CHAPTER XIV.—(Continued.)

New Zealand Tablet, Volume V, Issue 237, 16 November 1877, Page 5

CHAPTER XlV.— (Continued.)

Beside Rachel s grave there was another, unmarked, save by a little cross ; and the good nuns of the convent often prayed beside ihp a wL mm f^ars with their Payers, for they said that though she who rested there had been unable to speak their language, they knew assuredly her fervent penance had won favour with God, and if a® txsv^°j^ caracst messflge totbem ' she was however, constantly sent, as well as other of the Religious, to asnst Constance in the care of Lady Beauville. But latterly Isabel's strength had suddenly given way, without any apparent cause, and Si^jT" 111 1 WftS «*^»^ and, with an intensity o «™ J' G watc^ c ? wa l tcd for si S n of reason, and fervent m ere _the prayers that went up that this boon might be granted «™ On e«nch side of the bed knelt a nun, and a physician was standing EX? V." ° ne C ° r T kndt Father Louis ' the almon <* of thf hospital. Ihere was a change on the sufferer's face, and she turned ente 1 y SWe> She fixed her eyes ou C^stance as she

" Constance, is it you ? " Constance bent over her. " Dearest, lam here " a fVft l k ? ow . a 1 1'" she murmer cd. " Forgive me, ere I die." *«. tll • 1 f ° m f Came near ' and sllc said — " Father,, bless me, for I have sinned deeply. Is there hope for me, father ? " Ami Father Louis answered—'- < He that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.' " '

«,« ■ * ,^ tel i er . s withdrew, and the room was closed to all save thJ C% ffe I^ S P e " lt « nt -, And then they were recalled, and the last rites of the Church took place, and Isabel made her last commumon. After that she spoke but little, but those words were treasured up afterwards for in them lay hid a depth of penitence, and 2 SESdTSS? of the childlike faith that Clun^° fo^» ess i ilk0 ° k^ d at Constance, and sfa e blessed her for long years of 53 fi?i« potion. -Thou hast comforted me, my sister, and God ™! \u 1 1m *V St VV o™'"0 ™'" The Jli S ht came, she fell into a gentle sleep, and awoke in her death-agony. It was not long, but at S ptce earned 8 ° f "" HOly Ctoldl ynmt ** *' ith mi » hl ' and \fnth^Sf{vu aha ? llioi i look l ns "l^vards, '• do I see you at last ? Mother and Walter— how beautiful, oh, how o-loiious"— — — . inn And . Constan ce*s eyes also looked upward, for she, too, almost fancied she saw angelic forms, and for a moment she murmured, „I°'' * ak I? mo also ' But only for a moment, and then the humble, patient spirit turned again to her task on earth, to watch, to wait, to pray. '

Within a year of their arrival in Belgium, Lord Beauville procured a divorce, and immediately afterwards married a^ain The next news that came to Constance was, that her darling boy, the little Marquis of Moreton, was dead. Iv the midst of hfs childish glee, while riding on a pony in the park of Bertram Castle, the pony stumbled, threw the child, his head struck against the root of a tree, and he vas taken up dead. Poor Constance, when the first burst of the mothers agony was over, while she pictured to herself those golden curls lying stiff in the coldness of death, and those merry blue t«V,f S' cv , er ' bccJime comforted, and thanked God for thus taking one of her darlings safe in his innocence to the country where there arc no more partings; but her anxiety for her remaining child g ew keener and increased when she received the news of her own d voice, which the Duke, after the death of his heir was induced to a 1 ™ afterward* of his marriage to Mistress Elizabeth Fortcscue, bi iS Bnft! SamC \° f 8 her mother - stern ' implacable, and bigoted. But there was no help on earth, and Constance prayed on. heTtfJTSS ° timC ? f Is » bel ' s^ath, and Constance spent 1 . time ktween prayer and good deed*. From the feet of the Mother^ borrows where she poured out her aching heart, she went tocon^rtthe afflicted, to bind up the broken-hearted. Allinsonw, ii Ik'1 k' ttff^f ' ?! in +I su « cr 11.?' 1 1.?'m .?' kne^ her well. •' The pale English lady, was the title the Belgians gave her. She was kind to all ; but when, as it sometimes happened, refugees from England came for shelter, her sympathy poured itself forth upon them with infinite 52f?*" ■ Q Sl< * valued th , e touchof hercoolhand, andthesound of her soft voice The sorrowful raised their heads as they looked at her, bearing her bitter trials so meekly ; priests, who were ventivrin* on the English mission came to see her tobeseech her prayers ; for fi their might, before God's throne, they had great faith. The Re i-ious also, of the convent, when in trouble or distress, were wont to ask their superioress s ; leave to beg the Englishlady to pray forthem; but of all who loved her, and she loved, the dearest were the little

They flocked round her when she went forth; and she could enter into their gambols, and soothe their childish sorrows with a mother a care. She was not wont to say much, but her few words of counsel sank into their hearts, aud checked many a hasty word or foolish action. In such deeds her calm Jifc passed away ; and gradually her step grew feebler, and a hollow cough shook her frame, and bister Mary of the Cross (which was Rose Ford's name in region} saw plainly that for her, too, rest was coming ' At last she could not go beyond the convent walls, and then she grew weaker still, and could no longer leave her chamber It was a peaceful room that of Constance's ; the windows looked into the convent garden, with its bright flowers and shady trees, and one transept

of the church was in view ; and Constance lay on her couch, and gazed on the fair things His hand had made, and thought of the time when she, too, had played among the flowers ; blithe as the birds that flew past the window ; and she remembered what she was, stricken and suffering, with death near, and she rejoiced. It was on such a day that two persons might be seen passing through the streets, and inquiring anxiously for the Augustinian Convent. One was a tall and handsome Frenchmen, and he bent with, tender care over a young lady, whose fair complexion and sunny hair marked her at once as having English blood. They paused before the door of the convent, and the lady cast an eager glance on the grey walls. " Does an English lady reside here 1 " said the gentleman to the portress. The woman answered him by bursting into tears. " Oh, is she dead ? " cried the lady, in a tone of agony No, no, Madame ; but near to death. You had better sec Mother Prioress."

They were shown into the parlour, and an aged nun, the Prioress of the convent entered, "You ask for the Duchess of Bertram," she said ; "she is very ill ; and fcAv, indeed, arc they whom we can allow to see her ; " but she glanced at lady : " You are English, and that has ever a claim upon her." And then the nun started. " Madame is a kinswoman or our dear and noble lady 1 " " Reverend mother," said the lady, going forward, " I am her child."

Sister Mary of the Cross went gently into Constance's room ; she sat, as we have said, gazing on the fair scene, aud then on a crucifix she held in her hand. The nun knelt down by her side. " Has she come, my sister ? " said Constance, gently. " Yes, I know all ; that Mother's Heart has heard my prayer, and I shall see my child ere I die."

And for the last few days in Constance's life, she was watched and tended by a daughter's love. Mary Bertram's was a strange history ; her childhood had been an unhappy one ; her stepmother was stern and unloving, and treated the child with undue severity. It tended, however, to keep alive in her mind a tender remembrance of the mother's fondness she dimly remembered. She never forgot the prayer she had been taught, and she cherished an intense desire to know more of the religion for which her mother was .banished. When she grew up and made her appearance iv the world, she was taken notice of by the French ambassadress who remembered Constance, and who, from political reasons, was high in favour at court By her Mary was instructed in the faith, and by her means a marriage was arranged with the Marquis do Coucy, who had been attached to the embassy, but who, on his marriage would return to France. Mary was one to inspir o ardent affection, and he was as eager to grant as she was to ask, that their first act should be to visit Belgium, and see the mother from whom she had been so long parted. So thus it came to pass that Constance firs^ saw her beloved child received into the Catholic Church, and left her the wife of a Catholic. All earthly sorrows and cares were over ; and leaning on Mary's bosom and holding Rose's hand, she not long after passed to her home.

At the same hour, in a royal palace, there was another death-scene and the sufferer sat npon the ground in sullen despair, and " dared not' die in her bed.*

Long ere this Basil Travers and Arthur Leslie (who became a priest) had gained the martyr's crown, and in their turn, " gone to Tybornc."

And Thoresby Hall. We must not forget one look at that and its inhabitants, and what they have been doing these long fifteen years. Good Sir Robert sleeps with his father, and Sir Honry Thoresby rules the hall. Blanche, too, has long since gone to her reward ; and Mary and Clinton reside at their manor of Northwolds, near Colchester. Sir Henry has married, and little merry voices wake the echoes in Northwolds and in Thoresby Hall, and childish feet patter up and down the stairs, and childish minds wonder much why the large tapestry chamber at Thoresby is kept so sacred, and never used except by the priests.

Three hundred years arc past and gone ! The last of the Tudors aud the last of the Stuarts alike crumble into dust. A new dynasty holds the sceptre of England, and a queen, with many a woman's virtues, sits upon the tin-one. The rack and the torture-chamber are things of the past, and the savage laws of Elizabeth can be found only in some obsolete statute-book. Men walk abroad ia safety, for England is free !

Still do we fondly linger over the traces where oui martyrs suffered and our confessors endured. Still stands Thoresby Hall : its walls are gray and the ivy clings lovingly to them. Though still the property, it is no longer the habitatiou of the noble line. The pressure of fines removed, they have grown wealthy, and a more stately house has arisen for their home, and their honoured name ia on the rolls of England's nobility. There has been no stain on the history of their house. No apostate has ever been reckoned among their ancestry ; and in Thoresby Hall, though the daily sacrifice was oft suspended, and the faithful worshipped in fear, still, never through these long three hundred years has the sound of alien worship, of mutilated rites, or of false doctrine been heard within its walls. The chapel now was the chapel then ; small and not richly adorned, yet breathing the odour of a changeless faith, of an abiding presence, and the lime-trees send forth their sweet fragrance in the moonlight, while other lovers perchance plight their vows ; and on the grassy slopes the sunlight shines. Go visit Thoresby Hall, as we erewhilo did, on some summer day, when the scorching glare of the sun is almost blinding, and yet around Thoresby there breathes the air of coolness and repose. Go and look at the "hiding-hole" where Walter de Lisle once lay and prayed. Look round the garden and mark the rose-trees bending to the earth with their luxuriant weight, and feel as we did, that over Thoresby Hall there breathes a " perpetual benediction."

And what of Tybome ? Three hundredjyears are past and gone, and the tall trees axe cut down, and tall houses have lisen in their stead. A wilderness of houses, and the once muddy, broken road is smoothly paved, and the green fields are laid out into Hyde Park ; and the rash of gay carriages, and gayer ladies pass by, without a single thought, the place where many won the martyr's palm. How few know the spot where, close beside the Marble Arch, there stands a little milestone to tell where Tyborne stood. Its name serves now to mark a fashionable quarter of town, and there are none who, like the Catholic Queen,* kneel at the spot and water it with their tears. It is hard, indeed, to stand there, in the midst of bustling, rich, gay London, and recall the scenes such as we have dwelt upon in these pages ; and yet Tyborne should not be forgotten ; its witness pleaded to Heaven, and it pleads still more powerful than man's weapons, more availing than his strong words ; for — " God knows it is not force nor might, Not brave nor warlike band, Not shield and spear, not dint of sworde, Thnt must convert the land • It Is the blood of martyrs shed, It is that noble traine That fight with word and not with sworde, And Christ thoir capitaine."t The End.