The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 66

"Some time ago, sir; you slept so late that I ventured to come in."

"All right. I shall be ready directly."

Hardy still lingered, and I knew by his face there was some news coming.

"There's a fine to-do at Smith and Walker's, sir, this morning. I just met their head-clerk as I was coming here."

I sprang up in bed as if I had been shot, the old fancies and dread of the previous night returning with full force.

"Smith and Walker's!" I cried; "what is the matter there?"

"Well, sir, I couldn't quite make out the particulars, he was in such a hurry; but old Mr. Thorneley's been found dead in his room this morning, and they suspect there has been foul play. Mr.

Griffiths--that's the clerk--was going off to Scotland Yard. It's a terrible thing, an't it, sir, to be hurried off so quick? and none of the best of lives too, if one may believe what folks say. It's shocked you, sir, I see; and so it did me, for I thought of Mr. Atherton and what a blow like it would be to him."

Whiter and whiter I felt my face was getting, and a feeling of dead sickness seized me. The man whom I had seen and spoken with but such few short hours since lay dead! the secret of whose life I possessed, knowing what I now knew of him, and what had been left untold hanging like a black shadow of doubt around me; he was gone from whence there was no returning,--he was standing face to face with his Creator and his Judge!

By this time Hardy had left the room, and I proceeded hastily to dress myself, feeling that more was coming than I wotted of then, and that the fearful storm which was gathering would quickly burst.

Scarcely was I dressed when I heard a loud double-knock at the office-door, and directly after Hardy's voice demanding admittance. I opened my door.

"Sir, there is a police-officer who wishes to see you immediately."

I went out into the sitting-room. A detective in plain clothes was there; I had known the man in another business formerly.

"What do you want with me, Jones?"

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"You have heard of Mr. Thorneley being found dead, sir?"

"Yes--my clerk has just told me. What did he die of?"

"He was poisoned, Mr. Kavanagh."

I felt the man's eyes were fixed on me as if he could read in my soul and see the fearful dread therein. I could have hurled him from the window.

"Who is suspected?" I asked as calmly as my parched tongue would let me speak.

The man did not answer my question.

"You were with him last evening, sir, were you not?"

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, completely thrown off my guard; "they surely don't suspect _me!_"

"Not that I'm aware of, sir; but your evidence is necessary, since you were _one_ of the last persons who saw him alive."

"But not the last," I said, still blind to the fact pointed at. "Mr.

Atherton, his nephew, was with him after I left. I met him going there at the comer of Vere street."

There was a peculiar look on the man's countenance--of compa.s.sion for me, I had almost said.

"Mr. Kavanagh, sir, I had rather have cut off my right hand than that you should have told me that, for you've both been kind gentlemen to me and mine. _Mr. Atherton is arrested on suspicion of having administered the poison to his uncle._ When you remember _where_ you met him, you can guess what your evidence will be against him.

Here--Mr. Hardy! Help!"

I remember nothing more, for I had fallen back insensible.

TO BE CONTINUED.

[Original.]

Peace.

"Not as the world giveth give I unto you."--St. John 14th.

Break not its sleep, the faithful grief, still tender; G.o.d gives at length his own beloved rest; How worn and the suffering brow! Yet these meek fingers Still press the cross of patience to her breast.

Stir not the air with one sweet, lingering cadence From life's fair prime of love and hope and song; Serener airs, from martyr hosts celestial, To that high trance of Conquered peace belong.

Hush mortal joy or wail, hush mortal paeans; Ye cannot reach that Thabor height sublime Where G.o.d's eternal joy, in tranquil vision, Seems nearer than the sights and sounds of time.

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[Original.]

TWO PICTURES OF LIFE IN FRANCE BEFORE 1848.

Those who are familiar with the Journal of Eugenie de Guerin, know that in Languedoc, near the towns or villages of Andillac and Gaillac, and not far from Toulouse, there is an ancient estate called Le Cayla; but they know little more than this of the place where Maurice and Eugenie de Guerin pa.s.sed their youth in the quaint an beautiful simplicity that stamped their genius with so marked and individuality.

The peasantry of that region are wedded to old habits and traditions, and the ancient families are imbedded like rocks in the land, says Lamartine, (from whose "Entretiens" many of these local details are taken), and are n.o.bles by common consent, because the chateau is merely the largest ruin in the village, and every one goes there as to a home to get whatever he needs in the way of advice, agricultural tools, medicine or food.

Let us in the imagination visit the Chateau of like a lot, as it was in the year 1837, four we must make our first acquaintance with it when it is graced by the exquisite presence of those two, whose names are fast becoming household words on both sides of the Atlantic --Maurice and Eugenie de Guerin.

It is not like one's dream of an ancient _castel_, this spreading, rectangular house, built of brick and stone after a fashion of Henry the Fourth's time, and perched on the summit of a sharp declivity.

There is little to distinguish it from the great farms of the country round, but a half ruined portico, projecting over the flight of stone steps, a pointed current and the grooves of a drawbridge, over which the ruthless hand of 1793 as effaced the ancient arms of the Guerins.

The great flagstones of the courtyard were loosened and uprooted long ago by the drainage from the stables, and in the angles of the wall grow holly and elder bushes, not too aristocratic to take root in such a soil. These gates stand open always, admitting wayfarers who may wish for a cup of water from the bucket hanging behind the door, or for a plate of soup to eat, sitting in the sunshine on the broad steps that lead down into the courtyard from the kitchen, an important department in this venerable homestead.

Within doors blazes a goodly fire on the hearth, a whole tree, standing on end, sending its smoke up a great chimney through which daylight is visible, and ready to give a comfortable greeting to Jean, or Gilles, or Romignieres, when they come to talk about corn or sheep with the master, they sitting on the stone settles, built into the wall, he on one of those walnut armchairs standing between the kitchen table and the fireplace. See the great copper boilers standing around the wall, and those immense soup-tureens, ornamented with coa.r.s.e painting, and the big dishes for the fish that they catch in the mill-pond once in three years.

There--we have looked long enough; pa.s.s through this long smoke-dried corridor to the dining-room, where masters and servants take their meals together, excepting on state occasions, the menials standing or sitting at the lower and of the unbleached cloth.

Now down this little flight of steps to the _salon_, which is all white, with a large sofa, some straw chairs, and a table with books on it. Yes--here {412} we pause--here are the objects of our search. In a faded tapestry arm-chair sits Maurice reading and Eugenie is near here. He looks but shadowy still, having just recovered from a fever, but the outline of his face is beautiful as he bends slightly over the book, the refined mouth, the expressive, drooping eyelids, the n.o.ble brow declaring him the worthy descendent of a long line of knights and gentlemen. One of these ancestors, Guerin de Montaigu, Grand Master of the Knights of Malta, looks down upon us from the wall as we stand behind Maurice's chair, glancing, by the way, over his shoulder at the page he is reading, one of Barbey d'Aurevilly's brilliant articles.

And now he reads aloud a striking pa.s.sage, and Eugenie lifts her eyes and lets the work drop on her lap. What earnest, dovelike eyes they are! See how softly the hair parts on her forehead, pa.s.sing over the pretty ear and falling in little curls at the back of her neck. The dress looks old-fashioned to us now, with its half-high, baby waste, and belt, and tucker, and her hair is dressed too high to be becoming; but there is the air of a refined lady in everything about her, and her face is like the face of a sweet, good little child.