York was practically as distant, in those days, as Boston is from any cross-roads schoolhouse in Nebraska, and on the spot there at Singleton he passed for a Catholic priest. The record indeed indicates that the "typlinge-house" and the "nowty woman," if they were ever true, were things of the past, while the emphasis upon the charge "There is no sermons would imply that the complainant was quite of the Puritan sort, and therefore he may easily have been prejudiced. However that may be, when we next get any glimpse of church matters in Singleton, during the Puritan times, the old church, St. Mary's, is not named, but Cromwell's commissioners, in 1650, report a newly erected chapel there, without minister or maintenance, which the people pray may be constituted a parish church, and may be duly endowed. This does not appear to have been done, however, and after the Restoration this new chapel was disused; and then finally it was turned into an inn, which was long called the "chapel" inn. Meanwhile, the original church, St. Mary's Chapel, only an "old thatched building," had been again restored to its former use; and even after the manor had passed to a Protestant purchaser the chapel remained with the Catholics, and indeed till the year 1745 was the only place of worship in the township. Now comes the singular conclusion to the story. In 1745 took place one of the great events in north of England history, the last attempt of the Stuarts, the uprising of the Scottish clans for the young Charles Edward, the Pretender. With a few thousand men he made his way into the heart of England. But the terrible lesson of the previous rising of 1715 was not forgotten, and though the Jacobites of the north wished that the rising might succeed, they had little real faith in it. Only one of the old Lancashire gentry, one of the Towneleys, actually joined in the movement; but a party of the rebels were feasted here in Mains Hall, and that was quite enough to make the neighboring old Lancashire families, who were mainly Jacobites and Catholics, quake in their shoes. When the rising was finally suppressed, the Protestant population throughout the kingdom were especially jubilant, and the 5th of November, the old Gunpowder Plot day, was celebrated that year with perhaps more enthusiasm than ever before or since. It was in this mood that the rabble of lads and men in Singleton went about collecting money and peats for their bonfire, and even applied at the house of the priest. The priest himself was a douce, quiet man, who probably would have given them what they asked for, and sent them away peaceably. But the priest was absent, and the priest's old housekeeper was, as was entirely proper, a crabbed old woman, with a strong will and a sharp tongue; and instead of giving them anything, she berated them as only such an old woman could. The upshot of it was that they got mad; the row turned into an uproar, the uproar into a riot; the priest's house was wrecked, and then they went to the chapel and wrecked that. Under ordinary circumstances, or at a later day, the mob would have been punished, and the damaged property restored by the township. But, as I have said, the Catholics were discouraged; it was no time for vindicating their rights, or calling any more attention to themselves than they could help. So the Catholic service there ceased. Four years afterwards (1749), William Shaw, the then lord of the manor, formally made over the building to the Established Church, giving £200 for its endowment, to which another £200 was added from Queen Anne's bounty, which latter circumstance may perhaps explain the fact that at the reopening the old consecration to St. Mary was ignored, perhaps forgotten, and it has ever since been known as St. Anne's. With this curious little supplement to the history of the Reformation, we come out of the twilight of the past into the glare and newness of the present. If you should find yourself in Singleton to-day, all that you would see would be a stretch of fertile fields, divided by trim hedges or clean-cut ditches, with scattered farms and farm buildings well renewed, characteristic of land worth high farming; and here and there a schoolhouse, and a Methodist chapel, and a church of most modern Gothic, all new within some thirty years. But there is still the old grange, mod ernized now; and there is Mains Hall, new fronted, but with walls in some places a yard thick, and secret closets which in Elizabeth's time were "priest holes," as the people call them, where Cardinal Allen certainly, and likely many another, found a safe shelter in the Elizabethan persecutions. And all the rest is in old deeds and charters, or in the stories that old men told by the chimney corner a generation or more ago; for it is all true, and there is as much, if you will look for it, in every nook and corner of the dear old land. Brooke Herford. VI. DON ORSINO.1 ORSINO had shown less anxiety to see Madame d'Aranjuez than might perhaps have been expected. In the ten days which had elapsed between the sitting at Gouache's studio and the 1st of January he had only once made an attempt to find her at home, and that attempt had failed. He had not even seen her passing in the street, and he had not been conscious of any uncontrollable desire to catch a glimpse of her at any price. But he had not forgotten her existence, as he would certainly have forgot ten that of a wholly indifferent person in the same time. On the contrary, he had thought of her frequently, and had indulged in many speculations concerning her, wondering, among other matters, why he did not take more trouble to see her, since she occupied his thoughts so much. He did not know that he was in reality hesitating, for he would not have acknowledged to himself that he could be in danger of falling seriously in love. He was too young to admit such a possibility, and the character which he admired and meant to assume was altogether too cold and superior to such weaknesses. To do him justice, he was really not of the sort to fall in love at first sight. Persons capable of a self-imposed dualism rarely are, for the second nature they build up on the foundation of their own is never wholly artificial. The disposition to certain modes of thought and habits of bearing is really present, as is sufficiently proved by their admiration of both. Very shy persons, for instance, invariably admire very self-possessed ones, and in trying to imitate them occasionally exhibit a cold-blooded arrogance which is amazing. Timothy Titmouse secretly looks up to Don Juan as his ideal, and after half a lifetime of failure outdoes his model, to the horror of his friends. Dionysus masks as Hercules, and the fox is sometimes not unsuccessful in his saint's disguise. Those who have been intimate with a great actor know that the characters he plays best are not all assumed; there is a little of each in his own nature. There is a touch of the real Othello in Salvini ; there is, perhaps, 1 Copyright, 1891, by Macmillan & Co. in English Irving. To be short, Orsino Saracinesca was too enthusiastic to be wholly cold, and too thoughtful to be thoroughly enthusiastic. He saw things differently according to his moods, and, being dissatisfied, he tried to make one mood prevail constantly over the other. In a mean nature the double view often makes an untruthful individual; in one possessing honorable instincts it frequently leads to unhappiness. Affectation then becomes aspiration, and the man's failure to impose on others is forgotten in his misery at failing to impose upon himself. A lamp a strain of the melancholy Scandinavian led to the door of a small sitting-room on the second floor of the hotel. The servant shut the door behind him, and Orsino found himself alone. with a pretty shade was burning on the table, and beside it an ugly blue glass vase contained a few flowers, -common roses, but fresh and fragrant. Two or three new books in yellow paper covers lay scattered upon the hideous velvet table-cloth, and beside one of them Orsino noticed a magnificent paper-cutter of chiseled silver, bearing a large monogram done in brilliants and rubies. The thing contrasted oddly with its surroundings, and attracted the light. An easychair was drawn up to the table, an abominable object covered with perfectly new yellow satin. A small red morocco cushion, of the kind used in traveling, was balanced on the back, and there was a depression in it, as though some one's head had lately rested there. The few words Orsino had exchanged with Maria Consuelo on the morning of the great ceremony recalled vividly the pleasant hour he had spent with her ten days earlier, and he determined to see her as soon as possible. He was out of conceit with himself, and consequently with all those who knew him, and he looked forward with pleasure to the conversation of an attractive woman who could have no preconceived opinion of him, and who could take him at his own estimate. He was curious, too, to find out something more definite in regard to her. She was mysterious, and the mystery pleased him. She had admitted that her deceased husband had spoken of being connected with the Saracinesca, but he could not discover where the relationship lay. Spicca's very odd remark, too, seemed to point to her in some way which Orsino could not understand; and he remembered her having said that she had heard of Spicca. Her husband had doubtless been an Italian of Spanish descent, but she had given no clue to her own nationality, and she did not look Spanish, in spite of her name, Maria Consuelo. As no one in Rome knew her, it was impossible to get any information whatever. It was all very interesting. Accordingly, late on the afternoon of the 2d of January, Orsino called, and was Orsino noticed all these details as he stood waiting for Madame d'Aranjuez to appear; and they were not without interest to him, for each one told a story, and the stories were contradictory. The room was not encumbered with those numberless objects which most women scatter about them within an hour after reaching a hotel; yet Madame d'Aranjuez must have been at least a month in Rome. The room smelt neither of perfume nor of cigarettes, but of the roses, which was better, and a little of the lamp, which wa much worse. The lady's only possessions seemed to be three books, a travelingcushion, and a somewhat too gorgeous paper-cutter; and these few objects were perfectly new. He glanced at the books; they were of the latest, and only one had been cut. The cushion might have been bought that morning. Not a breath had tarnished the polished blade of the silver knife. A door opened softly, and Orsino drew himself up as some one pushed in the heavy, vivid curtains. But it was not Madame d'Aranjuez. A small, dark woman, of middle age, with downcast eyes and exceedingly black hair, came forward a step. "The signora will come presently," she said in Italian, in a very low voice, as though she were almost afraid of hearing herself speak. She was gone in a moment, as noiselessly as she had come. This was evidently the silent maid of whom Gouache had spoken. The few words she had spoken had revealed to Orsino the fact that she was an Italian from the north; for she had the unmistakable accent of the Piedmontese, whose own language is comprehensible only by themselves. Orsino prepared to wait some time, supposing that the message could hardly have been sent without an object, but another minute had not elapsed before Maria Consuelo herself appeared. the soft lamplight, her clear white skin looked very pale, and her auburn hair almost red. She wore one of those nondescript garments which we have elected to call tea-gowns, and Orsino, who had learned to criticise dress as he had learned Latin grammar, saw that the tea-gown was good and the lace real. The colors produced no impression upon him whatever. As a matter of fact they were dark, being combined in various shades of olive. Maria Consuelo looked at her visitor and held out her hand, but said nothing. She did not even smile, and Orsino began to fancy that he had chosen an unfortunate moment for his visit. "It was very good of you to let me come," he said, waiting for her to sit down. Still she said nothing. She placed the red morocco cushion carefully in the particular position which would be most comfortable, turned the shade of the lamp a little, which of course produced no change whatever in the direction of the light, pushed one of the books half across the table, and at last sat down in the easy-chair. Orsino sat down near her, holding his hat upon his knee. He wondered whether she had heard him speak, or whether she might not be one of those people who are painfully shy when there is no third person present. "I think it was very good of you to come," she said at last, when she was comfortably settled. "I wish goodness were always so easy," answered Orsino, with alacrity. "Is it your ambition to be good?" asked Maria Consuelo, with a smile. "It should be. But it is not a ca "I have thought of trying it," answered Maria Consuelo calmly. "Saintship is a career, even in society, whatever you may say to the contrary. It has attractions, after all." "Not equal to those of the other side. Every one admits that. The majority is evidently in favor of sin; and if we are to believe in modern institutions, we must believe that majorities are right." "Then the hero is always wrong; for he is the enthusiastic individual who is always for facing odds; and if no one disagrees with him he is very unhappy. Yet there are heroes" "Where?" asked Orsino. "The heroes people talk of ride bronze horses or stand on inaccessible pedestals. When the bell rings for a revolution they are all knocked down, and new ones are set up in their places, also executed by the best artists, and the old ones are cast into cannon to knock to pieces the ideas they invented. That is called history.” "You take a cheerful and encouraging view of the world's history, Don Orsino." "The world is made for us, and we must accept it; but we may criticise it. There is nothing to the contrary in the contract." "In the social contract? Are you going to talk to me about Jean Jacques?" Have you read him, madame? "No woman who respects herself'" — began Maria Consuelo, quoting the famous preface. "I see that you have," said Orsino, with a laugh. "I have not." “Nor I.” To Orsino's surprise, Madame d'Aranjuez blushed. He could not have told why he was pleased, nor why her change of color seemed so unexpected. Speaking of history," he said, after a very slight pause, "why did you thank me yesterday for having got you a card?" "Did you not speak to Gouache about it?" "I said something; I forget what. Did he manage it?" "Of course. I had his wife's place. She could not go. Do you dislike being thanked for your good offices? Are you so modest as that?" "Not in the least, but I hate misunderstandings, though I will get all the credit I can for what I have not done, like other people. When I saw that you knew the Del Ferice, I thought that perhaps she had been exerting herself." "Why do you hate her so?" asked Maria Consuelo. "I do not hate her. She does not exist, that is all." "Why does she not exist, as you call it? She is a very good-natured woman. Tell me the truth. Everybody hates her. I saw that by the way they bowed to her, while we were waiting. Why? There must be a reason. Is she a- an incor rect person?" Orsino laughed. "No. That is the point at which existence is more likely to begin than to end." "How cynical you are! I do not like that. Tell me about Madame Del Ferice." "Very well. To begin with, she is a relation of mine." "No. You would call me cynical. I do not like you to call me by bad names, madame." "I had an idea that men liked it," observed Maria Consuelo gravely. "One does not like to hear disagreeable truths." "Then it is the truth? Go on. You have forgotten what we were talking about." "Not at all. Donna Tullia, my sec ond, third, or fourth cousin, was married, once upon a time, to a certain Mayer." "And left him. How interesting!" "No, madame. He left her very suddenly, I believe for another world. Better or worse? Who can say? Considering his past life, worse, I suppose; but considering that he was not obliged to take Donna Tullia with him, decidedly better." |