence ought to have made much of it. Where was the landlady?" "Ah, you see, Father, everything went dead against me, as you know by reading over a copy of the trial. The very day after this mysterious visit my landlady fell in the street and received a con- cussion of the brain ; this was followed by a long illness. In fact, I have often wondered whether she ever recovered. She was a kind, motherly old soul, but very simple." "I suppose you have forgotten her name and address?" inquired the priest carelessly. " No, it was Mrs. Lawson, King's Street, W. The number I am not positive about, but think it was 17." Father Lawrence drew from his pocket an old envelope, and after jotting down the address replaced it carefully. At this juncture the jailer slid back the panel and peered in, reminding the priest in a gruff voice that it was getting late. "All right," he answered cheerfully; but con- tinued in a hurried tone, " Do you think that your brother was cognisant of this man's visit?" No. 75 160 Honour without Renown. hesitated ere he answered ; then looking up sorrow- fully, in a slow, steady voice he said : " I would give much to think that my brother is innocent but no ! I am certain he knew that his friend had altered the cheque. They were both filled with envy towards me, and were determined, if possible, to share my uncle's estate. No, Father; I am morally certain that I am here with my brother's connivance." Father Lawrence heaved a sigh. He was con- vinced of the innocence of the man before him and of the truth of his statement, and yet what could he do? It was almost beyond his power to refrain from crying out against the injustice of the case. How, he thought, could the poor prisoner exist through two years more of this suffering. Look at it as he would, from no point of view could he discern one ray of hope for the long-suffering, innocent man, for his country had found him guilty, and the judge had coincided in the view, condemning him as a criminal. " How frail and erring are human judgments after all," he pondered. " Alas, I see nothing upon earth whereupon to rest. Like the courageous example betore me I must place unbounded confidence in the mercy of Heaven." Once more the tramp-tramp of the jailer was heard on his return journey; and after an earnest entreaty that the prisoner would take as much care of himself as he could, by endeavouring to swallow his untempting allowance and resting well during the night, the priest departed. CHAPTER XV. IT was late before Father Lawrence reached his humble abode. After parting hastily from the poor prisoner, he left the prison and walked he scarcely knew whither, not noticing even the friendly salutes of the passers-by as they recog- nised his familiar figure. With head bent forward, eyes lowered upon the ground, and hands buried in the sleeves of his habit, he strode on, his mind perplexed by anxious thought. He had walked several miles ere he realised the lateness of the hour and the distance he had traversed. Arriving at last at his house, he mechanically drew forth his latch-key, opened the door, and passed at once to his small sitting-room. The town lay well behind, for the church and house were built by a lane off from the high road. The room was in darkness but for the pale light of the moon. Not even noticing the cold supper which lay spread upon the table, Father Lawrence threw himself wearily into an armchair which stood facing the open, uncurtained window ; then crossing his legs and throwing his arms behind his head continued his painful reverie. Before him, clearly defined in the moonlight, he could see the well-kept paddocks fenced round by low, thick 1 62 Honour without Renown. hedges in their first spring beauty ; the giant trees like solemn sentinels moved stiffly in salutation as it were to the night breeze, as it swept amid their branches, rustling playfully their fresh green leaves. The birds had long since ceased their noisy twitter ; the cattle and sheep were lying half buried in the soft green meadows, so full now of closed daisies and buttercups. The voices of the children were hushed : all nature seemed at rest, save the heart of the silent watcher. In the blue vault above the stars shone like myriads of twinkling diamonds, whilst the moon her pale light unobstructed by the passage of clouds looked peacefully down upon this world of ours, where virtue and vice are so strangely blended. He knew that soon her gentle beams would pass through the window of that prison cell, and would linger over the features of that innocent man : where would she shine at the same hour upon the guilty brother, he wondered ? Where was he hiding? How could he be found? How often, whilst sitting thus in solitude thinking of our absent ones, the longing seizes our hearts, that power were given us to pierce the distance which separates us from our loved ones, and feast our eyes if only for an instant upon their dear faces, and see how they fare. We feel that our rest and sleep would be more secure and perfect could we but know that they are well. Yet it is surely better for us that a kind Providence has blinded our eyes and bid us trust ourselves and them to Him. It is a thousand mercies we cannot see our heroes fall on the field of battle, or gaze upon Honour without Renown. 163 brave men struggling vainly with the cruel elements ; for, realising our own inability to help them, how could we endure the sight and live? No ; things are best as God has planned them. And yet, as we watch the sun or the moon, as they pursue their steady course through the heavens, or listen to the gay, boisterous wind, as it hurries and scurries along, we catch ourselves vainly longing that, like those great orbs, power might be given us, just to have one wee peep at our dear ones whose faces we have not seen for years or that the fitful wind would pick up and bear to us, as it passes, the sweet sound of voices which for ages we have listened for in vain. Some such wish as this was paramount in Father Lawrence's heart. He longed that a ray of this pale moonlight would reveal to him the exact hiding-place of the guilty brother. And yet, had it done so, what would have been his feelings? What would he have thought, could he have peered, as a moonbeam was then struggling to do, into that small latticed window outside the walls of the city of Paris, and discovered stretched on a bed of pain and suffering the very man whom his heart was at that moment condemning. Surely, also, he would have turned away more bewildered than ever, had power been given him to glance yet again as the moon did through a small oriel window in a convent, and there, amidst all the noise and con- fusion reigning around, have caught the fervent words of prayer as they fell from the lips of a little Sister of Charity, and have detected in almost every sentence the name of the very prisoner for 164 Honour without Renown. whom his own heart was then aching so sorely. Mercifully, again all this was hidden from his eyes ; for, had he seen all that was to occur on that fatal night, and felt powerless to aid, hope might well- nigh have been extinguished within him. So, unconscious of the flight of time and of the chilly night air, Father Lawrence sat busied with troubled cogitations. Sometimes he clasped his hands tightly together and looked sternly out into the night ; then, leaning his elbows upon a small table near, he would rest his chin upon his hands, still thinking thinking. " It is impossible that the man can stand two years more of hard prison life," he pondered. " My God," he cried, "he cannot do it, and he will die and be buried in a felon's grave ! the sainted prisoner whom I have learned to love almost as a dear brother." The cool night air blew gratefully on the priest's heated brow as he ran his fingers hastily through his thin brown hair. Was it im- possible that any honest man could be found to come forward in the name of justice and lend a helping hand in this good cause. He could think of no one to whom he could turn for aid or advice. Would they not all smile and tell him that they had listened to many such tales before ; that men of his stamp and calling were too susceptible, too easily gulled ; that a jury did not often err when they condemned a man ; and so on ? Then his thoughts flew to the little bride-wife as the words of the prisoner recurred to his mind : "To-morrow is the anniversary of our wedding-day, and I am Honour without Renown. 165 certain my wife will be somwhere near on that day." "Where would she be? how contrive to see her husband? "he wondered. "Ah, I will watch the prisoners on their walk to and from the quarries, and see if I can detect anything out of the common. Evidently it is not the first time that they have thus met. Poor, faithful little wife! No one shall prevent me from comforting her at least." Thus planning, brooding, hoping, and fearing, he still sat until the clear sweet tones of a nightingale suddenly filled the night air with melody. As a harbinger of hope the thrilling notes struck upon the ear of the watcher and roused him from his reverie. Rising hastily, he pushed back his chair and stood listening ; then with a feeling akin to hope and gratitude in his heart he reluctantly drew down the window, and discovered that he was both faint and hungry. The little room was flooded with moonlight, and taking out his watch Father Lawrence found that it still wanted sixteen minutes to twelve. A very few moments sufficed in which to appease the inner man ; then, feeling it useless to seek his couch, he opened the door and groped his way to the silent church. And all the while the object of so much care and solicitude was resting upon his hard prison couch, sleeping the calm sleep of the innocent And surely Heaven's angels hovered near, and with protecting love fanned his weary cheek and aching brow, building up in his heart bright hopes for the morrow. For he smiled as the 1 66 Honour without Renown. gentle moonbeams kissed his brow, the hard deep lines formed by toil and care seemed smoothed away, and in their place a look of almost youthful grace played around his mouth. Thus the two brothers lay on their separate couches that memorable night Near the side oi one, though he had given his heart's blood to win her, still reluctant and unwilling, stood " Renown." Ever and anon she advanced, then mournfully withdrew. How could she crown the brow with valour, and leave exposed a coward's heart? But hanging over the bed of the other whom men had condemned as worthless and unworthy hung her sister, " Honour." Fondly she bent over the patient prisoner, and proudly she kissed his care- worn brow, pouring into his heart the while the sweetest balm of hope. He forgot that he rested on a hard prison floor, that he was girt around by walls so thick, no friend could hear his call. For in his dreams he saw his uncle's face beaming upon him with deep and pitying love, and his heart leapt within him as a gentle voice whispered: "Fear not, there is One who counts your every sigh. Patience yet a little longer ; not always shall you iine&c thus I " CHAPTER XVI. WHILST Father Lawrence was pacing the roads, his mind in a turmoil of perplexity and doubt, whilst Sister Marguerite was speaking of hope and repentance to her suffering patient, another scene was being enacted, which, though quite trivial in itself, bore strongly upon our present narrative. Just as the great stable clock, in solemn tones, announced the hour of seven, there issued from the door of the quiet Western Lodge dt Baron Court the form of a woman, closely en- veloped in a long dark cloak which entirely covered her figure, leaving exposed only her head, upon which she wore a small, closely-fitting black bonnet secured by white ribbons. A long black gauze veil hung over her features and concealed them, but when allowed to fall back into its proper position, together with the deep white collar and cuffs which encircled her neck and wrists, gave her much the appearance of the ordinary hospital nurse. , Locking the door securely behind her and put- ling the key safely in her pocket, she paused on the little garden path and looked fondly around. If there was one thing she loved to linger over, tend, and watch, it was her garden ; and soon in a few weeks it would be a pleasant picture indeed 1 68 Honour without Renown. to gaze upon. It was only May, but Nature had called forth the green buds early that year, and this was a sunny sheltered nook. Was there one rose-bud, she wondered, sufficiently defined to pluck? She stooped over her favourite tree and raised the branches, looking at them proudly and tenderly ; to her joy, she found one just bursting through its green envelope. This she carefully plucked, and after pressing it to her lips in memory of bygone days, and murmuring to her- self, " I was ever his sweet mountain rose," she placed it, with a deep sigh, in the front of her dress beneath her cloak. Innocent little rose! Though the wearer knows it not, you have your mission to fulfil ; you shall carry to a captive heart a message of true love, strong hope, and faithful endurance. Then Marion MacDermot walked through the little gate, and drawing it securely to, turned and looked once more at her home. She would not be long absent from it, she thought ; "and Heaven aid and strengthen me for the task before me," she prayed, "and bring me safely back to work for him." After glancing once or twice furtively around, she passed through the larger and private gate and bent her steps along the high road leading towards the village of Oakhome. One more look around, to assure herself that no one was watching her movements, then adjusting the small hand-bag which she carried, and drawing on her black silk gloves, she held her veil securely down, and with a quick, light step, but with fluttering heart, passed on her way. Honour without Renown. 169 Since the day upon which Earl de Woodville then Lord Grantheuse had first driven the shy blushing school-girl, Marie Blake, now his dear little wife, to his paternal home at Baron Court, the steam locomotive had, with its usual indiffer- ence to the ancient and beautiful, forced its way into the very heart of the seclusion of Oakhome ; and a small neat station had risen up in its midst, to which Marion was now wending her way. It was growing dusk as she hurriedly mounted the steps leading to the upper portion of the station, after having secured her first-class ticket at the office below, and there paced wearily up and down until the train should come into view. So engrossed was she in her own thoughts that she failed to observe that she was recognised, nay, that her very entrance into the station, her every movement, had been closely watched and com- mented upon by three of the village scandal- mongers and gossips. We will not linger over the spiteful remarks they passed upon her " dis- guise," as they pleased to term her dress, nor the virtuous manner in which they assured each other that they felt obliged to inform the Countess and their neighbours of this secret midnight excursion, which could not but be linked with some deep, dark mystery that it would be their plain and painful duty to unravel. Nor will we enlarge upon the bold manner and virtuous, indignant stare which each of them cast upon poor Marion through the open window of her carriage door. She should know that she was not only recognised, but was severely condemned by them tor this mid- 170 Honour without Renown. night escapade. What right had the likes of her to a first-class carriage? Marion shrank from their ill-natured remarks, many of which she plainly overheard as they intended her to do and sinking upon the seat at the further end of the carriage, turned her face to the window and looked at the rising moon, which was just visible above the dark ridge of trees which darkened her little home. She was glad and thankful when the train moved on : she had a cross journey before her, and knew that it would be some hours ere she reached her destination. Perhaps, had her slanderers and unjust accusers been permitted to gaze into her over-burdened and crushed heart, even they might have paused in admiration at the vision of so much patient en- durance. What a pity it is that more of us do not pause ere we let fly the cruel dart which oft-times pierces so sorely nay, sometimes mortally wounds our neighbour's aching heart ! On rushed the train, gathering speed as it went ; and higher and higher in the clear evening sky rose the moon, revealing in her light now a rolling plain of sleeping meadows, with the cottage lights dotted here and there, now a silent glen, dark and gloomy. With hollow rattle and shrieking whistle it had crossed the bridge over the shining river, and dashed into and out of the gloomy tunnel. Pre- sently they were intruding boldly where, perchance, once stood some proud castle or monastery, each in itself more or less a cemetery. As Marion pressed her face nearer to the glass she became ^fascinated by the dim and ever-changing view, and Honour without Renown. 171 some lines which, when a child, had once been /ead to her from an old poem, came to her mind ; they seemed to her appropriate now, and served to divert her thoughts for a moment ; " The dead lay down to rest, To wait the first sound of the judgment day I The railway whistle woke 'em up ; They're shovelled all away." So upon this night, under this same moon, Manfred, ill in mind and body, brooded over his brother's wrongs, as he tossed on his bed of pain and suffering. Sister Marguerite, after her day of toil, unable to rest for the noise and horrors around, was praying for the poor prisoner and her charges ; Father Lawrence, his mind racked with anxiety for the same cause, was kneeling in his silent church, beseeching Heaven for help ; whilst Marion, the faithful wife, was speeding to his side, though he knew it not. And the subject of their thought and prayer lay peacefully smiling in his sleep on his hard prison bed. CHAPTER XVII. NONE of those whose fate it was to be in Paris during those last days when, after severe fighting, the Communists were finally driven back, are likely ever to forget the horrors of it. The roar of cannon, the roll of musketry, had been continuous. To the north and the south, the east and the west of the city and its suburbs, barri- cades were raised and batteries levelled against them. Even the last resting-places of the quiet dead, the cemeteries, were entrenched ; whilst in the churches, notably that of St. Sulpice, the foes met in mortal combat, and kneeling upon one knee took aim from behind the stately pillars, slaughtering one another on the very threshold of the sanctuary. The terrors of these few days seemed doubled and trebled on that last night when the Communists were finally vanquished. No sooner had the sun set, and darkness enveloped the city, than from the Tuileries and other palatial buildings arose columns of black, blinding smoke, so dense as effectually to obscure the pale light of the moon as she climbed the blue vault. These columns were intersected by rapid and flaming tongues of fire which, as they leaped up into the air, shed a lurid light around, lapping up and destroying in their greedy haste Honour without Renown. 173 every combustible thing within their reach. Crazy, excited women prowled stealthily around, intent upon their heartless errand of revenge. Pouring petroleum into the open grids of the largest and stateliest buildings, with fiendish joy they dropped lighted matches upon it until, what with the bom- bardment and the malicious aid of these wretches, flames burst forth in all directions, not only from the Tuileries, the palaces of the Legion of Honour, of the Council of State, of the Court of Accounts, but even from the Palais Royal and the Hotel de Ville. The fires burst forth simultaneously in all direc- tions ; it was beyond the resources of the city to subdue them until they had completed their work of destruction. Seen through the light of the crimson flames the disc of the pale moon looked red and inflamed, whilst the darkened vault above was lined with sparks of fire marking the course of the shells as they flew from battery to battery. There was no rest for the tired inmates of the little Convent of the Rue de Cloys. Under obe- dience, Sister Marguerite had lain down to repose her weary limbs ; but too much disturbed by the uproar without, and racked with anxiety for the safety of Ma Sceur and her community, who were in the very midst of the heat and strife of the battle, she and all her companions had gradually set aside all thought of sleep. One after another they had risen to pray for a speedy cessation, and for safety for poor Paris and all their friends. Soon they had collected in twos and threes, and were watching with white scared faces through the various little 174 Honour without Renown. windows the reflection upon the now darkened sky of the great raging conflagrations which seemed to arise at once from all points of the compass. Night and darkness carry their own power of augmenting and magnifying the reality of any anxiety or calamity. Our nerves are unstrung, and we tremble with sickening dread in the dark hours at sorrows, trials, or worries which under the glare of broad daylight we can meet unflinchingly and conquer. So, as Sister Marguerite, in her own impulsive way, flew from window to window and gazed with a stricken face at the red firmament above, reflecting in so many places the angry glare of flames below, as she listened to the ponderous roar of cannon and continuous rattle of musketry, inaction became almost unendurable to her, and she longed for the first streak of daylight, when she might sally forth and lend her little aid in the endeavour to still and soothe the unfortunate partakers of the harrowing scenes. In her agitation, and in order to procure a clearer view of what was passing around, she had mounted the stairs and gained the attic window. Opening it quickly, she passed through, and stood for 3 moment upon the flat roof of the Convent. Then, struck with horror at all she saw, she instinctively fell upon her knees and prayed aloud for mercy for all who were in peril or should fall that night. As she knelt there, her hands tightly clasped together, her brave eyes raised, the thought of the poor prisoner in his lonely cell preyed upon her mind, and she almost wept as she besought Heaven to Honour without Renown. 175 .jefriend him speedily. The moonlight shone upon her upturned face, and played upon the folds of her habit, as in an attitude of entreaty she knelt. Small wonder, then, that as he slept the prisoner smiled : for far above his dull, sad surroundings, borne up by the prayers of others, soared his now unfettered mind ; and by his side his guardian spirit stood, ever ready to ward off the Evil One, and to whisper words of hope and faith ; and low he bowed, in reverent love and gratitude, as he caught the prayers of her who kept the midnight vigil for his precious charge. Ever and anon Sister Marguerite's thoughts flew to the bedsides of her own special charges, and frequently her gaze wandered in the direction of Madame Corbette's domicile. There had been some stiff fighting near, but the Communists had vacated their posts and had fled panic-stricken in every direction, while every now and again shells from the captured batteries followed their flight, 11 putting in imminent peril my poor little cottage," thought the nun, as she strained her eyes once more in that direction. " God grant that it at least may be spared." Filled with an overwhelming anxiety the Superioress rang a bell, and thus summoned her small community around her. " They would retire to the little oratory," she said, "and await in prayer the return of day." It was still but early dawn when, in answer to urgent calls at the Convent gate, she allowed her Sisters to depart on their different errands of charity. To each she imparted stringent orders, 176 Honour without Renown. with grave instructions as to care and prudence in running no unnecessary risks. When all the others had departed, one alone remained, and this was Sister Marguerite. Was she to be the only one left unemployed ? Truly she hoped not ; for in her present frame of mind inactivity was the one thing she dreaded most. Turning at last towards her, the troubled face of the Superioress beamed suddenly with fresh warmth and kindness. Did she not guess quite easily the impatient zeal that was burning in this little English Sister's heart? Taking her therefore by the hand, she said kindly but reservedly : " Some little time ago there came a most urgent call for you, Sister Marguerite ; but learning that there was great danger on the way, I scarcely deemed the cause worthy of the risk you would run in attending to it. But twice since then has the call been repeated, and I am perplexed as to what to do for the best." "Who is it that needs my aid?" she asked quickly, her expressive eyes full of anxiety. " Only old Madame Corbette. It appears she is seriously worse, and entreats that you may be allowed to visit her. But," said the elder nun, averting her eyes so as to avoid meeting the plead- ing face before her, " she has resisted grace so long I The distance to her abode is too great, and the road thereto is beset with so many dangers that I cannot bring myself to bid you go." "Oh, Sister, think how long Heaven has waitev for this old sinner's return. Remember the years she has lived in avowed separation from God. She Honour without Renown. 177 is very, very old, and it would so gladden my heart to see her make her peace with Him whose very existence she has endeavoured for so long to deny. I am sure Ma Soeur would not refuse me permission to go to her ; we must not lose her after all our striving and patience ! " The sweet face of the young nun looked so eloquent in its pleading that the Superioress was moved to yield a tardy consent, though her heart somewhat misgave her : a foreboding of danger for the young Sister overshadowed her mind. How- ever, duty must give place to sentiment, she thought, as, chasing the evil presentiment from her mind, she repeated her instructions for prudence and caution ; and calling an elderly woman from the kitchen one who had sought refuge and rest in the Convent she desired her to accompany Sister Marguerite ; then blessing her she bade her go in God's name. Having packed with alacrity her little basket of provisions, the young nun moved joyfully forward and hastened towards the door. On opening it, she judged from the partial cessation of warlike sounds that the conflict had, for the time being at least, somewhat abated ; but the air was still heavily laden with the stifling odour of powder smoke, as she and her companion stepped out into the de- serted street. The early morning sun was but rising, streaking the eastern sky with rare and bril- liant splendour, and in the eyes of the hurrying Sister there burned a ray of eager joy, a fit reflec- tion of that light above. What ioy to think that Heaven might not be 178 Honour without Renown. deprived of the soul of the old woman after all ! Poor old Mere Corbette she should yet join her good husband. How Ma Soeur would rejoice when she heard the news ! She must hasten ; the old woman had so little strength left upon which to rely. What if she should chance to be too late after all ! Such thoughts as these followed each other in rapid succession in her mind, forcing her to speed on even more quickly. In one of the groups of pedestrians which she encountered, all bearing more or less a worried, blackened appear- ance, she suddenly recognised the figure of old Pierre. She went straight up to him, and drawing him a little aside, begged of him, in the name of mercy and charity, to direct his steps to the nearest church, and thence to conduct a priest, with all possible speed, to the abode of the dying woman. "It will save time," she argued, "if you go at once and there is none to lose so go, good Pierre go quickly ! and God will bless you." There was no need to urge him more ; what would he not do to serve any of the kind nuns to whom he owed so much ? Saluting her with the gravest respect, he bent his steps without hesitation in the direction of the church. A smile of sudden delight broke across her face. " What if my brother Percy Father de Woodville be sent in answer to the summons," she thought. " He is now there, for his note of yesterday ac- quainted me with the fact. What if God should send him to aid the poor old soul ! Dear Percy ! How beautiful it would be to meet at such a death- bed I " Honour without Renown. 179 "Sister Marguerite!" cried her companion, "I am growing old, and cannot run as you do : kindly let me pause for breath. I am almost exhausted from the fatigue of hurrying so. Here, come this way," she gasped, suddenly jerking the unsuspect- ing nun round a sharp bend in the street. " See you not those ruffians ahead of us?" continued the woman sharply. "We must hide in this deserted yard until they have passed. Have you so soon forgotten your promise to be cautious? " The woman was only too thankful for the oppor- tunity to rest and breathe, but the quick spirit of Sister Marguerite chafed inwardly at the enforced delay. " Oh dear, oh dear would they ever reach the poor old woman in time?" It was fully ten minutes before the motley mob of soldiers, with their prisoners and the usual gaping crowd, had passed, leaving the street once more in comparative quiet ; then with a kind and merry word of apology to her now pacified companion, on sped the Sister again, faster than before. The poor woman gave it up as hopeless ; and running after her, clutched tightly hold of the nun's habit. "The weight of me will steady her a little," she argued to herself ; " I must do something since she will not listen to reason." Sister Marguerite was compelled to laugh when she felt the full weight of the drag brought to bear upon her, and endeavoured to still her anxiety and accommodate her pace to that ot her companion. " What a terrible old slow-coach she is ! " was her mental observation. " But it is yet early ; perhaps, after all, I may be in time." 180 Honour without Renown. They were well outside the city walls now, amidst the deserted houses, when Sister Marguerite suddenly stopped, and raising her hands in horroi and alarm, exclaimed : " My God, what is that ! My cottage on fire ! Oh, cease to hold me, good Melanie, and fly with me. Nay, do not detain me," she urged, springing from the woman's grasp and dropping the basket on the shattered pavement. " Carry that for me, and follow as quickly as you can ! My patients where are they? Kind Heaven, where are they? " she cried in alarm, as she flew down the rough, uneven street, and round the corner of the next. " Would anyone have remembered these poor creatures and have gone to their aid in time? Was it, indeed, her cottage, or was it some building close to it that was ablaze ? Sweet Jesu, help them," she cried as, almost breathless, she still ran on. One moment more and she would be within sight of the burning pile. CHAPTER XVIII. BANDS of desperate fanatics had been driven bacK in search of refuge and shelter towards that quarter in which was sheltered the small homestead of Mere Corbette ; and in order to revenge themselves more fully for their defeat they were determined to wreck everything of value that still remained. And so it came to pass that fiendish women of the Commune, wild with the madness of disappointed rage, as- sisted and urged their confederates to commit the blackest deeds of cruelty. Not only did they aid in setting fire to the best part of the city, but they were more than suspected of endeavouring by diabolical contrivances to poison the troops. When the sun arose above the horizon, sending its brilliant rays in majestic splendour through the confines of the gilded clouds, there flew from mouth to mouth the news of the cruel and sacrilegious deed that had been perpetrated by those lawless wretches. They had struck where they knew the blow would be most keenly felt. In cold blood they had led out the Archbishop and many of his priests, and had shot them down like dogs. What cared they now what befell the town, since the cause was lost for which they had fought so desperately! So, as they sought escape by flight 1 82 Honour without Renown. from their enraged pursuers, every here and there they stayed their course and fired whatever they deemed worth the trouble ; and thus it came to pass that they judged the big vacant buildings near Madame Corbette's tiny residence worthy of a light. A fresh strong wind was rising rapidly ; it fanned the angry flames and carried aloft the blackening smoke ; in its strength it bore sparks and fragments of smouldering timber, of window frames and burning beams ; and some of these it dropped upon the small dry roof below, where they found quick and ready occupation in the ancient fabric of the little cottage. The wreckers laughed and jeered as they passed on. Only one seemed to remember then that the little tenement sheltered a confederate of their own a nephew of hers, who, when he suddenly realised the danger that threatened his old aunt, rushed into the cottage, and half dragged, half carried the weak and suffering woman to a place of safety in an adjoining building. There having laid her, roughly enough, upon the floor of an empty room, he left her half-dazed now with fright and exhaustion, to the tender mercies of any one who would minister to her ; and himself rushed off to a more secure place of retreat. A small group of idle watchers had collected near the burning buildings, interested for the time being in the conflagration, and speculating as to the probability of the fire's spreading rapidly amid the ruins, when almost breathless, but with a firm, set look upon her face, Sister Marguerite arrived upon Honour without Renown. 183 the scene. They stared blankly at her as, seizing the hand of the man nearest to her, she asked anxiously whether the inmates of that little cottage had been rescued. "I don't know," said the man, turning rudely aside. "It's not my business to rescue foolhardy folks from situations like this. What right have people to endanger their lives by living in such places at times like these ? " She did not wait to hear his answer out, but walked quickly forward towards the cottage, which each moment appeared to be more clearly encircled by the belt of flames. They seemed to arise from the back ; and blown by the gusty wind, one half the crimson circle had already reached the creepers on the wooden porch, and greedy tongues of fire were darting over the open doorway. "Come back! Come back at once, Sister!" cried a man from the group ; and he grasped her vigorously by the shoulders. " You shall not advance further. I tell you the old dame is safe. She is not here ; I saw her rescued and carried to safer quarters. If you do not believe me, come and see for yourself." "It is true, dear Sister; my good man speaks well. The woman is quite safe. It was her nephew who rescued her ; we both saw him do it. You must not advance further." "But my patient, the Englishman !" cried the nun, turning pale with fear and excitement, "where is he? Ah, you cannot say ! No one has thought of him. He must not be deserted and left to perish. His life is of value, I tell you. Loose 1 84 Honour without Renown. your hold of me, I insist upon it ! He has lost his limbs for France : he cannot aid himself. I will not be detained! Come with me if you will, and do not waste the precious moments." "Ah, he's safe enough, I'll warrant," answered the man significantly, though somewhat averting his head, so as to avoid meeting her penetrating gaze. In so doing he relinquished his firm grasp of her shoulder, but retained a close grip of her hand while his wife held on to the other. " Safe ! " she echoed ironically, as with one foot advanced she stood a prisoner between them whilst her eyes with fearless courage measured the imminent danger before her "safe 1 yes, his poor helpless body is hopelessly enough hemmed around by those devouring flames. But his soul ! It may be in peril. Loose your hold, I say," and she struggled to be free. " Is there not a man among you," she cried, " who for the honour of France will lend a hand to rescue a fellow soul from destruction one, too, who* has risked his life to save her citizens?" "Listen to reason !" shouted the man, angered by her continued resistance. "Behold the flames'. You cannot enter the cottage now. Are you not already half deafened by the fall of timber and the crackle of fire? If your patient is still within, he must be stifled and dead ere this. And if not well, of what good is he? He is feeble, maimed, and helpless ; you yourself have told us so." "But he is an English man /" cried the Sister, is with a supreme effort she freed herself from their grasp, and rushed through the living flames Honour without Renown. 185 to the rescue of her countryman. So much de- pended upon her patient's life. It was for all their sakes she did it, and 11 Never king- nor conqueror's brow, Wore higher look than hers did now." CHAPTER XIX. SINCE the evening hour when his gentle nurse had left his side, Manfred had not closed his eyes in sleep. The terrible and warlike voices raging around would alone have sufficed to rob him of all power to rest or slumber ; but apart from any external interruption, his soul was so racked and storm-tossed that, in the cruel but salutary conflict going on within, he paid at first little heed to the clamour without. As in the last moments (accord- ing to current belief) of a drowning man, each and every incident of his life was portrayed plainly before him. Before his mind's vision stood forth those de- grading acts of boyish envy and selfishness which had been the first means of depriving his brother of his due his uncle's love and trust. Thence sprang those horrible deeds of black injustice and perjury, by which he had basely wrecked another's life receiving what in return? A usurped inherit- ance, and a heart which dared not seek its God, and from which peace seemed for ever banished. Oh, foul and dark foul with the presence and pressure of guilt, and dark with the blankness of despair seemed the pages of his life this night. Was the cry of his soul so feeble, so stifled by vice, Honour without Renown. 187 that no echo of it could ever reach the mercy-seat above ? He clasped his hands and raised his burning eyes as he called on Heaven to witness his repentance. To prove his sincerity he would confess all ; he would undo the past and would henceforth stand before his fellow-creatures without disguise. "I will take upon myself all oppro- brium and blame. I will show the world the unvarnished villain that I am ! And Edmund, poor Edmund, you shall have your revenge at last! For it shall be even as she said it should be. What were her words? 'Heaven and earth must bear witness to the sincerity of Harold's repentance ere he may hope to obtain mercy.' Yes, these were her words, and they shall be fulfilled. Kind, gentle little nurse, ihe noble yet sweet spirit that pervades your inmost soul has conquered mine, and the thought of your pure and spotless life will give me nerve to face the worst. The most cruel prison could never surpass or equal the torture I have sustained of late. Ah, I shall have one solace in my lonely hours of degradation. She will be sorry for me ; she will pray for her repentant patient ! and Heaven will hear and grant her prayers, though it should be deaf to mine." "The stranger is worse to-night," thought Jeanne, as she paused to listen to the unintelligible sounds which issued from the other room. " I wonder what is wrong with him now? _ His voice is ex- pressive of great distress : yet if I demand kindly what grieves him, he does not answer me, but con- tinues to rave in his own harsh and unintelligible language. I suppose it is the way with these '4 1 88 Honour without Renown. rough foreigners. I shall leave him to calm him- self. Well, he is not the only one in trouble. How restless even is my old aunt ! She calls incessantly for Sister Marguerite ; and how ill she looks ! I never saw anyone before look so like death and live. There, she calls the Sister again I Yes, yes, aunt : I will go in search of her. They neither of them require my immediate care," she pondered, "and I long to know what is going on outside." So glancing to assure herself that, ac- cording to her aunt's desire, the key was turned in the door which separated the two rooms, and glad of an opportunity to allay her curiosity, she stole quietly out, closing the door behind her. The mind of Manfred was diverted from the contemplation of his own misery for a moment as he listened to the perpetual cry of the old woman. There was a ring in her cracked voice which he had never heard before, expressive of humility and sorrow, as she persisted in her entreaties. "Sister Marguerite! Dear, kind Sister Mar- guerite, where are you ? Why do you not come to me? I am old, and so feeble and ill : I want you. I hear the voice of my husband : he calls me, and bids me tell you to hasten." "And do I not need her too?" thought Manfred. " Yes, indeed ; for I will conceal from her my name and guilt no longer. She will be just perhaps more severe but she will also be wise. Edmund shall know and bless her too ; for to her he shall owe his freedom. Until the moment of her return I will endeavour to curb my impatience by repeating those sweet prayers she taught me." Honour without Renown. 189 And as he did so, the unrest and disquiet within him seemed to grow less and less, until at last they almost vanished, leaving him tranquil and hopeful. As his peace of mind increased he became more conscious of the continuous and gnawing pain in his foot. He endeavoured to relieve the aching limb by constantly changing its position within the narrow couch. Then the strange sounds outside attracted and perplexed him. What was going to be the upshot of it all, he wondered. Now it was the roar .of cannon which distracted him, now the crack of artillery. A few moments ago it was far off, now it is much closer ; nay, the small roof above him vibrated with that last shock What would he not give to be able to watch the event? It was a terrible punishment for one of his tem- perament to be forced to lie thus inert. Would the pale moon never set? Would the day never dawn? How long and weary were the hours growing ! For a time there seemed to be a lull in the conflict, and Manfred was grateful for it. It is one thing to be up and able to aid one's self in such a crisis ; it is totally different when, bedridden and helpless, we must serve but as a target to two conflicting parties. Now there drew nigh, increasing each instant and gaining power and force as it advanced, the sound as of a seething multitude : not the rhythmic tramp-tramp of a [regiment, but, as it were, the bursting forth of savage waters, came this wild con- course of human beings, rushing onward without order or reason. Closer and closer it came, this flood of unruly pattering feet. Soon he could 190 Honour without Renown. distinguish the shrieking 1 voices of fanatical women, blended with the frightened cry of children and the more surly, defiant tones of men. How quickly they swept along ! The foremost were even now passing the cottage door. Madame Corbette has ceased her cries. Is she listening, too? Oh, the rush of mingled sounds as the multitude scuttles past ! Whilst the first frantic roll of the boisterous human billow is fading and dying in the distance, the rear of it has halted and broken its force upon the untenanted breakers near. There is something weird and uncanny in its movements now a stealthy creeping sound. They are dragging wood and combustible debris, and piling them round the ruins. It is still too dark to see ; the moon has hidden her face beneath a cloud ; but following the sounds with a sudden keenness of perception this is what Manfred surmises. If so good God what will be their next move? He hears their quick stealthy tread beneath the casement, but the blind is drawn closely down ; it is dark, and he is helpless ! There is a pause of five minutes. Things seem quieter now ; perhaps all occasion for fear is over. He breathes more evenly. But what is that sudden darkness, as of a black pall, which falls upon the window-pane, enveloping every familiar object in the little room. He grows paler as once more he raises his head, watches, and listens. It is lifting a little now, and flashes, as of dusky lightning, shoot across the window-panes. The light increases rapidly ; soon very soon it glows a livid red ; Honour without Renown. 191 and there is a spluttering, crackling sound, and the noise of men's voices has ceased. Good heavens ! Is it possible that they have set fire to something near? There is no mistaking the sound of a. conflagration now. The roar and glare of the flames, as they mount higher and higher, the stifling smell of smoke, which penetrates every crevice of the cottage walls, proves his terrible surmises to be correct. There is a box of matches, also a little candle by his side, but there is now no need for either, the small apartment is lit up all too brilliantly by the red flames outside. He seizes his watch and discovers that it still wants a quarter to three ; there are several hours yet before his kind nurse is due. Even then, will she be allowed to come? The roads are, indeed, unfit for her to traverse ; and if she should come, what will have happened before her arrival ! He wiped the great beads of perspiration from his brow, and trembled at the dread prospect before him. "Jeanne! Jeanne!" he crie^ } "where are you?" And at the sound of his own voice he started : it was so hollow and unnatural. There comes no response to his call ; the old woman, too, is silent ; yet all the while the fearful sounds outside continue, and the roar of the flames increases as the breeze fans them. He strains eyes and ears, gazing and listening intently. Help is arriving. Hark ! The outer door is burst rudely open, and the scuffle of men's feet upon the floor is discernible. Heaven be thanked ! " Help ! Help ! " he cried in English, forgetting 192 Honour without Renown. in his fright every other manner of speech. But his voice was drowned in that of Madame Corbette's, whom her nephew is dragging from her bed. "Help! Help! for God's sake do not forget me," he cried again. 'I am helpless, and cannot aid myself ! Do not leave me here to die ! " But if they hear they do not heed him, and the cries of the old woman grow more and more indistinct as she is carried away into the street. He listened half-dazed to the last faint sounds of retreating voices and steps ; then with a cry of depair, sank back upon the pillow and wept for very misery and weakness. Sickness had sharpened his apprehension, and he realised to the full the horror of his situation. The cottage is surrounded by living flames, and he, Harold Manfred, the traitor, upon whose worthless life so much de- pended, was left alone to perish, to die amidst the sharpest suffering. Now it was that the demon of despair visited him, and the sublime lessons taught by the gentle nun came to his aid. Why not relieve his feelings and die like a man who fears nothing? Why not die cursing fate, and the All-mighty Power which thus led and held him to it? But by some mysterious power the evil words which in former times had started so glibly to his lips have now all fled from his memory. Only the sacred refrain, the soft rhythm of the short prayers which he had learnt, and had repeated so frequently that night, recurred to his scared and agitated brain. He felt willing to lie and await death where he was, but he must not do so. For the sake of his brother, if not for himself, he must Honour without Renown. make an effort. All he longed for now was to confess his own guilt and plead his brother's inno- cence. The shock had stilled all bodily pain ; and throwing back the bed-clothes, he reached the floor with his hands and fell upon his one remaining knee. A feeling of faintness almost overpowered him, but with a superhuman effort he contrived to creep a yard or two ; then, his strength failing him, he fell prostrate. The noise and the bitter stench of smouldering wood again roused him to action. With scared eyes he now observed thin smoke issuing from the floor and skirting-board over which stood his little bed. Another effort and he might reach the door. Might Heaven aid him. Upon his feeble hands and his knee slowly so slowly he crept along. Never before had the room appeared so spacious. At last he reached the door. Leaning against it he rose upon his injured knee, and grasped the handle. Frantically he twisted and shook it ; alas, it yielded not to his most strenuous efforts : and with all its force of sickening fright the truth flashed upon him. The door was locked on the other side. Alone unaided he must perish thus ! Once more despair beset him. After all, of what avail was hope or trust in God if a terrible death like this awaited him ? Crawling back a pace or two from the door, and sinking into a helpless heap, he drew the folds of his dressing-gown more closely around him and, supporting his distracted head against the wall, clasped his hands together and sat staring like one demented, waiting, as he thought, 194 Honour without Renown. for Sister. The sweet refrain still echoed in his ears, and issued from his parched and pallid lips : " My God, I believe in Thee ; my God, I hope in Thee, and love Thee with all my heart." Only every now and again his prayer alternated with the plaintive cry : " Do not be long, Sister Marguerite, do not be long ! " He did not catch the sound of her soft footfall as she bounded across the outer room ; nor did he discern the sound of the key as, in answer to her touch, it revolved quickly in the lock. But he heard the creak of the door as it turned upon its hinges, revealing as it did so the sweet apparition of his deliverer. Heated and soiled she stood for an instant upon the threshold, peering through the fast-gathering smoke for the object of her search. Overcome as he was with joy and gratitude, yet his strained eyes expressed no surprise at her ap- pearance ; rather there was a look in them of gladdest welcome, which seemed to say, " I knew you would come to save me ; " and though unable to articulate a sound, he held out his hands towards her as a helpless child to its mother. One quick glance around and she instantly grasped the situation ; and a glad Deo gratias rose from her heart when she discovered that she was still in time to save the life upon which so much depended. It was no time for words. Acts, prompt and decisive, could alone avail now. Full well she knew that the house was encircled with scorching flames, that the roof was alight, that her very cornette was scorched and blackened by the flames through which she had dashed, and through which Honour without Renown. 195 she again must pass, this time burdened with a helpless load. But her heart was strong and full of loving faith in God's providence as, silently and rapidly, but with dogged determination, she drew a blanket from the bed and, spreading it upon the floor, she seized the great ewer of water and satu- rated it with its contents. Manfred followed her every action with fevered excitement, much as a drowning man watches the approach of the lifeboat which is hastening to his rescue. So far neither had spoken ; but now, her preparations completed, she turned to him with a bright, hopeful smile, placed her hands beneath his shoulders, and dragged him on to the blanket. " Have courage," she said, "and aid me in my efforts. With God's help I will save you yet ! Make yourself as small as you can, or the blanket will not cover you ! " As she dropped upon her knees, gathering to- gether the four corners of the blanket, he realised, as he had never done before, the sublime worth of charity. His heart was filled with shame. Seizing her hand, he cried : " Sister Marguerite, ere you risk your life further on my behalf, hear me ! You shall know for whom you make this generous sacrifice : there is still time for you to save yourself if you will leave me to the fate I deserve ! " She shook her head and smiled somewhat im- patiently, endeavouring to complete her prepara- tions ; but with the untimely strength of a dying man he held her hand, repeating once more with wildest emphasis : "Listen ! you shall, you must hear me. I 7 196 Honour without Renown. am the scoundrel of whom I told you ; he who for shame's sake I designated Manly is myself, Harold Manfred. It is I who have allowed my brother to pine unjustly in a prison cell Leave me, therefore, to perish, dear Sister ; and hasten, I entreat you, to save yourself and to liberate him ! Oh, why do you look thus pitifully upon me? I swear to you I am not raving ! Why do you not flee ? " Still upon her knees, her face full of energy, her hands grasping tightly the saving blanket, she answered hurriedly : " Long have I known the truth of what you say ; but should you be spared, will you confess to others what you have now told unto me? " "I swear to you in this hour of horror that, should Heaven see fit to save me, I will not rest one day until, before lawful witnesses, 1 have con- fessed all, and done my utmost to undo the past." "Then haste and aid me now. And, for poor Edmund's sake, may God bless you as 1 do I, Sister Marguerite, known to you once as Beatrice de Woodville." " The Lady Beatrice ! " Dropping her hand, he stared wildly at her. " Is it possible?" he groaned. Then, murmuring to himself, as though the an- nouncement had overpowered him with shame, he continued : "Ah, had I not been such a fool I might have known it long ago ! Forgive me for all I have said and done, but remember that with my last breath I bade you fly from me and save yourself." While these sentences were quickly exchanged the apartment was filling fast with smoke. The Honour without Renown. 197 skirting-board beneath Manfred's bed was being rapidly devoured by brisk little tongues of fire ; the glass from the window had cracked and dropped out, the framework was on fire ; the roof was threatening to fall in. Her patient seemed dazed and stupid now. "O God, help me with my task ! " she cried aloud, as half blind and stifled with smoke she knit together the four corners of the blanket and tied a wet handkerchief across her nose and mouth. With both hands she seized the blanket ; then putting forth all her strength, drew the helpless body through the first doorway and across Madame Corbette's room as far as the outer door. Here her passage seemed to be generally barred. The flames had spread and were meeting now upon the upper portion of the wooden porch, so that it was barely possible to creep beneath them and even so, she must leave behind her the helpless man for whom she had ventured so much. She could hear voices outside, and could see the gaping crowd gesticulating wildly. They had done their utmost to prevent her entering the burning building. It was no fault of theirs if she perished, they were assuring Dr. Arno, who, though busily engaged in professional duties, had observed the flames and hurried to the scene. "You stand there gaping, and tell me that some one is still inside ? " he cried savagely. " Yes, yes ! a mad nun : she would go and try to save her countryman." " Great God ! It must be she, none else would do it," he cried ; and rushing close to the burning door 198 Honour without Renown. he called frantically: "Sister Marguerite! Sister Marguerite ! Sister Marguerite ! Are you there?" " Yes, I am close to you, doctor " (for she recog- nised his voice). "For God's sake help me to save my burden! See" falling upon her knees "1 tvill push him out. Do you seize him, for he is half dead, and draw him down the steps. I will follow, if possible." Dr. Arno, though scorched and blackened, seized the helpless roll of humanity ; but in his eagerness to save the brave nun, whose inflamed and crimson hands he could just discern, he gave Manfred but one rough strong pull, leaving it to others to pick him up and attend to him, and clutched the brave little hands to draw her through the flames. Poor little injured hands ! that had wrought so many and such noble deeds of charity they clung to his as he swiftly drew her forth over the burning, heated floor. Even as he did so the upper portion of the old roof ana porch fell in, and some of the debris fell upon her. "She is hurt, but, thank God, she lives ! " cried the doctor in a trembling voice, as he noticed the handkerchief ; and reverently raising her insensible form in his arms, carried her out and away from the smoke and flames. Even as he spoke there arose from that hitherto dazed and frightened crowd such a ringing cheer as rent the air with its exultant tones of joy and admiration. A strange sound to issue from the throats of men on such a day as that I CHAPTER XX. THE echo of that cry startled old Pierre as, with gaping mouth and wide open eyes, he hurried on his way, guiding the priest to (he site of what was once old Mere Corbette's abode. " Father, we are too late ! " he cried, throwing up his arms in horror and despair. " All is over, and the place is in flames. What terrible times are these ! " But the young priest heard him not. He had halted by an improvised stretcher and was on his knees beside it, gazing into the sweet face of his own, his only sister, his once wild, merry little Bertie ! The bystanders knew at a glance that he had come prepared to administer the last Sacraments, and reverently and instinctively they had fallen back as he pressed forward. There was a look in the startled gaze of the young priest, as he bent over the apparently inanimate form of his sister, and a likeness between them so plainly stamped upon their features, that even Dr. Arno, eager and impatient as he was to have his patient carried to safe shelter, and himself to attend to her wants, paused and made room for the stranger priest. It was three years since the brother and sister 2oo Honour without Renown. had seen each other, and was it thus they met at last ! Father de Woodville's quick eye took in the burnt and blackened cornette, which, however, had preserved unhurt the head within it. He saw the crimson, swollen hands, the charred sleeves, the damaged habit ; but the wet kerchief had preserved the kind features. " Is she seriously hurt?" he asked, quickly and nervously. "No, I trust not," answered the doctor. u But delay might prove serious. It is in consequence of her efforts to save the life of another that she lies thus ! Let us move on, I beg. She shall want for nothing. I will attend to her myself, for I know her well." "So do I," said the priest, rising proudly, "for she is my only sister." Then tenderly bending over her once more, he whispered in her ears : " May God have you in His holy care, dear Bertie ! Fear nothing ! for I, your brother Percy, am by your side." She seemed to recognise the voice, for a faint, glad smile rippled her lips. Then she murmured uneasily: "Seek the Englishman ! 'Tis imperative that you see him. Go to him ! He must confess Unable to finish the sentence she relapsed into another swoon. "Whom does she mean?" inquired the priest. " Why, the useless creature whom she rescued. It appears as if she knows some mystery concerning him. Move on, my men, and dally no longer. She is our first care. I will take her to the Convent in the Rue des Cloys. And do you, Father, find Honour without Renown. 201 the English stranger, as she desires he may be dead ere this I know not then follow us. There must be something urgent in the case, or she would not be so persistent in her desires." Father de Woodville felt the truth of the doctor's words ; but it was with a heavy heart that he saw the little procession move solemnly forward, and himself turn in search of his countryman, for whom his sister had risked so much. " He may be dying," he thought. " It is my duty to seek him, and aid her in her charity." " Is it the wounded foreigner that you seek?" questioned a woman near the same who had sought to deter Sister Marguerite from entering the burning cottage. I know where he is, my Father, and will gladly lead you to him. There are two of them dying together. Come quickly, then, and follow me ! " The woman, delighted to get the services of a priest at last, hurried on nimbly enough over the broken and uneven pavements, followed in silence by Father Basil, who appeared serious and ab- sorbed. She led him into the interior of a deserted house which otherwise was not so dilapidated as its neighbours. There, in one corner of a room which once had served as the dining-room, stretched upon an old mattress, and covered with a torn flag left behind them by the fugitives, lay old Madame Corbette. For hours she had been raving in wildest impatience, chafing at her sufferings and her lot ; but when Father de Woodville drew near, and, touching her, spoke kindly but authoritatively 2O2 Honour without Renown. to her, she ceased her cries, and fixing her small, black eyes upon his countenance, stared long and curiously at him. " Be quiet ! " he said gently. " Sister Marguerite is ill ; she cannot come to you, but has sent me in her place. I am her brother, and a priest. For her sake, let me do for you what I can ; for you are very ill, and are not fit to meet the good God with such language on your lips as I heard just now." She liked his face, and could scarcely withdraw her aged eyes from it ; there was something so familiar in the aspect and expression of his features, ^nd his voice pleased and soothed her. Then in a fretful tone she said : " Slater Marguerite is ill, you say? Poor little soul !" Tears came into her scorched old eyes as she continued : " So she is ill, is she ! Will she die ? Then will I not fear to die also, for she would come to my aid. She is good she is an angel ! Would that I were like her ! " " Be like her, then," he said kindly, seating himself on an old wooden box by her side. "There is yet time to ask for mercy. But " turning to the woman " Where is the Englishman ? " " On the other side of that door, in another room. He is but just recovering consciousness. I will go and attend to him while you do all you can for the old woman, who we feared would die long ere this. She is a special patient of Sister Marguerite's, and has been a vile old wretch in her time ; but she is, I hope, repentant now." Father Basil nodded, and signed to the woman to leave them. The large window of the apartment Honour without Renown. 203 was destitute of glass, and the voices of the passers- by were carried in on the fresh morning breeze ; but the inmates were far too occupied to heed them. The room spoke of the most abject misery and desolation, but to the eye of faith it was filled with the richest and mightiest mystery of God's goodness. Left by themselves the priest and penitent wasted not the precious moments, for, for one of them, the sands of life had nearly run out. No more wild or incoherent words escaped now from the white lips of the dying woman ; and, as some- times happens during the last hour of life, her intellect was clearer and steadier than it had been for many a day. Few of the passers-by paused to look in at the vacant window, and those who did showed no surprise. It had grown such a familiar sight for months past that of a priest bending over the sick and dying in the open squares, the streets, and wherever else their fellow-creatures were falling that if they paused to look at all they but muttered a prayer, or it might be bowed reverently, and moved on. But the rays of the bright morning sun, as they stole into the bare dismantled room, flooding it with a golden light, were but a figure of the sweet silent streams of grace as they flowed into that hardened old sinner's heart, filling it with penitential sorrow. It was surely in direct answer to long enduring patience and persistent prayer that the power of realising so keenly the true state of her soul was bestowed upon the aged woman. As she heard the patter of men's feet passing to 15 204 Honour without Renown. and fro, she knew that soon the echo of their footsteps would be unheard and unheeded by her. Then who would pause to breathe a prayer or cast u thought or care upon the poor turbulent spirit ot the old fanatic? Ah, there was one perhaps there were two who would surely stay their steps, and kneeling for a moment would pray at the lonely graveside of old Mere Corbette. Sister Marguerite and Ma Soeur would not forget her. But time was slipping away from her : a few precious moments only remained in which to make reparation for a whole lifetime. The proud, hard spirit seemed broken at last ; and when the words of absolution sounded in her ears, they fell upon a soul penetrated with a deep humility and the sense of guilt. She listened entranced, as it were, to the voice of the priest as he blessed her, and bade her soul " depart in peace." How peaceful and repent- ant beyond her apparent deserts was the soul of the old woman as she thanked God and blessed Ma Soeur and Sister Marguerite for all their un- wearied patience in her regard. "Ask them to pray for me, Father! Tell them that through their prayers I died repentant al last." And raising her feeble hand to make the saving sign, she fell helplessly back: the soul of the old woman had fled to the judgment seat. Father de Woodville closed her eyes and folded the worn old arms across her breast. He smoothed decently the crumpled limbs ; and kneeling, prayed awhile beside the lonely body. Then rising, he sighed as he recollected that there was still another duty to perform ere he would be at liberty to follow Honour without Renown. 205 his sister. But they were her special patients, and he must not begrudge the time. Taking one last survey of the now desolate room, he crossed the floor and opened the door leading to the adjoining apartment. The woman rose as he entered, saying, "Take this chair, Father; perhaps you may be able t$ comprehend what he says : I cannot. He is re- covering now, but talks so incoherently I know not vhat he means." CHAPTER XXI. FATHER DE WOODVILLE advanced and took his stand beside the old wooden bedstead, upon which they had laid Manfred. Taking one of his wasted hands he felt his pulse ; then he laid his other upon the sufferer's brain. "Go at once for wine or milk, good woman ; foi he is faint, and his lips are parched with thirst He is exhausted and must have sustenance." She bustled off, saying that " she wondered indeed where she should find it " ; but she had not proceeded far before she met old Pierre hurrying forward. Dr. Arno, with great fore- thought, had stopped on his way to the Convent, and had procured restoratives for the sick patients, charging the old man to deliver them into th< hands of the priest. Manfred groaned a muttered something incohe- rently as Father Basil poured some wine through his parched lips. But it was not long before he opened his eyes wearily ; then, as he met the gaz? of the priest bent full upon him, the two men looked long and curiously at each other. " Who can he be ? " pondered the priest. " Poor fellow, he is but a wreck of what once he must Honour without Renown. 207 have been ; and yet and yet long ago I have surely known someone like him Who was it?" "Who is he?" puzzled Manfred, fixing his large brown eyes upon the features of the priest. " Are my eyes bewitched ? " he asked trembling, " or does this man show a face like hers? I dare not ask if she herself is saved ? How could I bear the answer if they were to tell me that she has perished? perished that I might be saved. And yet I cannot endure this agony of suspense." He relaxed his gaze for a moment and heaved such a painful sigh that Father Basil once more laid his hand kindly on that of Manfred, saying gently : " You are very tired. Your heart is ill at ease ! Come, do not sigh so hopelessly, but confide in me, and tell me how I can aid you." His words, his look, his very manner of speech JLnd touch reminded Manfred so forcibly of Sister Marguerite that he stared more anxiously ; and though he gasped audibly in his endeavour to speak, no word passed his lips. "You look," resumed the priest, " as though there were something in my appearance which fills you with astonishment. Pray what can it be that strikes you speechless?" "Who who are you? "at last gasped the sick man, wiping the perspiration from his brow. " I am Father Basil, a Benedictine monk ; and have been sent especially to your relief and assist- ance." " But who sent you? for I know neither priest nor monk ; and why tell me why you are the image of her whose very name I dare not cannot 208 Honour without Renown. breathe : for, alas, I know not whether she live? Or the cruel flames have devoured her! But this tiuch I do know : whilst the flames raged wildly Around us, in the midst of their fury I divined her name, her image Then I seemed to see to know and understand the sublimity of her calling. A.nd to sav me she willingly and nobly riskej ner life!" The colour rose to Father de Woodville's brow as he heard Manfred's words, emphasising the like* ness between brother and sister. Their bowing his head, he said : ''Thank God, she who by her chat itable exen lions saved your life still lives; though for how long He who preserved her alone knows." Manfred listened breathlessly, as though his frail life hung upon the words ; then, when Father Basil ceased speaking, he burst into a paroxysm of tears, sobbing for relief and gratitude. "There now, you must be brave, and not let toy kill you outright ; though, of course, it is but natural that you should feel grateful to Sister Marguerite for all that she has done for you." "Grateful! Oh the word is cold no words can ever express my feelings. Had you sinned as deeply as I had you endured the remorse which I have suffered you would be better able to judge what she has done for me. But tell me yet another thing. Who sent you to my aid ? Did she ? If so, then you are more than welcome, Father ! " And the poor wasted hand sought and grasped, with all its little strength, that of Father Basil. Honour without Renown. 209 " Listen, Father. I have a solemn vow to fulfil a vow made to her in our direct moment of peril. You first shall hear the confession I have to make ; for it shall be public. Vou shall listen : but you must not pity, nor must you spare me! I have done wrong ! So bitterly have I wronged another that I am prepared to suffer any penalty in atonement. I have told her all, and she is just : she bids me make compensation." "There gently ! gently!" said the priest sooth- ingly ; for he noted how wild and excited the sick man was becoming. " By-and-byeyou shall tell me all. Meanwhile, try and recuperate your strength, and take some nourishment. Like you, I am feeling somewhat tired and faint ; for as yet I have not broken my fast this morning." "Alas, I cannot eat; I am not hungry. But to gain the necessary strength to fulfil my vow, I will take all the sustenance that I am able ; perhaps it may help to still the wild throbbings of my heart. Only, as we are thus quietly together, tell me yet one thing more. Did Sister Marguerite ask you personally to come to my aid?" "She did. 1 came to her assistance; and she bid me go in search of you. God knows, it cost me much to leave her ; for we had not met for years, and I am her brother." "Her brother! You her brother! and a De Woodville! " stammered Manfred, endeavouring to raise himself upon his arms and thus gain a clearer view of his companion. " Ah, that is why you are so like her ; and you would not say it if it were not true. No, I see it written in your face. That it 2io Honour without Renown. was which unmanned me when first I saw you the close resemblance between you. Her brother ! Oh, thrice happy man ! Had she been my sister, never had I been thus ! " Once again the blood dyed the brow and neck of the young priest, but he spoke not a word ; for few knew how dear to him had always been his affec- tionate, merry little sister ! and his heart throbbed nervously as he thought of her now, perhaps dying, having given her life for another he not near to aid her. There was a long pause, during which Father Basil fed, soothed, and comforted the invalid. But when the feverish light had some- what faded from his eyes, it was plainly to be seen how we^k, exhausted, and emaciated the sick man was. " How terribly he must have suffered !" thought the watcher. "He cannot last long. And yet from what I gather he has a statement of import- ance to unfold ere he leaves this world for ever. For dear Bertie's sake I must do for him what I can whilst life lasts. You are very tired, my friend," he said, turning to Manfred; "will you rest awhile? After that you will be better able to think and speak, and tell me all that troubles you." "Yes, I am very tired ; but I have been thinking even now. It is strange how clearly I can recall to my mind events which before I had almost forgotten. Some few years ago, when your sister was a bright, beautiful schoolgirl, I encountered her, and incurred her displeasure ; for which I received the prompt reprimand I deserved. But even as, snubbed and cowed, I stood before hr.r, Honour without Renown. 211 some instinct made me feel that, though strangers, a day would dawn, sooner or later, when we should meet again, and she would play an active part in my destiny ! " "This is all very strange," soliloquised Fathe* Basil, somewhat wearily ; "and yet, after all, it is often wise to allow sick men to ramble on as they list. There are frequent snatches of truth in their ravings, from which one may catch a clearer vision of their character and history. He scarcely seems to recognise my presence at all, poor fellow, as he rambles on to himself." "Never had I seen a face before," continued Manfred, breathing heavily, "which revealed in its intensity of expression such high-souled purity and generosity of purpose. I inquired her parentage, and learned with no surprise of the noble race from which she sprang ; but for six years I was preoccupied by a basely dishonest scheme. My avarice and greed being in a measure satiated, everything having turned out according to my wishes and endeavours, I found leisure to trace out the destiny of her whom I felt to be the very antithesis of myself. One day I found myself in an old country town close beside her home, and there I made the necessary inquiries. I learned that the beautiful young lady of whom I spoke had made a rare hash of her life ; she had committed a most foolish and irreparable act one which would close to her the doors of her home for ever. Also that a brother of hers had first set her the pernicious example ; and that the behaviour of the two of them was a sore blow to their family. Filled with 212 Honour without Renown. rage and disappointment I risked no more inquiries, but turned from my informant and hurriedly left the place. " Never more could I believe in virtue again ! There was no such thing in the world. After all, my life was no worse than my neighbours. So I tried to persuade myself, and had almost succeeded when (to make the story as short as possible), after a long and weary illness in a foreign country, I opened my eyes to see a strange face so sweet and gracious in its pitiful charity, as it bent over me, that once more I was spell-bound. In spite of myself, I was forced to own that perhaps, after all, disinterested virtue might exist on earth." Several times during this recital Father Basil frowned, and a look of annoyance had flitted across his face ; but he said nothing, allowing Manfred to Tamble on as he listed, hoping that the exertion of talking and thinking might weary the man and cause him to fall into the sleep he so much needed. " But I was hardened," continued Manfred. " How could I recognise in the patient nun before me the proud girl who had once so deeply im- pressed me? In my heart of hearts I tried to despise her calling ; I treated her with scorn even as a menial ; and she but smiled, and redoubled her charitable exertions. If I spoke or boasted of wealth and power, she turned upon me eyes rilled with pity and compassion ; so, baffled and beaten, I ceased to speak. I watched and studied her. I measured my life by hers. Of wealth she had none, yet she wanted for nothing; I had made huge sacrifices to attain happiness, and yet had Honour without Renown. 213 never for one instant grasped it. What had she done to win it ? For whether well or sick, weary or gay, peace, joy, and serenity lived in her heart and shone from her countenance. There is much lo tell, Father ; but I am growing weary and my voice is tired. I was stubborn and hard to conquer, Dut at last I am totally subdued. If I fall asleep," hurmured the sick man faintly, " I shall not sleep for long, and should you leave me, return again loon ; for I have still my vow to fulfil, and cannot rest until it is accomplished. How strange it all Beems to me now ; she might well wish me to /inger as I spoke of Baron Court. Little did I dream whom I was then addressing." His voice grew gradually slower and weaker, until at last it entirely ceased, and he fell into a heavy sleep. In a few minutes Father Basil arose quietly, and finding old Pierre, bade him watch by the sick- man's side until his return. "I shall not be long," he said ; " I go to see Sister Marguerite. But should the sufferer awake, and call for me, send a messenger to acquaint me instantly of the fact." CHAPTER XXII. FATHER BASIL DE WOODVILLE lost no time in traversing the distracted streets. He knew well where the little Convent stood, and chose the shortest cuts and least frequented route. He passed many groups of excited men and women ; but, serious and preoccupied, he was neither noticed nor accosted by any of them. His face had lost its early freshness ; the once laughing- eyes looked darker, steadier, more thoughtful ; and the features bore a more marked and manly appearance. There was, in fact, an expression of thought and purpose about his person and bearing in contrast with the sunny, careless Percy of old. His was a face that to see was to trust. His quick, impatient knock at the Convent door was answered by Ma Sceur in person, who, hurriedly sent for by the younger Superioress, had just arrived to find her dearly loved Sister Marguerite not only terribly ill, but unconscious also. "How is she, Sister?" inquired the priest in a low tone, as he paused an instant within the little passage and scanned the nun's face anxiously. Ma Sceur's face expressed more concern than she was aware of as she shook her head and replied : " I Honour without Renown. 215 fear that she is very ill. Come and see for your- self ; she is in the little parlour." They entered the darkened room on tiptoe ; and whilst Father Basil took the proffered chair beside the improvised bed, Ma Sceur stood at the foot of it, and looked gravely and steadily at them both. Her heart was full of sorrow and sympathy for the brother, as she noted the spasm that passed over his countenance and the strong effort he made to subdue his feelings as, bending low, he gazed fondly and sorrowfully at the sweet flushed face resting so calmly and helplessly before them. Neither was surprised to see her thus, for both knew full well how strongly governed by generous impulses was the heart of their favourite ; and that if duty or charity called for her aid, Sister Mar- guerite would never hesitate or weigh the cost to herself. She was one of the very few who knew how to give to God, and never count the cost. Still, the blow had fallen suddenly at last, and their hearts ached while they trembled for the issue. For a long time the brother bent over the suffer- ing form of his sister. His heart was too full for words as he listened to her painful breathing and recalled to his mind the days when the proud high- minded girl was wont to rebuke, pet, or coax him, just as the fancy seized her, and they two were almost all in all to each othe r . " Poor little Bertie ! " he murmured ; and yec he was never prouder of her than now, when she lay there, a martyr to charity. Would she be per- mitted to rally and know him? It was a terrible trial to meet her thus, after all their anticipated 216 Honour without Renown. pleasure in a reunion ; and fearfully in earnest he looked when, as though moved by some strong internal impulse, and oblivious of all around, he sank upon his knees by her side, and, covering his face with his hands, cried out in the agony of his soul, " My God, she is Thine ! May Thy holy will be done !" Oh, words fraught with such sublime and heroic power, and yet oft-times so hard to utter ! There is a soothing balm in the very agony wherewith you wring the hearts of men as they breathe you raising and ennobling us, making saints of the most abandoned, and drawing us all very near to God. When Father Basil rose from his knees it was with the dew of a sweet submission filling his heart, and strongly resolved to endure without a murmur the decrees of Heaven. His eyes were dry, he spoke little ; but Ma Sceur read his heart aright, and knew what he was suffering. Dr. Arno wandered restlessly in and out of the room. Inwardly he was exceedingly distressed, outwardly he was annoyed and irritable. He had not succeeded in his charitable efforts to rescue Manfred and his brave deliverer without suffering on his own part. His usually ruddy face was scorched and burnt, and his hands caused him considerable pain ; but to do the kind man justice, it was not so much his own sufferings which dis- tressed and annoyed him as those of the poor little nun before him. "Well, Father," he inquired in a gruff, surly lone, "how did you find that miserable English- man the cause of all our trouble ? Just as though Honour without Renown. 217 there were not enough sorrow and grief to weep over at times like these ! Did you make anything out of the creature, or was he as sullen and un- communicative as ever?" Not pausing fora reply, he stooped over the bed ; and taking up carefully and tenderly one of the injured little hands, now enveloped in cotton wool, he continued, with tears in his eyes : " This is one of the very saddest things I have ever known ; and yet I have watched weak, in- nocent babes suffer and die, and seen strong men fall at their posts. But this one physically so sensitive and delicate had the bravest, most un- selfish heart I have ever known ; and to think that a precious life like hers should be sacrificed for that useless, stupid countryman of yours ! Bah ! it unmans me when I think of it. Surely she has friends in your cold-hearted country who will mourn her death ? " "But she is not dead yet!" interrupted her brother hastily. "Nor is she in danger of it, surely?" "No" testily "but except for me she might have been. I tell you both, that had you seen what I witnessed it would have wrung your hearts with such pity and admiration that to your dying day you would never have forgotten it. I myself caught but a glimpse of her now and again as, driven by the wind the fierce tongues of fire were lifted upwards, sideways, and seemingly inwards upon her, while she knelt upon the threshold, her brave form enveloped and framed as with a canopy of purgatorial flames, and striving to force before 218 Honour without Renown. her to a place of safety that heavy burden of helpless humanity. I saw her sensitive body shrink, in natural dread and terror, from the cruel flames ; but I saw also the weak frame, compelled by her noble spirit, do its part. When at last the opportunity offered, and the uncon- scious burden safely reached me, I saw her fall with outstretched hands, as though overcome with exhaustion, pleading at last for help on her own account. Oh, Father ! " said the old man, as he leant against the bed for support, which shook with his sobs, " it is barely three months since I buried my only daughter ; and in this sad vision I seemed to see her dear face, and to hear her sweet voice calling to me from out the purga- torial flames. God help me, it was a trying ordeal." " Doctor," said Father Basil, coming forward and placing his hand with a filial caress upon the old man's shoulder, " may God bless you for ever for this generous act. I little knew that we owed all this to you. From henceforth the name of Dr. Arno shall be uttered with life-long gratitude and affection by her family. And deem us not all so base and unfeeling that we cannot value at its proper worth what you have done to-day." "Nay, Father," protested the doctor, "Heaven knows I seek no thanks for aught I have done for her. Bear with an old man who has seen the roughest and worst side of life, if he breaks down at the sight of such courage and devotion. Perhaps the undue excitement, or the privilege of being able to rescue her, has unnerved me. If Honour without Renown. 219 only I dared examine the internal injury she has sustained from the falling debris, I should feel much more satisfied ; but, at present, she cannot endure to be moved or even touched, and I must wait as patiently as possible until she regains a little strength. Poor child ! See, she moves ! Speak to her, Father. There is a chance that she may be just conscious enough to understand you." Father Basil knelt down by the bedside and bent over her, saying : " 1 your brother Percy am close beside you, Bertie. Speak, dear, and tell me if there is anything you wish for." A faint, sweet smile broke over her face, as though she understood his words and their meaning was very sweet to her. Then the flushed brow contracted as though perplexed by painful thought and memories, and in short, uneven gasps she strove to speak. "Tell Marie and Madge I want them. . . . Poor Edmund Leadbitter ! . . . Seek the Englishman. . . . He will confess. . . . He knows all. . . . Save poor Leadbitter ! " Her mind suddenly became clouded again, and she spoke no more. " Well, what does she say, Father? " impatiently asked the doctor. "Can you understand her meaning ? " "Hardly," responded her brother, as he rose slowly to his feet, astonished and bewildered by his sister's words. He stood with one arm thrown across his chest supporting the other, the hand of which clasped his brow, whilst his eyes stared into If 22O Honour without Renown. vacancy. "Edmund Leadbitter, the supposed forger or felon," he muttered ; " once the friend of my brother, who, by the way, always swore he was unjustly condemned. Is it possible that this strange Englishman can prove poor Leadbitter's innocence? If so, even as my sister bids me, I must hasten to his side at once, and leave no stone unturned to aid him and restore to him his honour and good name." " Dr. Arno," he said solemnly, looking up sud- denly, " it is imperative that I return to the sick man at once. There is more in this than meets the eye. There is a mystery somewhere, and the sooner I am able to solve it the better. Indeed, I begin to think that an innocent man has been condemned and made to suffer wrongfully ; and, what is more, I believe that my sister here has by some means come to a knowledge of the fact, for the sick Englishman seems to hold the key of the secret. If so, I can now understand why she used such strenuous efforts to save him. Can you oblige me with the name of some notary who would kindly accompany me?" "That I will, right gladly," replied the doctor, jiterested even in spite of his dislike to Manfred. *' Take this card " across which he hastily wrote something in pencil "and call at the address which I have given you. You will find Monsieur Camard not only a very able and clever practitioner, but a man who understands and speaks youl language like a native ; moreover, his heart is in the right place. Au revoir, Father. Make all possible speed, for I fear there is but little time to lose." Honour without Renown. 221 Father Basil needed not a second bidding. The words of his sister had stirred a .strange chord in his heart. He felt instinctively that she had done her utmost perhaps had given even her life that wrong might be righted, and it remained for him now to pick up the tangled threads and complete her task. Turning, he cast one fond look, fraught with grave tenderness and anxiety, towards the un- conscious sufferer, then whispering earnestly his last instructions to Ma Soeur, seized his hat and hastily left the Convent. CHAPTER XXIII. " IT is well that life holds not many such days," he meditated, as he stepped into the open street. "The time has flown so rapidly that I know not even what hour of the day it is. Stay ! that is surely the Angelus bell. Poor Paris, I marvel there is a soul left mindful to ring it." Presently he drew forth the card which Dr. Arno had given him and scanned the address. It led him in the very opposite direction to that in which Manfred lay. If only a fiacre would pass that he might hail it and thus hasten his journey for he was not very sure of his bearings. " 'Tell Marie and Madge I want them.' Yes, dear little sufferer, they shall come to you. Had it not all broken upon me so suddenly and un- expectedly, I should have thought of summoning them sooner. Thank God, here comes a vehicle of some sort ;" and he ran forward to meet it. For- tunately it was unoccupied. " Drive as quickly as you can to the rue Ste. L and call at the first telegraph office that you pass by the way," he cried as he sprang in. He flung the door to, and sinking upon the seat laid his ha*: beside him. Passing his hands over his Honour without Renown. 223 6row, he sought to reduce to order his startled and confused faculties. The nearer they drove to the city the more thronged he found the unsettled streets. The panic and excitement of the previous night had left obvious and terrible traces. Twelve hours ago, all around had been a frightful scene of carnage and excitement. Father Basil was too preoccupied tvith his own thoughts to pay much attention to tvhat was or had been passing. His patience was almost exhausted as he realised how impossible it was for the lumbering vehicle, with its worn-out, jaded steed, to make speedy progress. Frequently their course was interrupted by the necessity of turning into side streets in order to avoid obstructions in the shape of shattered barri- cades, beside which lay frequently the bodies of dead Communists deserted by their comrades. It was, therefore, no small relief to him when the fiacre at last drew up at a post-office. He could at least despatch telegrams to his brother and Lady O'Hagan. He had no time to be delicate in his wording of them ; they were brief, but to the point He found the notary just about to enter his private carriage and drive towards the very quarter in which Manfred lay. Father Basil accosted him eagerly, presenting to him Dr. Arno's card. The notary at once offered the priest a seat in his own 2arriage, and listened with grave and kind interest to his story as they drove along the boulevards. Father Basil's hopes and spirits rose as the invigo- rating breeze fanned his burning brow : for they were rushing now with all possible speed to the 224 Honour without Renown. sick man's side. Dr. Arno had spoken truly when he said that the notary had his heart in the right place ; and one was almost as anxious and inter- ested as the other by the time they reached the ruined house. Manfred was lying awake and perfectly conscious as the two men entered the room. Looking up almost brightly, he stretched out his feeble arm towards Father Basil with a gesture of welcome, asking anxiously after Sister Marguerite. " How is she, Father? Do not tell me that she Is dead I " he gasped, when he received no imme- jiate reply. " She is not well enough to come and visit you herself," he answered guardedly; "but she has great confidence in your honour, and bade us hasten to your side in order to note down in the public interest all you have to relate to us." " Yes, Father de Woodville, I understand very clearly what you mean ; and, God helping me, I frill keep my vow to her. Come nearer, both of you, so that you may hear and understand all that I have to tell. My name is Harold Manfred." " Good heavens ! " broke in Father Basil, in astonishment, as he gazed in wonder upon the wreck of humanity before him; "are you, then, poor Leadbitter's half-brother?" " Yes, I am he ! I am also the accomplice of a Scoundrel, who worked his ruin and ultimately cast him into a felon's cell." Manfred continued his tale in as firm a tone as he could command, whilst the notary took down his depositions. Never seeking to justify or Honour without Renown. 225 exonerate his own conduct, Manfred summoned all remaining strength of mind and body, and continued to unfold the whole of his base story, the main facts of which he had already related to Sister Mar- guerite. Having concluded, he heaved a deep sigh and exclaimed : " There ! Make any use of this that you think fit ; but I feel happier now than I have done since I was a little child. Only tell me speedily what course you purpose to pursue towards my brother?" " It will be a matter of time," replied Monsieur Camard thoughtfully. " But I have sworn to you that he is absolutely innocent. Thomas also swore on his death-bed, and attested the fact in writing, that he himself tampered and altered the cheque, though at the time I knew it not." " We believe you fully ; but even so, his country, by whom he was judged and condemned, must equally be persuaded of his innocence." "Oh, Edmund ! and you have already waited so long ! Promise me, on your word of honour," he implored in a trembling voice, addressing Monsieur Camard, " that you will hasten to your utmost the moment of his release, and never rest until it is accomplished." " I do promise. It is a service that accords well with my inclination. I think it possible that even now it may be useful to send a telegram to the Governor of the prison, urging him to treat him with greater care and leniency than usual, while this confession is submitted to the Home Sec- retary." 226 Honour without Renown. "It shall be done," cried Father Basil joyfully, " for I will send it in my own name of De Woodville, which may carry some weight. But where is Mrs. Leadbitter, the poor young bride of two days, who was so cruelly divided from her husband?" Manfred cast a look of incredulity at the priest as he answered slowly : 'Do you mean to imply, Father de Woodville, that you are not aware where Lady Leadbitter resides? Her husband is a baronet, remember 1 " " No, indeed ; I have not the very faintest notion as to her whereabouts ; nor yet to my knowledge have I ever seen or heard of her." "Then" still incredulously "your sister-in- law, Lady de Woodville, has contrived to keep her secret more securely than I deemed it possible for any woman to do ! Who is it, think you, that lives in such close seclusion at the Western Lodge at Baron Court ? " " I cannot tell you who she is ; but some one I believe of the name of Mac something." "Just so: MacDermot ! That was her maiden name : her married name is Leadbitter Edmund's wife, Lady Leadbitter I " " Impossible! " urged Father Basil, shaking his head. " It cannot be I How do you know it?" " How do I know it?" reiterated Manfred vehe- mently. " Because last autumn I was for a day and two nights a guest at Baron Court. It was the shooting season, and I went as the friend of Sir Hugh Lonsdale. During that short stay we had occasion to seek shelter from the pouring rain in Honour without Renown. 227 that same lodge ; and whilst so doing (I blush to relate it), knowing that the owner was out, I pried into her inner and private apartment and dis- covered to my surprise and horror a large painted portrait of my brother as I had seen him last. You still doubt, Father? Indeed, you need not ; for two of his paintings, initialled by his own hand, hung upon the wail ; and his old ' Strad,' bearing his name in full, rested near his portrait. If you doubt me still, go and inquire of old John Ryder, the coachman." "But how can this be?" interrupted Father Basil. You, Harold Manfred the very man who was enjoying the property wrested, as my brother thought, so unjustly from Edmund Lead- bitter, a guest beneath De Woodville's roof ! Pray how did he receive you ? " "You see I was never aware, until you yourself informed me, that my brother and yours had been on such terms of intimacy. It appears now that it was fortunate his stay in Ireland was unavoid- ably lengthened by a day or two, thus preventing an unpleasant meeting under his own roof. As I d set brave hearts beating and pulses wildly throbbing. Never had the good priest shared s ich earthly joy as this. Does not the darkest hour herald the dawn ? CHAPTER XXV. THE great living pulse of human life, with its deafening rumble of steam, commerce and pleasure, was seething and throbbing with its usual force and vigour in our famous city of London, throbbing and beating with such incessant and continuous noise and hurry, as though no power for good or evil could evel again still or calm its noisy beat. Thousands upon thousands of human forms moved to and fro, each face seemingly intent upon that one idea which was uppermost in his or her tiny brain. Still there was one great link of interest that day which more or less bound numerous minds together. The news- papers narrated and discussed in brilliant and excited language how France in spite of all her late sorrow and disaster had rallied her remaining strength and forces, and rescued the city of Paris from the degrading and baneful dominion of her own internal enemies. There was joy sn our sister city ol London at this news, for many had friends in the beleaguered fortress, and felt no small anxiety on their account ; but, above all, the money market of this great nation, so calmly looking on, was visibly affected by the news, and those who had time to pause at all stood about in groups talking with Honour without Renown. 247 great animation and hope of the future prospects of commerce and finance. Yet, not one in all that gay or dingy throng, not one knew or cared, or cast a thought of pity or admiration upon that little soldier one of Eng- land's fairest daughters who had fallen at her post that day. Such deeds as hers are hidden from the eyes of busy men, but are recorded in the eternal courts above. It was but a few years since they had courted her. Society had rung with praises of her wealth, her talents, her beauty, until at the sound of a higher voice she had first paused in her brilliant career, then divining its purpose, had listened, and responding cheerfully, obeyed. Casting aside her wealth she bid her friends adieu, and society knew her no more. But others the poor, the sick, the forlorn, the hopeless, the forgotten ones of God's earth by them she was known, loved, and blessed. How the world had pitied, almost despised her, for the choice she had made; the best among them had but smiled in their superiority, calling her, u good, but silly." Well, we will not blame them, nor term them shallow in mind or heart ; how could such as they understand that it was not she who chose, but that she was chosen ? And so they talked and hurried on that bright May day ; but none were aware that high above their heads flashed, with electric speed, to the once proud home of this fair daughter, the sad news of her fall and probable decease. Dear, bright, unselfish and forgotten Sister Mar- guerite, there are hearts loyal and true that shall mourn you yet ! 248 Honour without Renown. Telegrams at Oakhome, save for Baron Court, were rare ; and the station-master looked serious and worried after duly deciphering and writing the meaning of this one. Folding the carefully written words within the envelope and securing the latter, he walked with a solemn step to where two small boys were intently occupied in a game of marbles. " John," he cried, addressing sternly the elder of the two, "stop this tomfoolery and pay attention to what I say to you. Is Jim in the stable at present?" " Yes, sir, he is ; and saddled too," replied the boy, springing briskly to his feet and pocketing his spoils. " Then mount him, my lad, and ride quickly with this" holding out the yellow envelope "to the Court. Now mind, quickly I say, for it is of most mighty importance. Ask to deliver it yourself, or have it given at once into his Lordship's hands. Do you hear, boy, and do you understand ? " " Yes, sir," said John, with a quick and intelligent look. " I'll get the pony at once, sir." The station-master watched him pocket the tele- gram carefully, then, scrambling nimbly upon old Jim's back, gather the reins and apply the whip so freely, that boy and steed were soon out of sight. Then he turned slowly back to the station, muttering to himself, " Poor little Lady ! This is a bad business, very ! " " My eyes ! but it's a rare fine thing to be gentlefolks, and live in grand places like this," said the merry boy, as he cantered up the glorious avenue of chestnuts and beeches, his round face Honour without Renown. 249 crimson with the exertion of keeping old Jim up to the mark. " It's fine, this is ! " Earl de Woodville was leisurely strolling about his grounds, admiring the fresh green buds that each hour seemed to unfurl and multiply, when his attention was aroused by the quick clatter of the pony's hoofs on the well-kept drive. He turned, and recognising the boy as the village telegraph messenger, raised his hand as a signal for him to stop. John pulled up instantly, and began to fumble in his pocket for the envelope. Then dis- mounting, he stood respectfully waiting until the great man should draw near enough to enable him to present it to him. " What a fine fellow ! Lor', what a handsome man he is ! " thought John. "I'd give something to hold m'self same as he does. Expect it's soldiering what did that for him." John was better acquainted with the Countess than her husband; she had been kind to his mother when sick, and he had seen a great deal of her; but he owned to feeling very shy and bashful before "me Lord." " Well, my boy ! I see you've got a telegram for me." "Yes, me Lord," touching his cap respectfully. "But why gallop your poor pony so unmercifully up hill, too ? " " Station-master told me to hurry up, me Lord.'' John noticed that as he read his strong hand shook ; the handsome face grew clouded, the firm lips tightened. "I'd give a lot to know what's in that telegram," 250 Honour without Renown. thought the boy. " Likely enough some of them poachers has been caught, and this is to tell him on it. He looks rare and upset about it, anyhow." De Woodville read the message for the third time ; then, pressing his hand to his brow, moved forward, forgetful of tht presence of the little messenger, who stood waiting patiently beside him. "Beg pardon, me Lord," said John, hurrying after him, " but be there any answer to go back ? " " No yes of course ! Follow to the house and wait until it's ready. And stay take this, my boy ! You did well to hurry as you did." "Thank you very much, me Lord," said John, once more touching his cap, ere he pocketed the coin. De Woodville walked quickly forward, and, on reaching the Court, turned in at a low wicket- gate and passed through a side entrance. "Where is her Ladyship?" he demanded, hastily, of blooming little Norah, the maid, catching sight of her figure as she crossed the hall in front of him. She had grown more bonnie than ever in the service of her gentle mistress, and liked her position there far too well to dream of changing it, though many a love-sick swain in the servants' hall had tried his best to persuade her to link her fate with his. "I have just left her, my Lord. She and the young ladies have taken flowers from the con- servatory and are now in the little chapel. Shall I tell her that you wish to see her, sir? " " No, thanks ; I will go in search of her myself." Up the broad staircase, across the picture gallery, Honour without Renown. 251 hurried the Earl, over the very ground his wife had trod that New Year's Eve when, as a guest, she had secretly left the ball-room and had stolen away to the solitude of the chapel. Norah watched the figure of her master dis- appear. She had observed the piece of crushed paper in his hand, and connected its contents with his stern voice and look of agitation. " I wonder what's up now," she meditated. "I do hope it's no bad news of Lady O'Hagan, or her family. But he did look so upset ! Perhaps I had better be somewhere near in case my Lady wants me." De Woodville opened the folding doors, and passing between the heavy curtains, walked to- wards the group. There was our little friend Marie as busy as ever. The little matron was at the very work she had always most excelled in. Mounted on some small steps, she was decorating with lovely flowers Our Lady's Altar. There hung the very silver wreath she had won at dear St. Benedict's ; whilst a small figure in white the eldest daughter (aged six summers), the Lady Mary stood on tiptoe, stretching out her arms in the endeavour to hand her mother a piece of costly lace to hang upon the wreath. " Oh, here's father!" whispered a baby voice very loudly. " Do turn and help us." It was the other little daughter, Beatrice a tiny dot of three who spoke. She was seated upon the floor, surrounded by leaves and flowers, which she was stuffing promiscuously into a vase that stood between her small fat legs. Marie turned ; and 18 252 Honour without Renown. hearing her husband's quick step, jumped from her perch on to the floor. " What is it, dear? " she said, coaxingly, for she knew that he was always afraid of her climbing, lest she should slip and injure herself. "You see it is Our Lady's month, and I love to keep her altar nice ! " " Quite right, darling," he answered, slipping his arm through hers, without noticing the faint flush of confusion that tinged her cheek. " Leave the children for a moment ; they will be all right ; I have something to say to you." She looked up at him quickly, for his serious tone surprised her, and a look of alarm came into her sweet upturned face. He led her to the private entrance, under the portals of that broad archway where once before they had stood together, when she had unwillingly listened to his almost hopeless tale of love, and, in her startled confusion, had en- deavoured to tear the chaplet of pearls from her fair young neck. They had not altered much since then. It was but a few years ago, and time had dealt very leniently with both of them. Her figure was a trifle fuller and her step more dignified than of old ; but her heart was light, for she was very happy. Yet was it as full of thoughtful kindness for others as ever. He was as devoted, as proud of her as it was possible to be. If a little stern and haughty in his manner towards others, Nature had formed him so ; to her he was all kindness and condescension. " What is it, Regie ? " she asked, clinging to his arm ; " you have had some sudden news?" Honour without Renown. 253 " Yes, dear one, I have. Wait, and I will read it to you ; but you must not be alarmed. You see we have no details; we can but surmise." " It is a telegram," she said hurriedly. "Who has sent it? Tell me, Regie !" He smoothed out the paper which he had crushed within his hand ; then answered slowly : " It is from Percy from Father Basil." She did not speak ; but glancing over his arm, she hastily deciphered the following : " Come at once to the Convent in the Rue de Cloys. Sister Marguerite badly injured. Is very ill." " O, my God, they have shot her ! " cried Marie, bursting into tears and sinking upon a velvet- cushioned seat close by. " My darling Bertie, shall I never see you again ! " Her husband stood over her, and throwing his arms around her, pressed her closely to him. "Don't cry so, little wife?" he urged tenderly. " Percy was always quick and thoughtless. It may not be so bad as we suppose. We will go to her, dear. When can you be ready?" She looked very young and girlish as he held her to him. Her dress, of the palest blue, hung in graceful folds around her little form, whilst some rare old creamy lace fell in dainty ripples from her neck and arms. Who could say they did not make a lovely picture yet? Truly, they had changed places the figures have moved in the tableau since that memorable night when he, the strong man, wept, and she would fain have comforted with distant, but maidenly reserve. 254 Honour without Renown. "Don't weep so, Marie," he said, more tenderly than before, as he heard the heavy sobs and felt the helpless weight of the little form press still nearer to him. " Try to bear up, my wife; and after a good night's rest be ready to accompany me to Sister Marguerite's side. Think how de- lighted she will be to see us; and let us try to nurse her back to health." "Yes, yes! of course ; how selfish I am, Regie, dear. But I love her so ! " she sobbed again. " O, how base and cruel to shoot such a sweet and noble girl ! " " But, Marie, dear, you are jumping to conclu- sions. The message does not say that she was shot." "They shot the Archbishop; why should they spare her? Oh, I have read the awful accounts of all their cruel ways. Poor little Bertie ! " At this moment there issued from the precincts of the chapel a noise as of something falling, followed by a sharp childish cry of fright. "Oh, my babies!" cried the anxious mother. " What can have happened ? " Norah, who was hovering near, heard it also and rushed to the rescue. It was only busy little Mary's hands that, in her efforts to " help mother," had knocked from off its perch a flower-pot, scatter- ing plant and soil over the head of little Beatrice, who stood beneath. The little maidens were soon pacified and led away by nurse, who had been summoned by the Earl. Marie had three children. Little Lord Grantheuse was the eldest and the only son. He was a fine, Honour without Renown. 255 nealthy boy, and strongly resembled his grand- father in both looks and ways. Lady Mary was fair, tall, and delicate. It was difficult to say whom she resembled most ; but it was thought that her quaint little face was very like the picture of an ancestor which hung upon the wall. Little Lady Beatrice had a look of her aunt, Sister Marguerite, about her tiny mouth ; but she had stolen her mother's hair and eyes, and had all her father's determined ways. They were sweet little children, without being remarkably pretty or striking. After they had departed, De Woodville beckoned Norah aside and talked to her gravely. Many times during the colloquy the maid nodded her head. When he had ceased she turned with con- fidence and sympathy to her mistress, and led her to her own apartments. She would endeavour to induce her to rest, while she made the necessary preparations for their journey to-morrow. The Earl retired to his library and, ringing the bell, inquired of the footman whether Ryder was in the hall. " Yes, my Lord." " Then tell him I wish to see him." Now the old coachman had seen and spoken with the boy John waiting in the yard, and had learnt from him of the important telegram and the mysterious effect it had had upon his Lord- ship. So he was a little anxious and curious ; for everything that touched " the family" affected him, He therefore rose with alacrity, and no small feeling s>f importance, when the summons came. It was not the first time the family had consulted him in 2 $6 Honour without Renown. matters of grave importance. He opened the study door and, hat in hand, made his respects ; then stood awaiting further orders. "Oh, Ryder," said his Lordship, looking up, "I shall require the dog-cart, if fine if not, the carriage early to-morrow morning. Her ladyship and I are called to Paris, and we must catch the 7.30 to town." "To Paris!" The words fell like a sudden weight of lead upon the old man's heart. "Isn't that where our young lady is?" he thought. "God grant that nothing has happened to her!" He still looked upon and spoke of Sister Marguerite as " our young lady." "Yes, to Paris, Ryder. I trust we shall have a good journey. Your mistress is not very well just now." As a matter of fact, travelling rarely ever upset the Countess ; she was a very healthy little woman. " I hope so, me Lord?" he faltered, still standing and turning his hat nervously round in his hands. "But may I make bold," he ventured,