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The position was so strange, and to him so incomprehensible. If Ivy had been a French girl, of course he could never have seen so much of her her mother or her maid would have mounted guard over her night and day. Only with a married woman could he have involved himself so deeply in France; and then, the sinfulness of their intercourse would have been clear from the very outset to both alike of them. But what charmed and attracted him most in Ivy was just her English innocence. She was so gentle, so guileless. This pure creature of God's never seemed to be aware she was doing grievously wrong. The man who had voluntarily resigned all hope or chance of chaste love was now irresistibly led on by the very force of the spell he had renounced for

ever.

And yet how hard it is for us to throw ourselves completely into somebody else's attitude! So French was he, so Catholic, that he couldn't quite understand the full depth of Ivy's innocence. This girl who could walk and talk so freely with a priest -surely she must be aware of what thing she was doing. She must know she was leading him and herself into a dangerous love, a love that could end in none but a guilty conclusion.

So thinking, and praying, and fighting against it, and despising himself, the young Abbé yet persisted half unawares on the path of destruction. His hot Celtic imagination proved too much for his self-control. All night long he lay awake, tossing and turning on his bed, alternately muttering fervent prayers to Our Lady, and building up for himself warm visions of his next meeting with Ivy. In the morning, he would rise up early, and go. afoot to the shrine of Notre-Dame de la Garoupe, and cry aloud with fiery zeal for help, that he might be delivered from temptation and then he would turn along the coast, toward his accustomed seat, looking out eagerly for the rustle of Ivy's dress among the cistus - bushes. When at last he met her, a great wave passed over him like a blush. He thrilled from head to foot. He grew cold. He trembled inwardly.

Not for nothing had he lived near the monastery of St. Gildas de Rhuys. For such a Heloise as that, what priest would not gladly become a second Abelard ?

One morning, he met her by his over

hanging ledge. The sea was rough. The waves broke grandly.

Ivy came up to him, with that conscious blush of hers just mantling her fair cheek. She liked him very much. But she was only eighteen. At eighteen, a girl hardly knows when she's really in love. She but vaguely suspects it.

now.

The Abbé held out his hand. Ivy took it with a frank smile. "Bonjour, M. de Kermadec !" she said lightly. She always addressed him so-not as M. l'Abbê, Was that intentional, he wondered? He took it to mean that she tried to forget his ecclesiastical position. "La tante Emma" should guard her treasure in an earthen vessel more carefully. Why do these Protestants tempt us priests with their innocent girls? He led her to a seat, and gazed at her like a lover, his heart beating hard, and his knees trembling violently. He must speak to her today. Though what he knew not.

He meant her no harm. He was too passionate, too pure, too earnest for that. But he meant her no good either. He meant nothing, nothing. Before her face he was a bark driven rudderless by the breeze. He only knew he loved her: she must be his. His passion hallowed his act. And she too, she loved him.

Leaning one hand on the rock, he talked to her for awhile, he hardly knew what. He saw she was tremulous. She looked down and blushed often. That intangible, incomprehensible, invisible something that makes lovers subtly conscious of one another's mood had told her how he felt. toward her. She tingled to the finger-tips. It was sweet to be there-oh, how sweet, yet, how hopeless.

Romance to her to him, sin, death, infamy.

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At last he leaned across to her. She had answered him back once more about some trifle," Mais, oui, M. de Kermadec." Why this monsieur' ?" the priest asked boldly, gazing deep into her startled eyes. "Je m'appelle Guy, mademoiselle. Why not Guy then-Ivy?''

He

At the word her heart gave a bound. He had said it! He had said it! loved her; or, how delicious! She could have cried for joy at that implied avowal.

But she drew herself up for all that, like a pure-minded English girl that she was, and answered with a red flush," Because it would be wrong, monsieur.

You know very well, as things are, I cannot."

What a flush! what a halo! Madonna and vows were all forgotten now. The Abbé flung himself forward in one wild burst of passion. He gazed in her eyes, and all was lost. His hot Celtic soul poured itself forth in full flood. He loved her he adored her she should be his and his only. He had fought against it. But love-love had conquered. "Oh, Ivy," he cried, passionately, "you will not refuse me! You will be mine and mine only. You will love me as I love you !" Ivy's heart broke forth too. She looked at him and melted. Guy," she answered, first framing the truth to herself in that frank confession, "I love you in I have loved you since the very first moment I saw you. The Abbé seized her hand, and raised it rapturously to his lips. "My beloved," he cried, rosy red, " you are mine, you are mine-and I am yours forever."

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Ivy drew back a little, somewhat abashed and alarmed by his evident ardor. "I wonder if I'm doing wrong?" she cried, with the piteous uncertainty of early youth. "Your vows, you know! your Vows! How will you ever get rid of

them ?"

The Abbé gazed at her astonished. What could this angel mean? She won dered if she was doing wrong! Get rid of his vows! He, a priest, to make love! What naïveté ! What innocence !

But he was too hot to repent. "My vows!" he cried, flinging them from him with both hands into the sea. "Ivy, let them go! Let the waves bear them off! What are they to me now? I renounce them! I have done with them!"

Ivy looked at him, breathing deep. Why, he loved her indeed. For she knew how devoted he was, how earnest, how Catholic. Then you'll join our Church," she said simply, "and give up your orders, and marry me !"

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If a thunderbolt had fallen at the young priest's feet, its effect could not have been more crushing, more instantaneous, more extraordinary. In a moment, he had come to himself again, cooled, astonished, horrified. Oh, what had he said? What had he done? What vile sin had he committed? Not against heaven, now, or the saints, for of that and his own soul he thought just then but little but against

that pure young girl whom he loved, that sweet creature of innocence! And how could he ever explain to her? How retract? How excuse himself? Even to attempt an explanation would be sheer treason to her purity. The thought in his mind was too unholy for her to hear. To tell her what he meant would be a crime, a sin, a bassesse !

He saw it in an instant, how the matter would envisage itself to her un-Catholic mind. She could never understand that to him, a single fall, a temporary backsliding, was but a subject for repentance, confession, absolution, pardon : while to renounce his orders, renounce his Church, contract a marriage that in his eyes would be no marriage at all, but a living lie, was to continue in open sin, to degrade and dishonor her. For her own sake, even, if saints and Madonna were not, Guy de Kermadec could never consent so to taint and to sully her. That pure soul was too dear to him. He had dreamed for a moment, indeed, of foul wrong, in the white heat of passion: all men may be misled for a moment of impulse by the strong demon within them: but to persevere in such wrong, to go on sinning openly, flagrantly, shamelesslyGuy de Kermadec drew back from the bare idea with disdain. As priest and as gentleman alike, he looked down upon it and contemned it.

The reaction was profound. For a minute or two he gazed into Ivy's face like one spellbound. He paused and hesitated. What way out of this maze? How on earth could he undeceive her? Then suddenly, with a loud cry, he sprang to his feet like one shot, and stood up by the edge of the rocks in his long black soutane. He held out his hands to raise her. "Mademoiselle," he groaned aloud from his heart, in a very broken tone, "I have done wrong-grievous wrong I have sinned-against heaven and against you, and am no more worthy to be called a priest. He raised his voice solemnly. It was the voice of a bruised and wounded creature. "Go back!" he cried once more, waving her away from him as from one polluted. "You can never forgive

me.

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But at least, go back. I should have cut out my tongue rather than have spoken so to you. I am a leper-a wild beast. Ten thousand times over, I crave your pardon."

Ivy gazed at him, thunderstruck. In her innocence, she hardly knew what the man even meant. But she saw her romance had toppled over to its base, and shattered itself to nothing. Slowly she rose, and took his hand across the rocks to steady her. They reached the track in silence. As they gained it, the Abbé raised his hat for the last time, and turned away bitterly. He took the path to the right. Obedient to his gesture, Ivy went to the left. Back to the hotel she went, lingering, with a heart like a stone, locked herself up in her own room, and cried long and silently.

But as for Guy de Kermadec, all on fire with his remorse, he walked fast along the sea-shore, over the jagged rock path, toward the town of Antibes.

Through the narrow streets of the old city he made his way, like a blind man, to the house of a priest whom he knew. His heart was seething now with regret and shame and horror. What vile thing was this wherewith he, a priest of God, had ventured to affront the pure innocence of a maiden? What unchastity had he forced on the chaste eyes of girlhood? Ivy had struck him dumb by her very freedom from all guile. And it was she, the heretic, for whose soul he had wrestled in prayer with Our Lady, who had brought him back with a bound to the conscious ness of sin, and the knowledge of purity, from the very brink of a precipice.

He knocked at the door of his friend's house like a moral leper.

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His brother priest received him kindly. Guy de Kermadec was pale, but his manner was wild, like one mad with frenzy. "Mon père," he said straight out, I have come to confess, in articulo mortis. I feel I shall die to-night. I have a warning from Our Lady. I ask you for absolution, a blessing, the holy sacrament, extreme unction. If you refuse them, I die. Give me God at your peril."

The elder priest hesitated. How could he give the host otherwise than to a person fasting? How administer extreme unction save to a dying man? But Guy de Kermadec, in his fiery haste, overbore all scrupulous ecclesiastical objections. He was a dying man, he cried: Our Lady's own warning was surely more certain than the guess or conjecture of a mere earthly doctor. The viaticum he demanded, and the viaticum he must have. He

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He knelt down and confessed. would brook no refusal. The country priest, all amazed, sat and listened to him, breathless. Once or twice he drew his sleek hand over his full fat face doubtfully. The strange things this hot Breton said to him were beyond his comprehension. They spoke different languages. How could he, good easy soul, with his cut-and-dried theology, fathom the fiery depths of that volcanic bosom? He nursed his chin in suspense, and marvelled. Other priests had gone astray. Why this wild. fever of repentance? Other women had been tempted. Why this passionate tenderness for the sensibilities of a mere English heretic? Other girls had sinned outright. Why this horror at the harın done to her in intention only?

But to Guy de Kermadec himself it was a crime of lèse - majesté against a young girl's purity. A crime whose very nature it would be criminal to explain to her. A crime that he could only atone with his life. Apology was impossible. Explanation was treason. Nothing remained for it now but the one resource of silence.

In an orgy of penitence, the young priest confessed, and received absolution : he took the viaticum, trembling: he obtained extreme unction. Then, with a terrible light in his eyes, he went into a stationer's shop, and in tremulous lines wrote a note, which he posted to Ivy.

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"Très chère dame," it said simply, you will see me no more. This morning, I offered, half unawares, a very great wrong to you. Your own words, and Our Lady's intervention, brought me back to myself. Thank Heaven, it was in time. I might have wronged you more. My last prayers are for your pure soul. Pray for mine, and forgive me.

"Adieu !

"GUY DE KERMADEC." After that, he strode out to the Cape once more. It was growing dark by that time, for he was long at Antibes. Не walked with fiery eagerness to the edge of the cliff, where he had sat with joy that morning-where he had sat before so often. The brink of the rocks was wet with salt spray, very smooth and slippery. The Abbé stood up, and looked over at the black water. The Church makes suicide

a sin, and he would obey the Church. But no canon prevents one from leaning over the edge of a cliff, to admire the dark waves. They rolled in with a thud, and broke in sheets of white spray against the honeycombed base of the rock, invisible beneath him.

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"Si dextra tua tibi offenderit," they said, in their long slow chant-"si dextra tua tibi offenderit." If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off. And Ivy was dearer to him than his own right hand. Yet not for that, oh, Mary, Star of the Sea, not for that; nor yet for his own salvation ;-let him burn, if need were, in nethermost hell, to atone this error-but for that pure maid's sake, and for the cruel wrong he had put upon her. "Oh, Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows," he cried, wringing his hands in his agony, who wert a virgin thyself, help and succor this virgin in her own great sorrow. Thou knowest her innocence, her guilelessness, her simplicity, and the harm beyond healing that I wrought her unawares. Oh, blot it out of her pure white soul and bless her. Thou knowest that for her sake alone, and to undo this sin to her, I stand here to-night, on the brink of the precipice. Queen of the Waves, Our Lady of the Look-out, if the sacrifice please thee, take me thus to thine own bosom. Let thy billows rise up and blot out my black sin. Oh, Mary, hear me ! Stella maris, adesto!"

He stood there for hours, growing colder

and stiffer. It was quite dark now, and the sea was rising. Yet still he prayed on, and still the spray dashed upward. At last, as he prayed in the dim`night, erect, with bare head, a great wave broke higher than ever over the rocks below him. With a fierce joy, Guy de Kermadec felt it thrill through the thickness of the cliff: then it rose in a head, and burst upon him with a roar like the noise of thunder. He lost his footing, and fell, clutching at the jagged pinnacles for support, into the deep trough below. There, the billows caught him up, and pounded him on the sharp crags. Thank Heaven for that mercy! Our Lady had heard his last prayer. Mary, full of grace, had been pleased to succor him. With a penance of blood, from torn hands and feet, was he expiating his sin against heaven and against Ivy.

Next morning, the douanier, pacing the shore alone, saw a dead body entangled among the sharp rocks by the precipice. Climbing down on hands and knees, he fished it out with difficulty, and ran to fetch a gendarme. The face was beaten to a jelly, past all recognition, and the body was mangled in a hideous fashion. But it wore a rent soutane, all in ribbons on the rocks; and the left third finger bore a signet-ring with a coat of arms and the motto, "Foy d'un Kermadec.'

Ivy is still unwed. No eye but hers has ever seen Guy de Kermadec's last letter.-Contemporary Review.

IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND.

BY A SON OF ADAM.

My first impression of England was formed in the railway station at Dover. I was struck by the quietude, the order, and politeness of the officials. No one seemed to raise his voice, there was no confusion, and yet but little directing. Travelling from France to England, I could not but notice the contrast in these particulars between Dover and Calais. My second impression was a delightful one, and it came to me from the rapidity and smoothness with which the train swept forward through a landscape of wondrous pastoral beauty. When the train pulled up at the station there was no

sudden shock. The impression of quiet orderliness and practical efficience was, at every moment, deepened. Yet the carriages did not seem to me to be either as well built or as comfortable as those in use on the Continent, and this gave me pause. My third impression came from the Custom-house officials at Charing Cross. I was astonished by their politeness. I say "astonished," because I had never heard that politeness was a characteristic of the English. Travellers of all nationalities have descanted on their brusqueness amounting almost to rudeness, and the Englishman when he travels

abroad is not noted, to say the least of it, for his courtesy. Yet the porters and the Custom-house officials struck me by their politeness and by their readiness to be serviceable. Having had but little sleep on the train or on the boat, I was wearied out and sleepy on reaching London. My temper was not at its best, and yet the Custom-house officials, in spite of the exceeding strictness of their supervision, soothed instead of angering me. They evidently tried to do their work with thoroughness and yet as rapidly as possible. And this seemed to me to be the truest courtesy they could show to tired travellers.

The next impression was borne in upon me from English hotel-life. I did not go to one of the more modern caravansaries in Northumberland Avenue, but the hotel is supposed to be an excellent one; and after I had slept for a couple of hours in a comfortable bed, I asked for my bath. Naturally enough I expected to find it exceedingly good. England is the country of the tub. The English have made of personal cleanliness a fetich which has imposed its worship on all civilized peoples. Here, if anywhere, I thought, I shall have a perfect bath. Alas for my expectations! The bath was of the most primitive description. To say I was astonished is to say but little-I was dumbfounded. Since then, of course, I have heard various explanations of this strange fact. I have been told that in the newer hotels the arrangements for bathing are more complete and better equipped; but, as these hotels are notoriously frequented by foreigners, this evasion does not completely satisfy me. The true explanation may lie in the fact that the Englishman is, above all beings, practical. He wishes to be clean, he takes a bath, whether it is a pleasurable or an uncomfortable process matters to him but little. The Englishman is seldom a sensualist. It seems strange, however, that the English, who were the first to elevate bodily comfort to the dignity of a religion (perhaps the only cult possible in a materialistic civilization), should allow themselves to be outstripped in devotion. Or is it that they hate in everything counsels of perfection, and complacently content themselves with the mediocre ? Like most foreigners, I make no real breakfast. After my bath I asked for coffee, and got a strange brew, which

I am utterly unable to classify; it was something so unnaturally bad, so monstrously unlike any coffee I had ever before seen, that I thought some mistake must have been made, and that the waiter had brought me a mixture of coffee and stout. I asked for another cup. I got it. I did not taste it. By the look and smell I recognized my former enemy, and gave myself up cheerfully to abstinence. I only mention these incidents because they prepared me for the disappointments of ordinary English living. The rich, of course, live well in all countries. But the English middle and lower classes live upon food which can scarcely be called appetizing, in spite of the fact that English beef and mutton is notoriously the best in the world. Few arts come naturally to the Anglo-Saxon race.

To be rightly appreciated, the Englishman must be seen at work. In London the policeman directs you, with unfailing courtesy; with a wave of his hand he stops the traffic of the most crowded thoroughfare, and then calmly conducts an old lady, or an old gentleman, or a group of children, across the street in safety. The policeman is an autocrat, there is no appeal against his authority, and yet he is always serviceable and polite. No orders from above would make him the willing servant of the people if good qualities were not innate in him. Contrast his conduct with the behavior of a sergent de ville in Paris, and my appreciation will at once be justified. Again, take the hansom cab-driver, who is content with his simple fare, and who, as a rule, is a wonderfully good "whip." have seldom suffered from rudeness at the hands of any cab-driver in London; but in Paris, if your "tip" does not come up to the expectations of the cocher-and if he happens to be in an ill-temper, or drunk, his expectations are usually fantastic-he will slang you in the vilest language, without let or hindrance. I, therefore, infer that punishment for such offences is more easily secured in London than in Paris. The English democracy, it appears, is not yet educated to the point of confounding civility with servility.

I

I must now give a few instances of unfavorable impressions. The public buildings in London, and also the private houses, did not seem to me to be nearly so fine, or so imposing, as are the cor

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