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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Ashcliffe Hall - A tale of the last century - -Author: Emily Sarah Holt - -Release Date: October 19, 2022 [eBook #69096] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Al Haines - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ASHCLIFFE HALL *** - - - - - - -[Frontispiece: Edward's Escape] - - - - ASHCLIFFE HALL - - - A TALE OF THE LAST CENTURY. - - - - BY - - EMILY SARAH HOLT - - - - "No joy is true, save that which hath no end; - No life is true save that which liveth ever; - No health is sound, save that which God doth send; - No love is real, save that which fadeth never." - --REV. HORATIUS BOMAR, D.D. - - - - SAINT PAUL - D. D. MERRILL COMPANY - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -CHAP. - -I. Old Cicely has her Thoughts - -II. A Rat behind the Wainscot - -III. Alone in the World - -IV. My Lady Ingram - -V. The Harrying of Lauchie - -VI. The Troubles of Greatness - -VII. The Night Roswith Died - -VIII. Wanted, Diogenes' Lantern - -IX. Inside and Outside - -X. Anent John Paterson - -XI. How Philip Came Back - -XII. Traitors--Human and Canine - -XIII. Lady Griselda's Ruby Ring - - - - -ASHCLIFFE HALL. - - - -I. - -OLD CICELY HAS HER THOUGHTS. - - "I ask Thee for the daily strength - To none that ask denied, - A mind to blend with outward things - While keeping at Thy side; - Content to fill a little space - So Thou be glorified." - Miss Waring. - - -In a large bedroom, on an autumn afternoon, two girls were divesting -themselves of their out-door attire after a walk. They were dressed -alike, though their ages were eleven and nineteen. Their costume -consisted of brown stuff petticoats, over which they wore cashmere -gowns of a white ground, covered with brown-stemmed red flowers, and -edged with quillings of green ribbon. These dresses were high in the -back and on the shoulders, but were cut down square in the front. -The sleeves reached to the elbows, and were there finished by white -muslin frills. The girls wore high-heeled shoes, the heels being -red, and brown worsted stockings, which the petticoat was short -enough to show plainly. On the dressing-table before them lay two -tall white muslin caps, called _cornettes_, abundant in frills and -lace, but having no strings. The hair of both girls was dressed high -over a frame, standing up some three inches above their heads; and -when the elder put on her cap, it increased her apparent height by at -least three inches more. - -The chamber in which they were dressing was long and low, two large -beams being visible in the ceiling; and the casement, not two feet in -height, ran nearly across the width of the room. There was a faint, -delicate scent of lavender. The furniture comprised a large -four-post bedstead, an unwieldy wardrobe, a washstand, a -dressing-table, and two chairs. The carpet was only round the bed -and washstand, the rest of the floor being left uncovered, and -shining with age and use. The walls were wainscoted about half-way -to the ceiling, the higher portion being painted a dull light-green. -The girls turned to leave the room. - -"O Lucy! your _cornette_!" - -Lucy--aged eleven--made a dash at the dressing-table, and seizing her -cap by its frills, to the severe detriment of the lace, stuck it on -her head in the first way that occurred to her, and was about to rush -down-stairs without further ceremony. - -"That will not do, Lucy," said the elder girl. "You know what -Henrietta will say. Go to the mirror and put your _cornette_ on -properly." - -Muttering something which sounded like a statement that she did not -care what Henrietta said, Lucy retraced her steps to the glass, -pulled off the _cornette_, and stuck it on again, in a style very -little better than before. This done, she joined her sister, who was -half-way down the stairs. It was a fine old wooden staircase which -the girls descended, "worn by the feet that now were silent,"[1] and -at its base a long, narrow passage stretched right and left. Our -young friends turned to the right, and after passing on for a few -feet, entered a door on the left hand, which led to the family -parlor. This room had already three occupants, two young ladies and -a boy of fourteen. The two former were dressed like Lucy and her -sister, except that the younger of them, who sat at a tapestry-frame -in the corner of the room, wore broad pieces of brown velvet round -her neck and wrists. The boy, who was equipped in out-door costume, -part of which consisted of a pair of thick and pre-eminently splashed -boots, sat on a low chair, staring into the fire, whistling, and -playing with a riding-whip. - -"Lucy! your hair!" was the shocked exclamation with which the -new-comers were received. - -"Oh, my hair is all right! I brushed it--this morning," said Lucy, -the last words in a much lower tone than the rest; and then she asked -of her whistling brother, "Have you heard anything, Charley?" - -Charley shook his head without ceasing to whistle. - -"Harry is not come yet?" - -"No," said Charley, in a very discontented tone; "and he has taken -Bay Fairy, and I can't go out. 'Tis enough to provoke a saint." - -"That ben't you, Master Charley!" said a new and cheery voice, as an -elderly woman appeared, carrying a little tea-tray, from behind the -heavy, japanned screen which stood near the door. She was dressed in -a black woollen gown, low in the neck, with a white muslin kerchief -above, and a cap of more modest pretensions than those of the young -ladies. - -"What does the impertinent old woman mean by calling me a sinner?" -inquired Charley, addressing himself to his boots. - -"You ben't?" said old Cicely, setting down the tea-tray. "Well! -stand up and let us look at you, do! You are the first ever I see -that wasn't no sinner!" - -To which cutting observation Charley replied only by banging the door -between himself and the unwelcome querist. - -"Ay, it ben't for none of us to set ourselves up i' thatn's!" -meditatively remarked old Cicely, in her turn to the teapot. "Mrs. -Henrietta, there's a poor old man at the yard-door, my dear, and I -can't tell where to look for Madam; maybe you'd see to him, poor -soul?" - -Henrietta, the eldest sister, answered by quitting the room. Cicely -arranged the tea-cups--large shallow cups of delicate china--on a -small round table in the window. - -"The tea is ready, Mrs. Bell," she said; "will you please to pour it?" - -The decorated young lady who sat at the tapestry-frame rose -languidly, and began to pour out the tea, while Cicely set four -chairs round the little table; having done which, the latter calmly -took one of them herself, and producing a large colored handkerchief -from her pocket, carefully spread it over her black woollen dress. - -"Well, truly," said she, for she was in a talkative mood this -evening, "there is no end to the good in a dish of tea. I am sorry I -ever said what I have done against it, my dears, and I wish Madam -would drink it. 'Tis so heartening like! It is a new-fangled sort -of drink, there's no denying; but surely, I wonder how we ever got on -without it!" - -"Cicely," said Henrietta, coming in, "I have told Dolly to give the -poor man some meat and dry straw in the shed for to-night." - -"Very good, Mrs. Henrietta," answered Cicely; "I'll see as he gets -it. Mrs. Bell, I'll be obliged to you of another dish of tea." - -There were only four tea-drinkers in this family, and, until a few -months previous, there had been only three. The gentlemen despised -what they considered a washy and exclusively feminine beverage, and -the mistress of the house could by no means be induced to taste it. -It was a new-fangled drink, she said, and new-fangled things, of -whatever description, she abhorred. People never drank tea when she -was a child, and why should they want it now? This was Madam -Passmore's logic, and under its influence she drank no tea. Still -she did not forbid her daughters' indulging in it. Young people, she -allowed, were given to new-fangled things; and could be expected to -be wiser only as they grew older. She was a little annoyed when the -logic of the young people, adverse to her own, made a tea-convert of -Cicely Aggett, who was about twenty-five years her senior; but Madam -Passmore was a quiet, passive sort of woman, who never kept anger -long, and was in her heart a fatalist. "What must be must be," she -used to say; and many a time had she consoled herself with this -comforting adage under troubles of various kinds. She said so when -her son Harry went into the army; she said so when her husband broke -his leg in fox-hunting; and she said so, but with tears, when her -little daughter Margaret died. She had no political opinions but -those of her husband, who was a fervent Whig; but deep down in her -heart she was a profound Tory in all domestic matters, for she -disliked change and novelty beyond everything. She never put down a -new carpet until the old carpet was quite beyond endurance; not from -any parsimonious motive, but simply because she liked best those -things to which she was most accustomed. She never would have slept -with comfort if her bed had been turned with its side to the wall -instead of its back; nor would she ever have conceded that a new lamp -burnt half so brightly as the old one. Her surviving family -consisted of two sons and four daughters, who were remarkably alike -in person--all but one. The neighbors who were sufficiently high in -position to visit with Squire Passmore of Ashcliffe, often wondered -how it was that Celia Passmore was so unlike every other member of -the family. They were tall and stately in figure, she was small and -slight; they had abundant light hair, hers was thin and dark; their -eyes were blue or gray, hers brown. Most of all was she unlike her -twin-sister, Isabella, who was considered the beauty of the family, -and was very well aware of it. There was nothing remarkable about -any of the others; but Celia, some said, was sadly plain, poor girl! -and it must be a great mortification to Madam Passmore, who had been -a country belle in her young days. - -Cicely Aggett, whom we have seen seated at the table with her young -mistresses, was one of a class wholly extinct in our days. She was a -dependent, but not a servant. She had, some fifty years before this, -been Madam Passmore's nurse, and she now filled a nondescript -position in the family of her nursling. She was always ready to help -or advise, and considered nothing beneath her which could add to the -comfort of any member of the family; but she took all her meals in -the parlor, and was essentially one of themselves. She was the -confidante of everybody, and all knew that she never abused a trust. -Madam Passmore would as soon have thought of turning the dog out of -the room before making a confidential communication, as of turning -out Cicely, simply because Cicely's dog-like fidelity was completely -above suspicion. - -The tea was now finished. Lucy, who had not yet arrived at the -dignity of a tea-drinker, was roaming about the room as Cicely -departed with the tea-tray. - -"There is Harry!" she exclaimed, looking out of the window. "He must -have some news--he is waving something above his head. Henrietta, -may I run and meet him?" - -Henrietta gave consent, and away went Lucy at the top of her speed -down the broad avenue which led from the house through the park. The -young officer was trotting up on Bay Fairy, with his spaniel Pero -panting after him; but he reined in his horse as Lucy came up to him. - -"A victory!" he cried. "A victory at Malplaquet! a glorious victory! -Run, Lucy!--a race! who will tell Father first?" - -Lucy--if it were possible; there was very little doubt of that. She -ran back as fast as she had come, turning her head once to see how -Harry was getting on. He was not urging his horse beyond a walk; it -was evident that he meant to give her a chance of winning. She ran -towards the stable-yard, where she knew that the Squire was, and at -last, arriving triumphantly first at the yard-gate, burst suddenly -into the arms of her father, as he was just opening the gate to come -out. - -"Hallo!" said the Squire, when this unexpected apparition presented -itself. "Hoity-toity! What is the matter, Lucibelle?" - -"A--victory!" was all that Lucy could utter. - -"Where? who told you?" he asked, excitedly. - -"Harry," said the panting Lucy. "Somewhere in--France, I think--'tis -a--queer name." - -"In France, Sir, at Malplaquet," said Harry, who now rode up quickly, -having good-naturedly allowed his little sister the pleasure of -winning the race; "a great victory under the Duke of Marlborough." -And he handed the _Gazette_ to his father. - -"That is glorious!" said the Squire. "I will go in and tell Mother." - -Not that Mother--that is, Madam Passmore--cared anything about -victories, but she liked to see her husband pleased, and would have -welcomed equally a victory or a defeat which had wrought that -desirable end. Harry walked into the house with his father, and -Lucy, having regained her breath, followed them. - -"Why, Charley, where have you been?" asked the Squire, as that young -gentleman made his appearance. "Here is a splendid victory over the -French, and you are not here to cheer!" - -"Where have I been?" repeated Charley, in a very glum tone. "Well, I -like that! I have been at home, Sir, kicking my heels together for -want of anything else to do: your party and Harry had taken all the -horses." - -"I did not know you wanted Fairy, Charley," said Harry, kindly. "I -am sorry I took her." - -"Come, my lad, no use in crying over spilt milk," said the Squire. -"It is Saturday night, Charley, and people ought to be at peace on -Saturday night." - -"I hate Saturday nights, and Sundays too, and I don't want to be at -peace!" said Charley, walking off. - - -On that afternoon, while Harry was riding home with the news of the -victory of Malplaquet, an event was taking place in London Which the -family at Ashcliffe little imagined, yet which very nearly concerned -one of them. - -In an upper room of a house in Holborn Bars sat half a dozen men in -conclave. The door of the chamber was double, the inner of green -baize, the outer of strong oak, barred and bolted, as if the -conference were desirous to avoid eavesdroppers. - -At one side of the table sat three men, all of whom had passed middle -age. We have little to do with them, so they may be succinctly -described as two short men and one tall one. Opposite stood three -others, who were all young; and it is with one of these alone that we -are intimately concerned. - -He was about twenty-six years of age, tall and slight; he wore a -black wig, and his eyes, also black, were peculiarly brilliant and -penetrating. Yet his complexion was moderately fair, and he was not -devoid of a fresh, healthy color. There was great quickness, -combined with some natural grace, in all his motions; and he -evidently comprehended the meaning of his elder and slower companions -before their sentences were above half-finished. - -"Here, Brother Cuthbert, are your instructions," the tall man was -saying. "You remember, I am sure, the private orders which I gave -you a week past, with reference to certain information to be gained -and brought to the King?" - -"Perfectly, Father--all of them," replied Cuthbert, in a clear, -pleasant voice. - -"Very well. Now listen to another order. My Lady Ingram writ to the -General a month past, to send on an errand for her--(if it might be -done with any other we should have)--one of our number, who could be -trusted for secrecy, speed, diligence, and discretion. We have named -you." - -Brother Cuthbert bowed low in answer. - -"This matter of her Ladyship's," pursued the tall man, "is, of -course, of secondary importance, and may not, indeed, directly -conduce to the interests of the Church. It must, nevertheless, be -borne in mind, that should the sons die unmarried (as it is desirable -the elder should), the daughter will become heir to the Ingram -estates. I mentioned something of this to you last night." - -Brother Cuthbert bowed again. - -"Moreover, for other reasons known to the General, it was thought -desirable to grant her Ladyship's request. Your destination, in the -first place, is Exeter, where you will be met by my Lady Ingram's -gentleman-usher, Mr. Gilbert Irvine, who is able to give you any -information concerning her affairs which you may find it necessary to -ask. From Exeter, you will proceed (after doing your business there) -to Ashcliffe Hall, an old mansion on the road to Moreton Hampstead, -belonging to one John Passmore, a Whig country gentleman. Here is a -sealed paper, which you will open at Exeter. It contains further -instructions, a plan of Ashcliffe Hall, and various notes which you -may find useful. And here are ten guineas, which my Lady Ingram has -transmitted. Mr. Irvine will accompany you to Ashcliffe; and you can -employ or dismiss him at that place, as circumstances may arise. In -the mean time, we recommend to you not on any consideration to -neglect either the general and constant necessity of serving the -Church, as the opportunity may present itself, nor the special secret -service on which you go, touching the King and cause. If you require -more money, apply to any one of us three. We rely upon you, not, on -the one hand, to be more lavish of either time or money than is -necessary, nor, on the other, to leave the work only half-finished." - -"I will do my utmost, Father, to order myself by your instructions," -replied Cuthbert, lifting his head. - -"You will supply yourself with a surname, which even Mr. Irvine must -not know not to be your real name. Select one which shall not be so -uncommon as to attract notice, nor so common that letters would be -likely to miscarry. You can consider this at your leisure, and let -us know to-morrow of what name you have thought, since we shall not -require you to set out before to-morrow evening." - -"What say you to 'Stevens?'" suggested Cuthbert in a moment. - -A grave consultation among the elder Jesuits followed, ending with -the approval of Cuthbert's suggestion. - -"You are very young, my Brother, to be trusted with so grave and -important a matter as His Majesty's errands are," warned the elder -priest in conclusion. "We have relied upon your ingenuity and -devotion. Let us not have cause to regret choosing you." - -"You will not do that, Father," answered Cuthbert, not so much -proudly as coolly and confidently. - -And making his adieux to the conclave, Mr. Cuthbert Stevens--for so -we must henceforth call him--withdrew from the room. - -We shall see him again shortly; but for the present we must return -(rather more rapidly than he could travel) to Ashcliffe Hall. - - -"Celia!" said Lucy to her sister, a few hours later, as the latter -tucked her up in bed, "do you think--is it very--did you hear what -Charley said about Sunday?" - -"Yes, dear. Charley was in a passion, and did not mean what he said, -I hope." - -"But do you think that it is--very wicked--to get so tired on -Sunday?" asked Lucy, slowly, as if she were half afraid of bringing -her thoughts to light. "For I do get dreadfully tired, Celia. -Sermons, endless sermons all day long! for, as if the sermon in -church were not enough, Father must needs read another at home on -Sunday nights! Celia, do you think it is very wrong to get tired of -sermons?" - -"I suppose," said Celia, thoughtfully, "that must depend on the sort -of sermon." - -"I never seem to get a chance of hearing any sort but one," said -Lucy; "and I can't understand them." - -"Well, Lucy, it is not pleasant to be obliged to sit still and listen -to what you do not understand," Celia admitted. - -"Oh, I get so tired!" said Lucy, flinging herself on another part of -the bed, as if the very thought of the coming Sunday fatigued her. -"Don't take the light away just yet, Celia." - -"No, dear; I have my clean ruffles to sew on for to-morrow," answered -Celia, sitting down to her work. - -"Celia, do you understand Dr. Braithwaite's sermons?" - -"Not always. Remember what a learned man he is, Lucy; we must not -expect very wise men to talk like you and me." - -"I wish he did not know quite so much, then," said Lucy. "I could -understand him if he would talk like you." - -"Aught I can do for you, Mrs. Celia, my dear?" asked old Cicely, -looking in. "Prithee give me those ruffles. You have been sewing -all day." - -"Cicely," asked Lucy, returning to the charge, "do you understand Dr. -Braithwaite's sermons?" - -"No, my dear, scarce a word," said Cicely. - -"I wonder at your listening so quietly!" - -"Well, you see, my dear, I has my thoughts," said Cicely, fitting the -ruffle. "If aught goes on that I can't understand, why, I has my -thoughts. When Master reads a sermon of an evening, well, sometimes -I understand, and sometimes not. If I do, well and good; but if I -don't, I can sit and think. And I think, Miss Lucy, that there's a -deal of difference between you and me; but there's a cruel deal -bigger difference between either of us and Him up yonder. It must be -a sight harder for us to understand Him than it is to understand -Parson Braithwaite." - -"But what has that to do with it, Cicely?" asked Lucy, wonderingly. - -"Why, my dear, ben't that what all sermons is for--to teach us to -understand God? Just the beginning, you know, must be hard; it -always is. Why, when Madam had me learned to read--old Madam, your -grandmother, my dears--do you think I liked learning the -Christ-Cross-Row?[2] Wasn't it very hard, think you, keeping day -after day a-saying, 'A, B, C, D,' when there wasn't no sense in it? -But 'tis all through the Christ-Cross-Row that I've learned to read -the Book. Eh! but I have thanked old Madam many a hundred times for -having me learned to read the Book! Well, my dears, 'tis always hard -at the beginning; and sure the beginning of learning Him must be -harder nor learning to read." - -"Why, Cicely, you are as bad to understand as Dr. Braithwaite!" - -"Maybe so, my dear. If a little one asked you for to tell him what -big A was like, I think you'd scarce make him understand without -showing him. And if you want to know what He is like, I think you -must read the Book. 'Tis like a picture of Him. I don't know any -other way, without you read the Book." - -"Do you mean the Bible, Cicely? But Dr. Braithwaite does not say -much about that." - -"I haven't got nought to say about Parson Braithwaite, Miss Lucy. -But surely all that is good in any sermon or aught else must come out -of the Book." - -"But we could read that at home." - -"So we could, my dear; more's the pity as we don't! But there's -somewhat in the Book about that--as we ben't to stop going to -church."[3] - -"Where is that, Cicely? I never saw it." - -"I haven't a good memory, not for particular words, my dear, and I -can't tell you without I had the Book; but 'tis there, certain sure." - -Celia had been quietly looking in her little book-case while Cicely -was speaking. It contained many things beside books--baskets, -pincushions, bottles of Hungary and lavender water, and other -heterogeneous articles. But there were about half a dozen books -absolutely her own, and one of them was a Bible--a Bible which she -very rarely opened, she acknowledged to herself, with a feeling of -shame. Looking for it, and bringing it out, she secretly wiped the -dust from the covers, and offered it to Cicely. - -"Here is one, Cicely; can you show us what you mean?" - -"Not in your Book, Mrs. Celia. If I had my own Book, I could. My -dear, 'tis choke-full of marks--bits of worsted mostly. I often have -it lying open by me when I'm a-darning stockings or some such work, -and if I finds a particular nice bit, why, down there goes a bit of -worsted into him. Eh! but I have some fine bits marked with them -worsted! My dears, if you haven't read the Book you don't know what -nice reading there is." - -"I think I will read it," said Lucy, gaping. - -"You can't without you have glasses, my dear," said Cicely, quietly, -finishing off the ruffle. - -"Glasses! Why Cicely!" exclaimed Lucy. - -"Yes, Miss Lucy, glasses," was Cicely's persistent answer. "Not such -like as I works with, my dear: them is earthly glasses. But there is -heavenly glasses, and you can't rend the Book without, and you must -ask Him for them. He is sure to give them if you ask Him. I think I -could find that bit, Mrs. Celia, if you will give me bold." - -Celia passed the Bible to the old woman, and she, opening at the -first chapter of St. Matthew, slowly traced the lines until she -reached the passage which she wanted. - -"Now, look here, Mrs. Celia. This is him." - -Celia took the book, and read where Cicely pointed. - -"'If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your -children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give -good things to them that ask Him?'"[4] - -"Stop a bit!" said old Cicely; "that ben't just the one I meant. -Let's look a bit on." - -After a little more searching she discovered her text. "Read that, -please, Mrs. Celia," she said. - -Celia read in a low tone: "'If ye, then, being evil, know how to give -good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your heavenly -Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?'"[5] - -Lucy seemed to have dropped asleep. - -"Cicely," asked Celia, "how shall we know if we have the Holy Spirit?" - -"Feel Him, my dear,--feel Him!" said Cicely, with a light in her -eyes. "I reckon you don't want telling whether you are happy or not, -do you?" - -"No, indeed," replied Celia, smiling. - -"No more you'll want to be told whether you have Him," resumed old -Cicely, triumphantly. - -"But how did you get Him given?" pursued Celia. - -"Why, my dear, I wanted Him, and I asked for Him, and I got Him. -'Tis just so simple as that. I never knew aught about it till I read -the Book. I'm only a very simple, ignorant, old woman, my dear. -Maybe the reason why I don't know no more is just that I am such a -dunce. He can't learn me no more, because I haven't no wits to be -learned. You've got plenty of wit, Mrs. Celia--you try! Why, just -think the lots of things you know more than me! You can write, and -make figures, and play pretty music, and such like, and I know nought -but sewing, and dressing meat and drink, and reading the Book. -Mayhap the Lord gives me fine things to think about, just because I -know so little of other things--a sort of making up like, you see. -But you try it, Mrs. Celia, my dear!" - -"I fear I scarce have your glasses, Cicely," answered Celia, with a -sigh. - -"I've done the ruffles now," said Cicely, rising. "You come to me -into my little room when you've time, Mrs. Celia, and I'll show you -some of them fine bits--any time you like. And as to the glasses, -you ask for 'em. Good-night, Mrs. Celia." - - -Ashcliffe Hall was up at six on week-days, but when the Sunday came -round, it was not its custom to rise before eight. Costumes were -resplendent on that day, and took some time in assuming. On Sundays -and special gala-days only, the young ladies wore hoop-petticoats and -patched their faces.[6] Their attire to-day comprised quilted -petticoats of light-blue satin, silk brocaded gowns, extremely long -in the waist, _cornettes_ of lace, lace-trimmed muslin aprons, white -silk stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. Their gowns, too, had -trains, which for comfort were fastened up behind, looking like a -huge burden on the back of the wearer. They looked very stiff as -they rustled down the stairs,--all except Lucy, whom no costume on -earth could stiffen, though even she wore a graver and more demure -air than usual, which perhaps was partly due to the coming sermons. -The girls drank their tea, Lucy joining them in the meal, but using -milk instead of the fashionable beverage. By the time they had done, -Madam Passmore and the Squire were down-stairs; they always -breakfasted in their own room on Sunday mornings. Then John, the old -coachman, slowly drove up to the front door the great family-coach, -drawn by two large, dappled, long-maned and heavy-looking horses. -The coach held eight inside, so that it conveniently accommodated all -the family, Cicely included, with the exception of Charley, who -generally perched himself on the great box, which was quite large -enough to admit him between John and the footman. The church was -barely half a mile from the Hall, but none of the Ashcliffe family -ever thought of walking there; such a proceeding would have involved -a loss of dignity. It was a fine old Gothic edifice, one of those -large stately churches which here and there seem dropped by accident -into a country village, whose population has dwindled far below its -ancient standard. The pews were about five feet high, the church -having been recently and fashionably repewed. There was a great -pulpit, with a carved oak sounding-board, an equally large -reading-desk, and a clerk's desk, the last occupied by a little old -man who looked coeval with the church. The Squire bestowed great -attention upon the responses, which he uttered in a loud, sonorous -tone; but when the psalm was over--one of Sternhold and Hopkins' -version, for Ashcliffe Church was much too old and respectable to -descend to the new version of Tate and Brady--and when the clergyman -had announced his text, which the Squire noted down, that in the -evening he might be able to question Charley and Lucy concerning -it--no further notice did anything obtain from the owner of Ashcliffe -Hall. Settling himself into a comfortable attitude, he laid his head -back, and in a few minutes was snoring audibly. Madam Passmore -generally made efforts, more or less violent, to remain awake, for -about a quarter of an hour; and then, succumbing to the inevitable, -followed her husband's example. Henrietta kept awake and immovable; -so did Harry; but Isabella generally slept for above half the sermon, -and Lucy would have followed her example had she dared, the fear of -her eldest sister just opposite her keeping her decorous. The -discourse was certainly not calculated to arouse a somnolent ear. -Dr. Braithwaite generally began his sermon in some such style as -this:--"That most learned doctor of the schools, styled by them of -his age the Angelical Doctor,[7] whose words were as honey, yea, were -full of sweetness and delight unto the ears of such as followed him, -did in that greatest and most mellifluent of the writings wherewith -he regaled his study, did, I say, observe, for the edification of the -whole Church, and the great profit of them that should come -after"--and then came a shower-bath of Latin dashing down upon the -unlearned ears of his congregation. Greek he rarely quoted, since -there was no one in the parish who understood it but himself; so that -it was but seldom that he impressed the farmers with a due sense of -the heights and depths of his learning by uttering a few words of -that classic tongue; and whether his quotation were from Pindar or -St. Paul, made no difference to them. - -Until her conversation with Lucy and old Cicely on the previous -evening, Celia had been in the habit of considering the sermon as -something with which she had nothing to do, except to sit it out with -patience and decorum. She was beginning to think differently now, -and she tried hard to follow Dr. Braithwaite this morning through his -discourse of an hour and three-quarters. But the sentences were -long, the style involved, and the worthy Doctor had got hold of a -very unpromising subject. He was preaching upon the ceremony of -baptism in the primitive Church, and its relation to the heresy of -the Manichæans; and after half an hour, during which she felt -confused amid a throng of exorcisms, white robes, catechumens, -deacons, immersions, fire-worshippers, Arians, Pelagians, and -Gnostics, Celia gave up her hopeless task. Old Cicely sat quite -still, her eyes fixed on the closed prayer-book on her knee, a soft, -pleased smile every now and then flitting across her countenance; and -Celia longed to know of what she was thinking, which appeared to be -so much more interesting than Dr. Braithwaite's Manichæans. - - -In a cheery, sunny little room, on the afternoon of the same Sunday, -sat old Cicely, with her Bible on her lap. There were several -unoccupied rooms in Ashcliffe Hall, and Cicely had chosen this as -hers, where the evening sun came lovingly in, and dwelt for a season -with lingering beams on walls and furniture. The same pleased smile -rested on the old woman's lips, as she slowly traced the words with -her finger along the page, for Cicely read with little fluency; and -she said half aloud, though she was alone,--"'He hath made Him to be -sin for us, who knew no sin; that we might be made the righteousness -of God in Him.'[8] Ben't that good, now?" - -"May I come in, Cicely?" asked a soft voice at the door. - -"Surely, my dear, surely," was the answer. "I'm just a-looking over -some of them fine bits where I has my marks. I'll set a chair, Mrs. -Celia." - -But the chair was set already, and Celia sat down by the old woman. - -"Now show me what you like best," she said. - -"Well, my dear, I do read most of these here four. 'Tis all good, -you know--the very best of reading, of course; but I can understand -these here best--Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. There's nice reading -in Luke--very pretty reading indeed; but the beautifullest of 'em -all, my dear, that's John. He is up-and-down like, is John. You see -I can't get used to the Book like as you would. There's five bits of -John--two long uns and two little uns, and one middling. Now the -last of 'em I don't understand; 'tis main hard, only a bit here and -there; but when I do come to a bit that I can understand, 'tis fine, -to be sure! But 'tis this piece of him after Luke that I reads -mostly, and the next piece of him after that. Look!" - -It was an old, worn book, bound in plain brown calf, which lay on -Cicely's lap. The pages were encumbered with an infinitude of ends -of worsted,--black, brown, and gray. These were Cicely's -guide-posts. She was slowly pursuing the lines with her finger, till -she came upon the passage which she wished to find. - -"Now, my dear, you read that." - -Celia read, "'And this is the promise which He hath promised us, even -eternal life.'"[9] - -"Wait a bit!" cried old Cicely; "there's another in this big piece--a -rare good un. Let me find him!" - -And turning hastily over the leaves of her book, she picked out, by -the help of the worsteds, the verse she wished. - -"Read that, Mrs. Celia." - -"'And this is life eternal, that they should know Thee, the only true -God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent.'"[10] - -"Ben't that nice?" delightedly asked old Cicely. - -"But how are we to know Him?" said Celia, wearily. "O Cicely! I -wanted to ask you of what you were thinking this morning in the -sermon which pleased you so mightily. You smiled as if you were so -happy." - -"Did I, my dear?" answered old Cicely, smiling again. "Well, I dare -say I did. And I was cruel happy, that's sure! 'Twas just these two -verses, Mrs. Celia, as I've been a-showing you. I'd read 'em last -thing yesterday, and surely they did feel just like honey on my -tongue. So, as I couldn't nohow make out what Parson Braithwaite -were a-saying about them many keys, I falls back, you see, on my two -verses. Well, thinks I, if He has promised us, sure we need not be -afeard of losing none of it. If you promise somebody somewhat, my -dear, mayhap afore you come to do it you'll feel sorry as you've -promised, and be thinking of harking back, as Jack says; but there is -no harking back with Him. I think, afore He promises, He looks of -all sides, and you know, if he sees everything, no wonder He promises -so sure. Well, then, I thinks again, what has He promised us? -Eternal life. Why, that's another bolt, like, put on the door. If -'tis eternal life, surely we can't never let it go no more." - -"But, Cicely," interrupted Celia, "don't you feel that you are often -doing wrong?" - -"Of course I am so, my dear!" said Cicely. "Every day in the -year--ay, and every minute in the day. But then, you see, I just go -to the Book. Look what I was a-reading when you came in." - -She pointed to the verse which had engaged her. "For He hath made -Him to be sin for us, who knew no sin; that we should be made the -righteousness of God in Him." - -"Look there, Mrs. Celia! Here's One that did no sin, and yet bare -the punishment that our sin must needs have. And if He bare the -punishment that did no sin, then belike we must go free for whom He -bare it. Don't you see? 'Tis just a matter of fair dealing. The -law can't punish both--him as did the wrong and him as didn't. So -the other must go free." - -"But we must do something to please God, Cicely? We must have -something to bring to Him? It cannot be that Jesus Christ hath done -all for us, and we have but to take to ourselves what He hath done, -and to live as we list!" - -"Well, my dear," said Cicely, "I've got my thoughts upon that, too. -You look here! I don't find as ever I did a thing to please God -afore I took Him that died to stand for me. I never cared aught -about pleasing Him; and do you think He'd be like to be pleased with -such work as that? If He can see into our hearts, why, it must be -just like talking. And do you think Madam would be pleased with me, -however well I sewed and swept, if I just went saying forever, ''Tis -not to please you I'm working; I don't care a bit about you?' - -"I think I do want to please Him," said Celia slowly. - -"Don't you stick at thinking, child," said old Cicely, with a pleased -look; "go on to knowing, my dear. Well, then, as to bringing -something to Him, look here in this other part." - -Cicely turned to Isaiah, and after a little search, pointed out a -verse which Celia read. - -"'But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are -as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, -like the wind, have taken us away.'"[11] - -"If the Queen was a-coming this way, my dear, and we was all of us -a-going out to see her, what would you think of me if you see me -ransacking the house for all the foul clothes I could find, to tie up -in a bundle, and saying, 'There! I'm a-going to give these to the -Queen!' Wouldn't you think I was only fit for Bedlam? You see it -don't say 'all our _iniquities_ are as filthy rags;' we should be -ready to own that. Dear, no! 'tis all our _righteousnesses_. Will -you tell me, then, what we have to bring to Him that is above all -Kings and Lords? Well, and last of all, as to living as we list. I -do find that mostly when we have made it up like with Him, we list to -live after His ways. Not always--surely not always!" she added, -sadly shaking her head; "truly we are a pack of good-for-noughts, -e'en the best of us; yet it do hurt to think as we've grieved Him -when we come to see all He has done and will do for us. Them's my -thoughts upon that, Mrs. Celia." - -"Why did you never speak to me--to any of us--in this way before now, -Cicely?" asked Celia, very thoughtfully and gravely. - -"Truly, my dear, I take shame to myself that I never did," replied -Cicely; "but you see there was two reasons. Firstly, 'tisn't so very -long since I come to know it myself--leastwise not many years. Then, -you see, when I did know, I hadn't the face, like, for a good while. -Seemed so bold and brassy like for me to be a-talking i' thatn's to -the likes of you, as knowed so much more than me. And somehow it -never seemed to come natural till last night, and then it come all at -once out of what Miss Lucy she said about Parson's sermons." - -Celia remained silent for a minute. The mention of Dr. Braithwaite's -sermons had opened up a vein of thought. She wondered if anywhere -there were men who preached sermons of a different kind from his, -such as she and even old Cicely might understand, and from which they -could derive benefit. Was there any preacher who, instead of -enlarging on the Angelical Doctor, was satisfied to keep to Jesus -Christ and Him crucified? A wild desire sprang up in her heart to go -to London, and hear the great men who preached before the Queen. She -did not mention this to Cicely. Celia knew full well that it would -appear to her not only preposterous, but absolutely perilous. Harry -was the only member of the family who had ever visited the -metropolis, and this by virtue of Her Majesty's commission. The -Squire considered it a hot-bed of all evil, physical, moral, and -political. Had he walked down the Strand, he would honestly have -suspected every man he met to be a Jesuit in disguise, or at the -least a Jacobite, which he thought scarcely better. He believed that -the air of the capital was close and pestilential, that all honesty -and morality were banished from its borders, that all the men in -it--with the exception of the Duke of Marlborough and the Whig -Ministers--were arrant rogues, and all the women--excluding the Queen -and the Duchess of Marlborough--were heartless and unprincipled. -There was some ground for his belief, but he sometimes excepted the -wrong persons. - -All these facts and feelings floated through Celia's mind, and she -felt that to bring her wishes to light would probably hinder their -accomplishment. She sat silent and thoughtful. - -"Cicely," she asked at length, rather abruptly, "do you not find some -parts of the Bible very hard to understand?" - -"A vast sight, my dear!" said Cicely; "a vast sight! Sure there's a -deal that's main hard to a poor old ignorant body such as me." - -"Then what do you do, Cicely, when you come to a piece that you -cannot understand?" - -"Leave it alone, my dear. There's somewhat about the middle of the -Book--I can't say the words right, never has 'em pat--about the road -being made so straight and smooth like that the very fools can't -shape to lose the way. Well, I think the Book's a bit like that -itself. For I am a fool, Mrs. Celia, and I won't go to deny it. -Surely God will show me all I want, and all that's meant for me, -thinks I; and so what I can't understand I think ben't for the likes -of me, and I leave it to them 'tis meant for." - -"Now all about those Jews, on their way to the Promised Land, and the -forty years they spent in the wilderness,--I cannot see what that has -to do with us." - -"Eh! Mrs. Celia, my dear, don't you go to say that!" urged old -Cicely, earnestly. "Wasn't they hard-hearted and stiff-necked folks? -and ben't we hard-hearteder and stiff-neckeder?" - -"But is it not very gloomy, Cicely, to be always thinking of death, -and judgment, and such horrid things?" said Celia, with a little -shudder. - -"Never thinks about 'em, my dear," was old Cicely's short answer. - -"Why, Cicely! I thought religious people were always thinking about -them?" - -"Don't know nought about religious people, as you call 'em," said -Cicely; "never came across one. All I know is, _I_ never thinks--not -any while--about death, and judgment, and such like. You see, I -haven't got to die just now,--when I have, it'll be a hard pull, I -dare say; but there's dying grace, and there's living grace. He -don't give dying grace--at least so I think--till we come to dying. -So I leave that alone. He knows when I'm to die, and He'll be sure -to see to it that I have grace to die with. And as to the judgment, -my dear, I have no more to do with that than the other,--a sight -less, it seems to me. For we have all got to die; but if I -understand the Book right, them that trust in Him haven't no judgment -for to stand. If He has taken all my sins away, what am I to be -judged for? Don't you see, Mrs. Celia? Eh, no! 'tis not we need -think over the judgment, but the poor souls that have to stand -it--who will not take Christ, and have nought of their own." - -Celia sat silently gazing out of the window on the fair sward and -trees of Ashcliffe Park. She had not found any answer when Lucy -burst in, with no previous ceremony, and with the exclamation, "What -are you doing here, Celia? Didn't you hear the bell for the sermon? -Oh, me! I wish it was over!" - -Perhaps Lucy was not the only person who wished it. The -Sunday-evening sermon at Ashcliffe was a rather fearful institution -to more mature and sedate persons than she. First, one of the -Squire's sons--Harry, when he was at home, Charley, if not--read the -Psalms and Lessons for the day, and it was necessary that they should -be read very loud. This was disagreeable when they contained a -number of Hebrew names, which Charley, at least, had no idea how to -pronounce. He was consequently reduced to make hits at them, which -passed muster in all but very flagrant cases, as, fortunately for -him, his father was little wiser than himself. This ordeal over, the -sermon itself was read by the Squire, and commonly lasted about an -hour and a half. It was never very entertaining, being most -frequently a discourse on the moral virtues, in tone heathenish, and -in style dreary beyond measure. After the sermon, the whole family -repeated the Lord's Prayer,--any other prayers the Squire, being a -layman, would have thought it semi-sacrilege to read. Then, all -remaining in their places, Charley and Lucy were called up to repeat -their catechism, each answering alternately, and standing in as stiff -a position as possible. When this was over, they had to repeat the -text of Dr. Braithwaite's sermon, and that one who remembered it best -was rewarded with a silver groat. This was the last act of the -drama, the young lady and gentleman being then pounced upon by Cicely -and ordered off to bed, after saying good-night all round. The -Squire finished the day with a bowl of punch, and a game of cards or -backgammon, in which it never occurred to him to see any incongruity -with his previous occupations. Later came supper, after which the -ladies retired, leaving the Squire to finish his punch alone; and the -whole household was in bed by ten at the latest. - -The sermon this evening was a discourse upon covetousness--a vice to -which none of the hearers were addicted; and after listening to a -learned prologue concerning the common derivation of misery and -miser, with a number of quotations and instances to show it, Celia's -thoughts began to wander, and roamed off once more to her -conversation with old Cicely. - - -"The _Gazette_, Sir!" said Harry, coming into the room in boots and -spurs one morning about three months after the Sunday in question. -"Great tumults in London regarding one Dr. Sacheverell,[12] who hath -preached a Jacobite sermon and much inflamed the populace; and 'tis -said the Queen will not consent to his being deprived. Likewise"-- - -"Hang all Jacobites!" cried the Squire. - -"Likewise," pursued his son, "'tis said the Pretender will take a -journey to Rome to speak with the Pope, and"-- - -"Hang the Pretender twice over, and the Pope three times!" thundered -his father. - -"Hardly necessary, Sir, though you might find it agreeable," observed -Harry, in his courtly way. "Moreover, 'tis thought he is gathering -an army, wherewith he means to come against our coasts, if any evil -should chance to Her Majesty." - -"Let him come!" growled the Squire. "We'll send him packing in half -the time! Anything else?" - -"I see nothing of import," replied Harry, handing the newspaper to -him. - -"Who is Dr. Sacheverell, Harry?" asked Celia from the window, where -she sat with her work. - -"There is but little regarding him," was the answer. "He is of -Derbyshire family, and was sometime tutor at Oxford. 'Twas on the -5th of November, Gunpowder Plot day last, that he preached before the -corporation of London, saith one of the newspapers--I brought the -_News-Letter_ as well as the _Gazette_--and speaking upon 'perils -among false brethren,' which he chose for his discourse, he denounced -the Bishops and the Lord Treasurer,[13] and spake of the Lords who -aided in the Revolution as men that had done unpardonable sin." - -"Where is all that in the _Gazette_?" asked the Squire, turning the -little sheet of paper about, and looking down the columns to catch -the name of the obnoxious preacher. - -"Not in the _Gazette_, what I said last, Sir," answered Harry; "'tis -in the sermon, whereof I brought a copy, thinking that you might wish -to see it. The bookseller of whom I had it told me that a prodigious -number had been sold. Methinks he said thirty thousand." - -"Thirty thousand sermons!" exclaimed Lucy, under her breath. - -"Leather and prunella!" observed the Squire from behind his _Gazette_. - -"Maybe so, Sir," responded Harry, very civilly. "Yet a sermon sold -by the thousand, one would think, should be worth reading." - -"Hold your tongue, lad! men don't buy what is worth reading by the -cart-load!" growled the Squire. "'Tis only trash that is disposed of -in that way." - -"Very likely, Sir," responded Harry as before. "Yet give me leave to -ask how many prayer-books have been printed in England since the -reign of Queen Elizabeth?" - -The Squire only grunted, being deep in the _Gazette_, and Harry -turned his attention elsewhere. - -"I should like to have heard Dr. Sacheverell," said Celia, timidly. - -"Nonsense, Celia!" answered Isabella from her embroidery-frame. "You -don't want to hear a man preach treason!" - -"I was not thinking of the treason," sighed Celia. - - -"Celia, why do you want to hear Dr. Sacheverell?" asked Charley, as -he sat on the step of the dais which elevated the window above the -rest of the chamber. - -Celia hesitated, colored, and went on with her work without -answering. She and Charley were alone in the room. - -"If you wanted to hear what he had to say about what they call -treason, you don't need to be afraid of telling _me_," said Charley. -"I don't know whether I shall not take up with treason myself." - -"O Charley!" exclaimed Celia. "Don't talk in that way. Think how -angry Father would be if he heard you!" - -"O Celestina!" exclaimed Charley in his turn. This was his pet name -for his favorite sister. Had she possessed a long name, he would -probably have abbreviated it; as she had a short one, he extended it. -"O Celestina! I am so tired of being good! I am tired of Sundays, -and grammar, and the catechism, and sermons, and keeping things tidy, -and going to church, and being scolded, and--I'm tired of -everything!" said Charley, suddenly lumping together the remainder of -his heterogeneous catalogue. - -"Charley!" said Celia, slowly and wonderingly. - -"I am! And I am half determined to go off, and have no more of it! -Father may say what he likes about treason, and hang the Pretender as -often as he pleases; but I say 'tis a grand thing to think of the -King's son, whom we have kicked out, living on charity in a foreign -land, and trying with such wonderful patience to recover the throne -of his fathers! I should like to be with him, and bivouac--isn't -that what Harry calls it?--bivouac in forests, and march on day after -day, always seeing something new, and then at last have a battle! -Wouldn't it be glorious?" - -"For you to fight with Harry, and one of you kill the other? No, I -don't think it would." - -"I didn't say anything about fighting with Harry," resumed Charley, a -little sulkily. "No, I should not like that. But as to anything -else, I just tell you, Celia, that if some day I am not to be found, -you will know I am gone to St. Germains to fight for the King--the -King!" And Charley drew himself up at least two inches as he said -the last words. - -"Hush, Charley, do!" - -"I won't hush! And I really mean it!" - -"Charley, I shall have to tell Father, if you talk any more nonsense -like that!" said Celia, really alarmed. - -"Celia, do you know what it is to feel downright wicked?" asked -Charley, in a different tone. - -"Yes--no--not as you mean, I fancy." - -"No, I don't think you do. I wish you did." - -"Charley!" - -"Well, I mean, I wish I didn't! Father talks of hanging things; I -feel sometimes as if I could hang everything." - -"Me?" demanded Celia, smiling. - -"No, I wouldn't hang you; and I wouldn't hang Mother," pursued -Charley, meditatively. "Nor Bay Fairy, nor Lucy, nor the black cat; -nor Harry--I think not; nor Cicely, except first thing in a morning -when she rouses me up out of a nice sleep, or last thing at night -when she packs me off to bed whether I will or not. I am not sure -about Father. As to the rest, they would have to look out for -themselves." - -"Now, Charley!" said Celia, laughing. - -"Celia, you don't know what it is to feel wicked, I wish I could get -something to make me--not keep good, because I have to do--but make -me want to be good." - -Celia was silent for a moment. Then she said, very slowly and -hesitatingly, "Charley, I suppose we shall only want to be good, when -we want to please God, and to be like Jesus Christ." - -"I don't know anything about that," said Charley, turning round to -look at her. - -"I know very little about it," said Celia, blushing. "But I have -begun to think, Charley--only just lately--that we ought to care more -about pleasing God than anything else." - -"Is that what makes you such a darling of a sister?" said Charley. -"I'll think about it if it be. You are always trying to please -everybody, it seems to me. But I don't think I could keep it up, -Celia. I don't care much about pleasing anybody but myself." - -"Charley," said his sister, with a great effort, "there is a verse in -the Bible which I was reading this morning--'Even Christ pleased not -Himself.'" She spoke very shyly; but she loved this younger brother -dearly, and longed to see him grow up a really great and good man. -And she found it easier to talk to Charley, Lucy, and Cicely than to -others. She would not have dared to quote a text to Henrietta. - -"Well, but you know we can't be like Him," said Charley, reverently. - -"We must, before we can go to heaven." - -"Well, then, I might as well give up at once!" answered Charley, -beginning to whistle. - -"Oh no, Charley dear!" said Celia, so earnestly, that Charley stopped -whistling, and looked up in her face. "He will help us to do right -if we try. I do want you to grow up a good man, loving God and doing -good to men. Won't you ask Him, Charley?" - -"Well, perhaps--I'll see about it," said Charley, as his sister -stroked the light hair affectionately away from his brow. "At any -rate, I don't think I'll go to St. Germains just yet. You are a dear -old Celestina!" - - - -[1] Tennyson, "Idylls of the King"--Enid. - -[2] The alphabet, which in the hornbooks was surmounted with a cross -and the lines: - - "Christ's cross be my speed - In these letters to my need." - -[3] Heb. x. 25. - -[4] Matt. vii. 11. - -[5] Luke xi. 13. - -[6] Patches, scraps of black court-plaster, or gummed velvet cut in -shapes--stars, crescents, circles, lozenges, and even more elaborate -and absurd forms--became fashionable about 1650, and remained so for -many years. In the reign of Queen Anne, ladies showed their -political proclivities by their patches--those who patched on one -side of the face only being Tories, and on the other, Whigs. -Neutrals patched on both sides. - -[7] Thomas Aquinas bore this flattering epithet. - -[8] 2 Cor. v. 21. - -[9] John ii. 25. - -[10] John xvii. 3. - -[11] Isaiah lxiv. 6. - -[12] Henry Sacheverell, born at Marlborough in 1672, began life as a -Whig, but finding that unprofitable, became a fervid Tory and High -Churchman. He was presented to St. Saviour's, Southwark, in 1705. -His celebrated trial, which followed the sermon noticed above, began -February 27, and ended March 20, 1710. The Queen presented him to -St. Andrew's, Holborn, in 1713; and after some years spent in -comparative obscurity, he died on the 5th of June 1724. - -[13] Sidney Godolphin, Earl of Godolphin. - - - - -II. - -A BAT BEHIND THE WAINSCOT. - - "He gazed on the river that gurgled by, - But he thought not of the reeds; - He clasped his gilded rosary, - But he did not tell the beads: - If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke - The Spirit that dwelleth there; - If he opened his lips, the words they spoke - Had never the tone of prayer. - A pious priest might the Abbot seem,-- - He had swayed the crosier well; - But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream, - The Abbot were loath to tell." - W. M. PRAED. - - -"Harry!" said Celia, coming down with her cloak and hood on, one fine -day in the following spring, "one of the pegs in the closet in our -room is loose; will you make it secure for us while we are walking?" - -The whole family were going for an excursion in the woods, as it was -Lucy's birthday, and Harry's sprained ankle kept him at home. He -could stand without pain for a short time, but could not walk far; -and a horse would not have been able to carry him through the thick -underwood. Delay was suggested; but, as Lucy very truly, if somewhat -selfishly, asserted, another day would not have been her birthday. -All things considered, the Squire had decided that the excursion -should not be put off, and the party set out accordingly. After they -were gone, Harry went up to Celia's room, to see what would be -required. The setting to rights of the offending peg was soon -effected. He was retiring from the closet, when he set his foot upon -a little round substance, which he guessed to be the head of a nail -sticking up from the floor of the closet close to one of the back -panels. - -"Ah!" observed Harry, apostrophizing the nail, "you must come out. -You will be tearing Miss Lucy's gown, and she won't like having to -mend it." - -Harry accordingly proceeded to attempt the removal of the nail. But -he found to his surprise that neither his hand nor his tools seemed -strong enough to pull it out. Its position, close to the back of the -closet, made it all the more difficult. Was it really a nail? He -looked at it more closely. It had a brass head, and Harry came to -the conclusion that it was a knob placed there on purpose. But for -what purpose? It would go neither backwards nor forwards; but when -Harry tried to pull it to one side, to his astonishment a little door -flew open, so neatly fitted into the closet floor as to defy -detection, the nail or knob being fixed in the midst. Below the -little door appeared a tiny box, with a second brass knob fixed in -it. At the bottom was a brass plate, from a small round hole in -which the knob protruded. - -"Now then," remarked Harry, "let me look at you. What are _you_ for?" - -He very soon discovered that upon touching it. The moment that the -little knob was pushed inwards, the whole panel in the back of the -closet suddenly sprang back, showing that it was in reality a -concealed door, the catch closing it having been liberated by -pressing the little knob in the tiny box. What was behind the door -it was impossible to see without a candle, for the closet was a deep -one, and the opening of its door cut off the light from the bedroom -window. Harry quietly came out of the closet, locked the bedroom -door, and went to his own chamber to fetch a taper and his sword. He -was determined to follow up his discovery. - -The light of the candle revealed no array of skeletons, but a narrow -passage, which he saw, on stepping into it, to be the head of a very -narrow spiral staircase. With the candle in one hand, and the sword -in the other, Harry, in whose mental vocabulary fear had no place, -calmly walked down the staircase. The excitement of the adventure -overpowered any pain which he felt from his ankle. A faint smell of -dried roses met him at the foot of the stairs. On the right hand -stood a heavy door. Harry gave it a strong push, and being -unlatched, it slowly opened and admitted him. He stood in a very -small square chamber. There was no window. A table was in the -middle, two chairs stood against the wall, and in one corner was a -handsome chest on which two books were lying. All the furniture was -of carved oak. Harry opened the books, and then the chest. The -former were a Latin missal and breviary; the latter was occupied by a -set of church vestments, a crucifix, a thurible, and sundry other -articles, whose use was no mystery to the travelled discoverer. - -"So you are a priest's hiding-place," said Harry, dryly, to the -concealed chamber. "So much is plain. They say mass at this table. -Well, I did not know we had one of these at Ashcliffe. I wonder how -many years it is since this was inhabited? I protest!--upon my word, -I do believe it is inhabited now!" - -He had suddenly perceived that while on the stairs the dust lay -thick, there was none resting on the furniture within the chamber. -Books, chest, chairs, table--all bore evidence of having been used so -recently, that no considerable accumulation of dust had time to -gather on them. Harry looked coolly around, and descried another -door, opposite to the one by which he had entered. Opening this, he -found himself at the summit of a second spiral staircase, down which -he went--down, down, until he fancied that he must be descending -below the foundations of the house. At length the spiral form of the -staircase ended, and a further flight of steps ran straight down. -Harry wondered whether he was going into the bowels of the earth, but -he kept onwards, until once more stopped by a door. This door opened -readily, being unlatched like the others, and he looked out into -darkness. Casting his eyes upwards, he saw, in the direction wherein -he supposed the sky should be, a small round patch of blue. - -"Well, you were a cunning fox who planned this hole!" thought he. -"One end opens into the closet in Celia's room, and the other into -the old well in the garden. There must be some means of climbing up -out of the well, I presume, and the worthy gentleman who makes this -his abode is probably well acquainted with them. I wonder if my -father and mother know of this? If not, I had better make up the -entrance, and not tell them. My mother would be too frightened to -sleep in any peace if she knew that such a place was hidden in the -house, and my father would rouse all Devonshire about it. I wonder, -too, who they are that use it? Are they still priests, or Jacobite -fugitives? or are they highwaymen? Whatever they be, I must make up -this door, as soon as I am a little better able to exert myself." - -Thus thinking, Harry withdrew from the secret chamber, and regained -Celia's room. Pulling to the door, he found that the panel and the -hidden box closed each with a spring. He left the bedroom, and went -down-stairs meditating upon his discovery.[1] - -A fortnight later, when his ankle had regained strength, he took the -opportunity, when both the sisters were out, to make a second visit -to the secret chamber. He found its arrangements slightly altered--a -proof that its mysterious occupant had been there within a few days. -The books were gone, and one of the chairs was now standing by the -table. Harry dragged some ponderous logs of wood to the outer door -which led into the well, and by means of these barricaded the door -effectually against any return of the refugee. - -During the interval he had taken the opportunity of asking a few -questions of different persons, which might give him some idea -whether they were aware of the existence of this concealed chamber. - -"Mother," he asked, one evening, when Madam Passmore had been -lamenting the sad fact that things wore out much sooner than when she -was a girl, "had you ever any of that fine carved furniture like -Madam Harvey's?" - -"No, my dear, not a bit," said his mother. - -"Bell," he asked, on another occasion, "do you ever hear rats or mice -in your wainscot?" - -"Oh, they tease me infinitely!" answered Isabella. "They make noises -behind the wainscot till I cannot sleep, and for the last week I have -put cotton wool in my ears to keep out the sound." - -"Cicely," he inquired, lastly, "did you ever see a ghost?" - -"No, Master Harry, I never have," replied Cicely, mysteriously, thus -hinting that there might be some people who had done so. "I never -see one, nor never want. But they do haunt old houses, that's a -truth." - -"How do you know that if you never saw one?" laughed Harry. - -"Well, my dear!" exclaimed Cicely, "if you'd a been down with me in -the scullery one night last week--I couldn't sleep, and I went down -for to get a bit of victuals, and washed my hands in the scullery--I -say, if you'd a-heard the din they made over my head, you might have -thought somewhat." - -"Who made it, Cicely?" - -"Them!" said Cicely, in a mysterious whisper. "Nay, I never saw -none, but my grandmother's aunt's mother-in-law, she did." - -"Ah! she is a good way off us," said Harry, satirically. "But you -know, this house is rather too new for ghosts. A fine old castle, -now, with all manner of winding stairs and secret passages--that -would be the place to see a ghost." - -"Eh! my dear, don't you give me the horrors!" cried Cicely. "Why, I -could never sleep in my bed if I lived in a place where them secret -places and such was--no, never lie quiet, I couldn't! Nay, Master -Harry, nobody never seed no ghosteses in this house. I've lived here -eight-and-twenty year come Martlemas, and I ought to know." - -"And pray, Cicely, who was your great-grandmother's first cousin's -niece, or whatever she were? and what did she see?" - -"My grandmother's aunt's mother-in-law, Master," corrected Cicely. -"She see a little child in a white coat." - -"How very extraordinary!" commented Harry gravely. - -"Master Harry, I'm certain sure you don't believe a word of it, for -all you look so grave," said old Cicely, shaking her head sorrowfully. - -"I can't say that I do at present. But you see I have not heard the -particulars yet." - -"Then you shall, Master," said old Cicely, rather excitedly. "'Twas -at Dagworth in Suffolk, in the house of one Master Osborne, where she -served as chambermaid. He had been a while in the house, had the -ghost, and nobody couldn't get to see him--no, not the parson, though -he used to reason with him on doctrine and godliness. They oft heard -him a-calling for meat and drink, with the voice of a child of one -year, which meat being put in a certain place was no more seen. He -said his name was Malke. And after a while, one day she spoke to him -and begged him for a sight of him, promising not to touch him. -Whereupon he appeared to her as a young child in a white coat, and -told her that he was a mortal child, stole by the good-folk,[2] and -that he was born at Lanaham, and wore a hat that made him invisible, -and so, quoth he, doth many another. He spoke English after the -manner of the country, and had many roguish and laughter-stirring -sayings, that at last they grew not to fear him."[3] - -"How long did he stay there?" - -"Now you are asking me more than I know, Master. But don't you never -go to say again that there's no such things as ghosteses, when my -grandmother's aunt's mother-in-law seen him with her own two eyes!" - -"And Mr. Osborne kept no dogs, or cats, I suppose?" - -"Master Harry, you don't believe it! Well, to be sure, I never did! -You'll be saying next thing that there's no such things as the -good-folk, when I've seen their dancing-rings on the grass many a -hundred times! I'm sore afeared, Master Harry, that it haven't done -you no good a-going for a soldier--I am." - -And Harry found that all his arguments produced no further effect -than the conviction of old Cicely that he had been in bad company. -From the information thus gained, however, he formed these -conclusions:--First, His mother knew nothing about the secret -chamber. Secondly, Cicely was equally ignorant. Thirdly, It was -situated, as he had surmised--above the scullery or behind -it--probably both--and below his sister Isabella's bedroom. -Fourthly, It had been inhabited as recently as the preceding week. -All the more reason, he thought, for stopping up the means of -ingress; and all the more for not revealing to old Cicely that her -ghost was in all probability a Popish priest. - -On the evening of the spring day upon which Harry thus barred the -refugee out of his hiding-place, Celia was strolling through the park -alone. She fed the fawns and the swans on the ornamental water, and -wandered on with no definite object, until she reached the boundary -of her father's grounds. She sat down on the grass near a large -laurel, and became lost in thought. There happened at this place to -be a small gap in the hedge near her, through which her position was -plainly observable from the road. She started as she heard a sudden -appeal made to her: - -"Young Madam, pray you a penny, for the love of God!" - -Celia turned and looked at the speaker. He was a dark, good-looking -man, dressed in clothes which had once been handsome, but were now -ragged and thread-bare. His eyes, dark, sunken, and very bright, -were fixed earnestly upon her. She held out to him the penny for -which he asked, when he said, abruptly: - -"Your pardon, Madam! but are you Squire Passmore's daughter?" - -"Yes, I am Celia Passmore," she replied, thinking nothing of the -query. - -"Be not too certain of it," answered the stranger, softly. "God and -our Lady bless you!" - -And gently taking the offered coin from Celia's hand, he withdrew -before she could recover from her horror at the discovery that she -had been conversing with a Papist. When she recovered herself, his -words came back to her with strange meaning. The blessing she took -to be merely his way of thanking her for the alms which she had -bestowed. But had he not told her not to be too sure of something? -Of what? Had she said anything to him beyond telling her name? -Celia concluded that the poor fellow must have been wrong in his -head, and began to feel very compassionate towards him. She -sauntered back to the house, and into old Cicely's room, where she -found its occupant mending stockings, with her old brown Bible lying -open on the table before her. - -"Cicely, I have had such an odd adventure." - -"Have you so, Mrs. Celia? What was it, my dear?" - -"Why, a poor man begged of me over the hedge, and said such strange -things!--asked me my name, and told me not to be too sure of it! Was -it not droll?" - -Instead of a laugh rising to her lips, as Celia expected, a strange -light sprang to old Cicely's eyes as she lifted her head and gazed at -her. Not a glad light--far from it; a wild, startled, sad -expression, which Celia could not understand. - -"Ay, sweetheart!" said the old woman, in a voice not like her usual -tones. "Did he so? And what manner of man?" - -"Oh, not bad-looking," answered Celia. "A comely man, with black -hair and eyes. His clothes had been good, but they were very bad -now, and he was a Papist, for he said, 'Our Lady bless you.'" - -"A Papist!" cried old Cicely, in a voice of horror. - -"Yes," said Celia, smiling at her tone. "Why, Cicely, are you afraid -of being murdered because there is a Papist in the county?" - -"Eh no, my dear," answered old Cicely, slowly; "that's not it. Poor -soul! God comfort you when you come to know!" - -"Come to know what, Cicely?" - -"What you've never been told yet, my dear--and yet he told you, if -you did but know." - -"I don't understand you, Cicely." - -"I am glad you don't, my dear." - -"But tell me what you mean." - -"No, Mrs. Celia. Ask Madam, if you must. Tell her what you have -told me. But if you'll take my counsel, you'll never ask her as long -as you live." - -"Cicely, what riddles are you talking?" replied Celia. "I will ask -Mother." - -The opportunity for doing so came the next day, about an hour after -dinner. Madam Passmore sat knitting peacefully in her especial chair -in the parlor. Henrietta was absent, superintending household -affairs; and Isabella, with the velvet ornaments tied round her neck -and arms, was occupied as usual with her endless embroidery-frame. - -"We shall have an assembly on Monday," observed Madam Passmore, -speaking to nobody in particular. - -"That is right!" said Isabella, rather less languidly than usual. "I -am so glad! Who are coming, Mother?" - -"Dr. Braithwaite and his wife, Squire and Madam Harvey, and Squire -and Madam Rowe." - -"Nobody else?" asked Isabella, in a disappointed tone. - -"Well, that I don't know, child," answered her mother. "Maybe some -of the young folks may come from over the hill." - -"Are they coming to dinner?" - -"No, for the afternoon. Put on your blue satin petticoats, girls, -and your best gowns; and Bell, bid Harry to have ready the -basset-table in the corner. We will draw it out when 'tis wanted." - -"But you will have dancing, Mother?" said Isabella, in a tone which -indicated that her enjoyment would be spoilt without it. - -"Please yourself, child," said Madam Passmore. "I don't know who -you'll dance with, unless Johnny and Frank Rowe should come. The old -folks will want no dancing, I should think; they would rather have a -quiet game." - -"How tiresome!" said Isabella. - -"Well, I don't think so," replied Madam Passmore. "When you come to -my time of life, you won't want to be sent spinning about the room -like so many teetotums. Yet I was reckoned a good dancer once, to be -sure." - -"And you liked it, Mother?" asked Celia. - -"Yes, I suppose I did. I was young and foolish," said Madam -Passmore, with a little sigh. "But really, when you come to think it -over, 'tis only fit for children, I think. I would rather have a -good game of hunt-the-slipper--there is more sense in it, and quite -as much moving about, and a great deal more fun." - -"So very vulgar!" sighed Isabella, contemptuously. - -"Very vulgar, Madam!" bowed Harry, who had entered while his mother -was speaking; "almost as vulgar as eating and sleeping." - -"I wish you would go away, Harry. I don't like arguing with you." - -"By all means, Madam," said Harry, bowing himself out of the parlor. - -Madam Passmore laughed. "Well, girls," she said, "I think I shall -have to give the ladies some tea, though it is a new-fangled drink; -and as you are used to pour it for your sisters, Bell, you had better -take the charge of it." - -"Very well, Mother." - -"And, Celia, can you get some flowers and bits of green from the -evergreens? They will look better than nothing in the jars. That -great laurel at the other end of the park can spare some, and as you -take long walks, I leave that to you." - -"O Mother!" suddenly cried Celia, in a voice which showed that her -thoughts were on anything but evergreens, "I want to tell you -something. Yesterday I was sitting by that great laurel, when a man -begged of me through the hedge. I gave him a trifle, and he asked me -if I were Squire Passmore's daughter. I told him yes, my name was -Celia Passmore; and he told me in answer not to be too certain of it. -Was it not droll? But the thing yet more strange was, that when I -told Cicely of it, she said I had better tell you--no, she said I had -better not tell you--but that you could tell me what it meant if I -asked you. So very strange! What did it mean, Mother?" - -Madam Passmore was silent for a few moments. When she spoke, it was -to say, in quite another tone, softer and tenderer than her previous -one, "Thou art nineteen, Celia, my dear." - -"Yes, Mother," answered Celia, rather surprised at the information. -"I was nineteen on the third of June." - -"Ay, born the same year as Bell," said Madam Passmore, gravely, and -Celia thought a little sadly. "Well, I will tell thee, my dear, for -thou oughtest to know, and thou art now a woman grown. Ay, I will -tell thee, but wait until Tuesday. After the assembly will be -better." - -Squire Passmore was riding leisurely home, after having himself -carried the invitation to his old friends Mr. and Mrs. Harvey of -Ellersley. He had nearly reached his own gates, when he suddenly -pulled up to avoid running over a pedestrian. The latter met him as -he turned a corner, and was apparently too deeply engaged in his -occupation--that of searching into a portfolio in his hand--to see -any one coming. He was a young man of some six-and-twenty years, and -the brightness of his dark, penetrating eyes struck the Squire as he -looked up and hastily drew to one side with an apology. - -"Your servant, Sir! I beg your pardon for my carelessness." - -"Another time," said the Squire, in his hearty voice, "I should -advise you to delay looking into your portfolio till you are round -the corner." - -"Thank you for your advice, which I shall certainly take," returned -the young man. "Might I ask--can I be mistaken in thinking that I am -addressing Squire Passmore, of Ashcliffe Hall?" - -"My name is John Passmore," said the Squire, "and I live at -Ashcliffe. Do you want anything with me?" - -"I thought I could not be mistaken," answered the young man, with a -very deferential bow. "My object in addressing you, Sir, is to -request the very great favor of your permission to take a few -sketches of your fine old Hall. I am sketching in this neighborhood -in the employ of Sir Godfrey Kneller, the great London painter--you -have surely heard of him--and if"-- - -"A good sensible Whig," interrupted the Squire. "If you want to -sketch the Hall for him, you shall have leave to draw all the four -sides; if you like. You are a painter, are you? I thought you must -be some sort of a moonstruck fellow--painter, author, or what -not--that you did not see me coming." - -"Permit me to express my very great obligations," said the artist. -"Might I venture so far as to ask your leave to take one sketch -inside? I have been told there is a fine carved oak staircase"-- - -"Come and dine with me," replied the Squire, heartily, "and sketch -the staircase by all means. We dine at twelve o'clock--old-fashioned -folks, Mr.----I have not the pleasure"-- - -"Stevens, Sir--Cuthbert Stevens, at your service--and very much"-- - -"Ah! odd name, Cuthbert, but an old name--yes, a good old name. -To-morrow at twelve, Mr. Stevens--very glad to see you." - -And away rode the hospitable and unsuspicious man, leaving on the -face of Cuthbert Stevens a look of amused contempt. - -"'Moonstruck!'" he whispered to himself. "We shall see which is the -cleverer, John Passmore, Esquire--we shall see." - -"Lucy, my dear," said the Squire to his wife when he came in, "I have -asked a gentleman to dinner to-morrow;--a painter--making sketches -for Sir Godfrey Kneller--monstrous clever fellow!--take your portrait -in no time--wants to draw the Hall." - -When the Squire conveyed his information in this abrupt and detached -style, Madam Passmore knew from experience that he was not altogether -satisfied with his own act, and desired to justify himself in his own -eyes. He was, in truth, beginning to feel rather uneasy. Though he -called the artist a "monstrous clever fellow," he had not seen a -single sketch; he had taken the man on his own word, and at his own -valuation; he had yielded to the charm of his voice and manner; and -now that this was withdrawn, he began to doubt whether he had done -well in introducing a complete stranger into the bosom of his family. -So Madam Passmore, seeing this, and also acting on her favorite maxim -of "what must be, must," quietly said, "Very well, John," and left -her husband to his own devices. - -Noon came, and with it Mr. Cuthbert Stevens. The Squire inspected -him as he entered, and could find nothing with which to be -dissatisfied. His taste in dress was excellent, his manners were -faultless; and the Squire began to think his first thoughts had been -the best. Dinner passed without a single _contretemps_. The -stranger talked with the Squire about hunting and poaching, and was -quite alive to the enormities of the latter; to Charley upon snaring -rabbits and making rabbit-hutches; to Henrietta and Isabella upon the -fashions and London life (with which he seemed perfectly familiar); -and told Madam Passmore of a new method of distilling cordial waters -of which she had not previously heard. Of Celia he took little -apparent notice. The family began to think that they had lighted on -a very agreeable and accomplished man; and when dinner was over, and -the sketch of the staircase made--(which latter the Squire, though no -artist, could see was a faithful copy, and pronounced "as like as two -peas")--the stranger was pressed to remain longer, but this offer, -with many thanks, Mr. Stevens declined. His time, he said, was -growing short, and he must make all possible use of it. He had still -several sketches to complete before quitting the neighborhood; but he -could assure Mr. Passmore that he would never forget the kindness -shown him at Ashcliffe, and would inform Sir Godfrey of it on his -return to London. - -"Well, Sir, if you will remain no longer," said Madam Passmore, her -kind heart compassionating his probably precarious circumstances, -"you will put one of these raised pies in your pocket for your -journey? I think you liked them at dinner." - -The artist gratefully accepted the offer. With a very respectful bow -he took leave, Charley volunteering to accompany him to the gate. -There was a good deal of conversation on the way through the park, -chiefly on Charley's side, the stranger contenting himself with an -occasional simple and careless query. At the gate they -parted--Charley to run home at the top of his speed, and Mr. Stevens -to walk rather quickly for half a mile in the direction of Exeter. -Having so done, he turned aside into a coppice bordering on the road, -and, slackening his pace, commenced whistling a lively air. The -verse was still unfinished, when an answering whistle of the same -tune was heard, and the man who had accosted Celia over the hedge -came in view, advancing to meet him. - -"Well, Gilbert!" was the artist's greeting, "any good news?" - -"The same that I left you with, Father," said the elder man in reply; -"and if you call it good news, you have the heart of a stone. I am -all but famished, and sick-tired of being cooped up in that miserable -hole." - -"And the inquiries, Gilbert? You told me all that before, you know." - -"And much you cared about it!" answered Gilbert, ill-humoredly, -kicking some dead sticks out of his way. "Inquiries! no, of course -nothing has come of them, except what we knew before: that she passes -as the third daughter, and she is short and dark." - -Stevens sat down on a green knoll. "What a surpassing clever man you -are, Gilbert Irvine!" he observed. - -"Well, Father Cuthbert, you are uncommon complimentary," remonstrated -Gilbert, leaning back against a tree. "Seven mortal weeks have I -been cooped up in that dog-hole, with as much to eat as a sparrow, -and wearing myself out, dodging about to get a glimpse of this -girl--all to please my Lady and you; never slept in a bed except just -these four nights we have been at Exeter--and the only reward of my -labors which I have seen anything of yet, is to be told I am an ass -for my pains: because, of course, that is what you mean." - -"My excellent Gilbert, your temper is a little below perfection. You -shall see what a mistake you have made. Look at me. I have just -been dining with Squire Passmore." - -Gilbert's mouth opened for an exclamation, but shut again without -one, as if his astonishment passed the power of words to express. - -"Now why could not you have done the same? Seven weeks you have been -here, as you say, and caught one glimpse of the girl; and I, who have -not been here as many days, have already seen and spoken to her, and -found out more about her than you have. And I have dined like a -prince in addition, while you are pretty near starving, Gilbert." - -"Nice consolation that is to give to a famished wretch!" snarled -Gilbert. "Father Cuthbert, you have a heart of stone." - -"Not quite so hard as that, my friend," answered Stevens, feeling in -his pocket, and bringing out of it the pie. "I only wished to show -you what a very ingenious fellow you were. Eat that." - -"Where did you get it?" was all the thanks Gilbert vouchsafed. - -"It was offered me, and I accepted it," said Stevens. "I never say -'No, thank you!' to anything good. Always take all you can get, -Gilbert." - -Gilbert was too busy with the pie to answer. - -"Now listen, Gilbert. I was wise enough to take no notice of the -girl that any could see: but I studied her quietly, and I sounded the -youngest brother well. I am satisfied that none of them know who she -is, and I imagine only the parents know any thing at all. She seems -very comfortable, and well taken care of, and will probably be in no -haste to leave; at least so I judge from what I can see of her -disposition, which is quiet and timid. Then"-- - -"Father Cuthbert, I wish you would wait a minute. ''Tis ill talking -between a full man and a fasting.' Do let me finish this pie in -peace." - -"Finish it, Gilbert, and much good may it do you." - -"But how did you get in?" was the question that followed the last -mouthful of the pie. - -"I represented myself as an artist, in the employ of Sir Godfrey -Kneller "-- - -"Did you ever see him?" - -"I once had him shown to me in London. And I asked leave to draw the -Hall, and the staircase inside. I knew, after that, Mr. Passmore -would ask me to dinner." - -"Can you draw?" - -"If I could not, my friend, I should have been unwise to take that -character. I can do a good many things." - -"You are a more ingenious man than I am, Father." - -"You are not far wrong there, Gilbert," complacently assented the -disguised priest. - -"But I cannot believe, Father," pursued Gilbert, "that you came over -from France only to see Sir Edward's daughter." - -"I protest, Gilbert, you are even more surpassing than I took you -for! It must be your conversation with that Jezebel of yours which -has dulled your wits. You were a sharper fellow once." - -"You are welcome to revile my wife as much as you please, Father," -said Gilbert, calmly. "I can't think how in the world I ever came to -marry the daughter of an old, ranting, canting Covenanter. The devil -must have set me up to it." - -"Probably he did, my friend," was the reply of Cuthbert. "But to -relieve your mind: I came here on secret service--you will not ask me -what it was. Suffice it you to know that it was at once for Church -and King." - -"Well!" sighed Gilbert, "the Church is infallible--is she not?--and -immortal: she will get along all right. But for the King"-- - -An expressive pantomime of Gilbert's hands and shoulders completed -the sentence. - -"Faint-hearted, Gilbert?" asked Stevens, with a smile. - -"Faint-hoping, Father," said he. "The King will never 'have his ain -again.' Ay! that song you were whistling by way of signal is to me -the saddest of all our songs. 'Tis easy to chant 'It was a' for our -richtfu' King,'--or I can even stand 'Lilliburlero;' but 'The King -shall have his ain again'--it but saddens me, Father Cuthbert. He -will never have it." - -"Why, Gilbert, has your solitude made you hopeless? You used to have -more faith in right, and in the final triumph of the good cause." - -"The cause is lost, Father Cuthbert," said Gilbert, stooping to pick -up one of the dry twigs which lay before him. "'Tis as dead and dry -as this branch; and as easily to be broken by the Princess and her -Ministers, or by the Elector of Hanover and his, as I can break -this--so!" - -And the broken twig fell at Stevens' feet. - -"Come, Gilbert, come!" said Stevens, encouragingly. "Remember how -many friends the King has throughout England, and Scotland, and -Ireland." - -"Friends! what are they worth?" asked the other. "Good to sing 'Awa' -Whigs, awa'!' or to pass their glasses over the water-jug when they -say, 'The King, God bless him!'[4] But how many of them are ready to -put their hands in their pockets to maintain your good cause? How -many are ready to melt down their plate, as their fathers and ours -did for King Charles? How many would die for the King now, as for -his grandfather then?" - -"_That_ cause triumphed, Gilbert," said Stevens, suggestively. - -"Did it?" answered Gilbert, more suggestively still. "How much worse -had we been off now, Father Cuthbert--how far different, if the one -at St. James's had been called Richard Cromwell instead of Anne -Stuart? Trust me, England will henceforth be constant but to one -thing--her inconstancy. She will go on, as she hath gone, from bad -to worse, with short reactions every now and then. First King -Charles--then my Lord Protector--then a little fit of reaction, and -King Charles again. Then comes King James, and wounds her pride by -being really a King and not a puppet, and off she goes to Dutch -William--my Lord Protector over again. And now, the Princess Anne"-- - -"And after her, Gilbert?" - -"After her? The saints know!--at least I hope they do; for I am sure -I don't. But if these fellows had the King in to-morrow, they would -kick him out again the day after." - -"Probably," rejoined Stevens, calmly. "However, it does not much -matter to me. I have a safe refuge in France in either case--my Lady -Ingram's income to draw upon if we succeed--and, if we fail--well, I -have friends on the other side. And at the worst, the Jesuit College -at Rome would provide me with a shelter for my old age." - -"Yes, there is no fear for you, Father," said Gilbert. "But we poor -wretches, who have not the good fortune to be of your Order--we are -proscribed exiles. Should we have been anything worse under Oliver?" - -"Why, you might very likely have been in the pillory," said Stevens, -"and had an ear or two less than now. And you might have been at -Tyburn." - -Gilbert took no notice of this flattering allusion. He answered as -if he were pursuing his previous train of thought: - -"No, the King will never 'have his ain again.' There are two things -that England has come to value above even her throne and her peace: -these are her Protestantism and her liberties. For these, and these -alone, she will fight to the death. Of course the two monsters -cannot live long together; the one must devour the other in the end. -And whether heresy will swallow liberty, or liberty eat up -heresy,--our great-grandsons may see, but we scarcely shall." - -"On what does it depend, Gilbert?" asked Stevens, who seemed at once -curious to draw out his companion's ideas, and reluctant to present -his own. - -"On the man who holds the helm when the two engage in battle," said -Gilbert, thoughtfully. - -"That is a battle that may last long," hinted Stevens. - -"And probably will," replied the other. "But when the present -notions shall have come to their full growth, as they must do--when -the King shall have permanently become the servant of the Minister, -and the Minister the mere agent of the mob--when, instead of '_Ego et -Hex mens,_' it shall have become '_Nos_' without any '_Rex_' at -all--when all men shake hands over the sepulchre of their religious -prejudices and political passions--Father Cuthbert, then will be the -triumph of the Catholic Church. If only she knew how to use the -interval!--to be patient, never to be in a hurry--to instil gently -and unperceivedly into men's minds the idea that all are equal, have -equal rights, and are equally right--to work very slowly and very -surely; she needs but one thing more, and that is the man at the -helm. Let her choose the man. He must be plausible--able to talk -well--to talk in a circle, and come to no conclusion--to throw dust -in Protestant eyes: the bigger cloud he can raise the better. Let -him hold out openly one hand to Protestantism, and give the other -behind his back to Rome. When the foundation is so laid, and the man -stands at the helm--our work is finished, Father Cuthbert. But I -doubt if any Stuart will be reigning then--nay, I doubt if any will -reign at all." - -"So much for England, then!" responded Stevens, with a rather dubious -smile. "And Scotland?--and Ireland?" - -"Scotland!" said Gilbert, slowly. "I am a Scot, Father Cuthbert, -though 'tis years since I saw Scotland. And I tell you, as a nation, -we are hard-headed and long-sighted; and we do not as a rule take up -with anything before testing it. But just as the sweetest-tempered -man can be the most terrible when he is angry, so, when you can throw -dust in a Scotchman's eyes, you make him blind indeed." - -"And Ireland?" repeated Stevens. - -"The cause was lost there, Father, on a certain 1st of July, more -than twenty years ago. And as yet Ireland has been rather too busy -setting her own house in order to have much leisure left to meddle -with ours." - -"You forget one thing, Gilbert," said Stevens, gravely. "Think how -many Catholic emissaries we have in Ireland and Scotland, and how -Catholic the Gaelic heart once was, and the Erse heart has ever been." - -"Father Cuthbert, how many members of the Society of Jesus were in -Oliver Cromwell's army?" - -"A good many," admitted Stevens. - -"Hundreds," resumed Gilbert.[5] "And do you think they did the cause -any good?" - -"Well, it scarce looked so at the time," said Stephens. "But in the -end it seemed more like it." - -"'Liberty' is our watchword now," said Gilbert. "Liberty to do -anything and everything: which, of course, in six cases out of every -ten, means to do wrong. So long as the Church is -uppermost--despotism: she can allow no liberty. But let the Church -be undermost, and she must set herself to obtain it by all means. -Liberty for the sects, we ought never to forget, means liberty for -the Church. And to the Church it is not of much consequence whether -she herself, or her friend Liberty, devour the dying monster, -Protestantism. When the Church sits once again on the throne of -Great Britain, the first dish served up to her at her coronation -banquet will be the dead body of her jackal, Liberty." - -"Gilbert!" said Stevens, rising from his grassy seat, "you are not so -stupid as I thought you. Unfortunately, your talents do not lie in -the particular path which circumstances have marked out for you. But -you have parts, Gilbert. Let us return to Ashcliffe." - -"And go back to that dog-hole?" inquired Gilbert, suddenly subsiding -into his former discontented self. - -"I fear, my son Gilbert," said Stevens, placidly, "that the dog-hole -will have to be your habitation for a few days longer. But be -comforted, Gilbert. As soon as I can, I will take your place there." - -"Hope you may enjoy it!" muttered Gilbert, as they emerged on the -Exeter road. - - - -[1] Evidence of twenty-one such concealed chambers will be found in -_Notes and Queries_ alone. They exist all over England, in old -houses built between the time of Henry VIII. and that of James -II.--possibly later still. I append the descriptions of the two -which appear to have been most cleverly concealed and best preserved. - -The first chamber is at Ingatestone Hall, Essex, which was anciently -a grange belonging to the Abbot of Barking, and was in possession of -the Petre family from the reign of Henry VIII. to about 1775. "The -secret chamber at Ingatestone Hall was entered from a small room on -the middle-floor, over one of the projections of the south front. It -is a small room, attached to what was probably the host's bedroom.... -In the south-east corner of this small room, on taking up a carpet -the floor-boards were found to be decayed. The carpenter, on -removing them, found a second layer of boards about a foot lower -down. When these were removed, a hole or trap about two feet square, -and a twelve-step ladder to descend into a room beneath, were -disclosed.... The use of the chamber goes back to the reign of James -I.... The hiding-place measures 14 feet in length, 2 feet 1 inch in -width, and 10 feet in height. Its floor-level is the natural -ground-line. The floor is composed of 9 inches of remarkably dry -sand, so as to exclude damp or moisture."--_Notes and Queries_, 1st -S., xi. 437. - -The other example is at Irnham Hall, Lincolnshire. "The situation of -this ingeniously-contrived place had been forgotten, though it was -well known to exist somewhere in the mansion, till it was discovered -a few years ago. In going round the chimney-stacks, it was observed -that one of the chimneys of a cluster was without any smoke or any -blackness, and as clean as when the masonry was new. This led to the -conjecture that it was not in reality a chimney, but an open shaft to -give light and air to the priest's hiding-place; yet so forming one -of a group of chimneys as to obviate all suspicion of its real -purpose. It was carefully examined, and the conjecture fully borne -out by the discovery of the long-lost hiding-place. The opening into -it was found by removing a beam behind a single step between two -servants' bed-rooms. You then come to a panel which has a very small -iron tube let into it, through which any message could be conveyed to -the occupant of the hiding-place. This panel being removed, a ladder -of four steps leads down into the secret chamber.... The -hiding-place is 8 feet long by 5 feet broad, and just high enough to -allow of standing upright."--_Notes and Queries_, 1st S., xii. - -Other instances occur at Oxburgh Hall, Norfolk; Sawston Hall, -Cambridgeshire; Coldham Hall, Suffolk; Maple Durham, Watcomb, and -Ufton Court, Berkshire; Stonyhurst and Berwick Hall, Lancashire; -Bourton, Gloucestershire; Henlip, Worcestershire; Chelvey Court, -Somerset; Nether Witton, Northumberland; Paxhill, Sussex (built by -Sir Andrew Borde, jester of Henry VIII., and the original of "Merry -Andrew"); Treago, Hereford; Weybridge, Surrey; Woodcote, Hampshire; -and elsewhere. In several of these instances the secret chamber was -formed in the roof of the house, and in two cases at least it was -accompanied by a small chapel. - -[2] Fairies. - -[3] The reader can appraise this ghost-story at what he thinks it -worth. It is not the produce of the author's imagination, but may be -found reported in the translation of the _Chronicon Roberti -Montensis_, by John Stowe, Harl. MS., 545, fol. 190, _b_. - -[4] In this way the more timid of the Jacobites drank the toast of -"The King over the water." - -[5] Dean Goode's "Rome's Tactics," pp. 50-53. - - - - -III. - -ALONE IN THE WORLD. - - "Speechless Sorrow sat with me; - I was sighing wearily: - Lamp and fire were out; the rain - Wildly beat the window-pane. - In the dark we heard a knock, - And a hand was on the lock; - One in waiting spake to me, - Saying sweetly, - 'I am come to sup with thee.' - - "All my room was dark and damp,-- - 'Sorrow,' said I, 'trim the lamp; - Light the fire and cheer thy face; - Set the guest-chair in its place.' - And again I heard the knock; - In the dark I found the lock,-- - 'Enter, I have turned the key-- - Enter, stranger, - Who art come to sup with me.' - - "Opening wide the door, He came,-- - But I could not speak His name; - In the guest-chair took His place,-- - Though I could not see His face: - When my cheerful fire was beaming, - When my little lamp was gleaming, - And the feast was spread for three,-- - Lo! my Master - Was the Guest that supped with me. - HARRIET M'EWEN KIMBALL. - - -Grand beyond expression was Madam Passmore that Monday afternoon -whereon her party was held. Her hair stood at the very least six -inches above her head. Her petticoat was of crimson quilted satin, -and she wore a yellow satin gown, edged with rich old point-lace. -Large silver buckles decorated her shoes, and a lace _cornette_ was -perched upon the summit of her hair. A splendid fan, and a -handkerchief nearly all lace, shared her left hand; and in her -pocket, alas! dwelt a silver snuff-box. Her four daughters were -dressed alike, in their blue satin petticoats and brocaded trains, -with coral necklaces, and cherry-colored top-knots of ribbon instead -of _cornettes_ stood on the summit of their hair. They also -displayed fans, Isabella making all manner of use of hers, and held -handkerchiefs not quite so elaborate as their mother's. Their trains -were not gathered up this evening, so that when they walked a grand -display of brocade was made on the floor. About four o'clock, Dr. -Braithwaite and his wife made their appearance. Mrs. Braithwaite was -a modest, retiring little woman, holding in high reverence her big -learned husband, but the fact of being constantly kept under the -sound of quotations which she did not understand, gave her a scared, -bewildered look which did not improve her countenance. She was -quietly dressed in black, with lace tucker and ruffles, and a white -top-knot on her hair, which, in comparison with that of Madam -Passmore, was dressed quite low. - -"Good-even, Madam, and the young ladies!" said Mrs. Braithwaite, -courtesying nervously. "I hope I see you well in health?" - -"Madam," said the Doctor, bowing low over the hand which Madam -Passmore extended to him, "that most marvellous and mellifluent -writer of poesy, of whom among the Grecian dramatists the fame hath -transcended"-- - -"Squire and Madam Harvey!" said Robert, in a tone which drowned the -Doctor's elaborate Greek compliment. - -This lady and gentleman lived in the "great house" of the next -parish. They were quiet people, who, having no children, had grown -somewhat prim and precise; but they had honest and kindly hearts, and -greeted their old friends, if somewhat stiffly, yet cordially. -Squire and Madam Rowe, Mr. John Rowe, and Mrs. Anne Rowe, were next -announced; and after a general salutation, the party sat round the -fire in high-backed chairs, very stiff and uncomfortable. The table -in the window held the tea-tray, and Cicely, who entered with the -tea-pot, was welcomed by all parties, to whom she courtesied with -"Hope I see you all well, Sirs and Madams!" Isabella, her train -trailing after her, now approached the little table and poured out -the tea. Cicely stood holding a waiter, on which, as each cup was -filled, she carried it in turn to the person for whom it was -intended. Nothing was eaten with the tea. Tea was tea in 1710, and -nothing else. - -Mr. John Rowe, _alias_ Johnny, was a slim youth of eighteen, who had -come to the party with the view of making himself agreeable to -Isabella. He would scarcely have felt flattered if he had known how -she regarded him. She despised him supremely, both on account of his -slight juniority, and of his taste in dress. At this moment he wore -yellow silk stockings, green breeches, a white waistcoat embroidered -in blue, a gray silk coat heavily laced with silver, and a very large -full-bottomed wig, of flaxen color, though his natural hair was -almost black. As he had also dark eyes and black eyebrows, his wig -certainly was not in the best taste. Isabella all but shuddered at -his combination of colors as he advanced to salute her, and did not -receive him by any means warmly--a calamity which he, poor innocent -fellow, humbly set down to his want of personal merit, not knowing -that it was caused by the deficiencies of his costume. Squire -Passmore was nearly as smart as his young guest, but he was dressed -with much better taste, in a dark green coat and breeches with silver -lace, white waistcoat, and white silk stockings. The party sat still -and sedately on their row of chairs round the fire--Mrs. Braithwaite -eclipsed and silent, for Madam Passmore was on one side of her, in -the yellow satin, and Madam Rowe on the other, attired in emerald -green: these two ladies were talking across her. Further on was -Madam Harvey in dark crimson, conversing with Mrs. Anne Rowe, who was -dressed in simple white, and Henrietta, next to Squire Rowe. The -younger daughters of Squire Passmore were out of the group, and so -were John Rowe and Charley. As Celia crossed the room just behind -the assembled elders, Madam Rowe's hand detained her. - -"Come and talk with me, my dear. 'Tis an age since I saw you. You -don't grow any taller, child!" - -"I have done growing," said Celia, with a smile. - -"Well, so I suppose. How different you are from all your sisters, to -be sure! I am sure Mrs. Bell must be a head taller than you are." - -"Not quite so much as that," said Celia, still smiling. - -"Short and sweet, Madam Rowe!" observed Squire Harvey, who overheard -her. - -"Ay, I won't contradict you there," she said. "And how old are you -now, my dear? Seventeen?" - -"Nineteen, Madam." - -"Dear me! well, how time does go! To be sure, you and your sister -are just a year older than Johnny, I remember. You should hold -yourself up more, my dear: always make the best of yourself. You -don't bridle so well as you might, either.[1] Really, you use not -all your advantages." - -"Madam Rowe, that is what I am always telling her," said Isabella, -with a faint assumption of energy, "and she takes no more notice"-- - -"Well, my dear," answered Madam Rowe, administering a dose of -flattery, "you know we cannot all be as handsome as you." - -Isabella bridled, colored, and remained, though silent, evidently not -displeased. - -Supper followed about six o'clock, and afterwards the basset-table -was wheeled out by Harry, and the three Squires sat down with Dr. -Braithwaite to enjoy their favorite game. After basset came prayers. -As Dr. Braithwaite was present, of course he officiated; and, casting -aside his cards, gravely took the Bible in his hand instead of them. -A prayer followed--long, prolix, involved, and stony: more like a -sermon than a prayer, nor a very simple sermon neither. The party -now took their leave. Dr. and Mrs. Braithwaite walked to the -vicarage, which was very near. As it was only a short distance from -Ellersley to Ashcliffe, Squire Harvey and his wife came and returned -in their coach; the distance to Marcombe was longer, and the Rowes -were on horseback. Harry went out and assisted the ladies to mount, -Mrs. Rowe riding behind her son, and Anne behind her father. - -"Now, Miss Lucy, my dear, come you away to bed," said Cicely, taking -sudden possession of that personage. "What could I have been -thinking of not to come for you before, I should like to know? To -think of you being up at this time! A quarter to nine, I do declare!" - -"I don't know what you were thinking of, but I wish you would think -about it every night!" answered Lucy, resigning herself to fate in -the person of Cicely. - -"Well, I shall go to bed also," said Isabella, yawning, and rising -from the embroidery-frame. "I protest I am as tired as if it were -Sunday evening! That John Rowe is the most tedious young man." - -"You had better all go, my dears," responded Madam Passmore. -"Good-night to you all. Good-night, Celia." - -Celia fancied that her mother repeated the greeting to her with a -tenderness in her voice which was scarcely usual with her. Was she -thinking of the coming revelation? - -She found Cicely helping Lucy to undress. - -"Cicely," she asked, sitting down, "how do you pray?" - -"Oh, that horrid Dr. Braithwaite!" cried Lucy. "I nearly fell asleep -before he had half done." - -"Make haste, Miss Lucy, my dear. You'd ought to have been a-bed long -ago. How I pray, Mrs. Celia? Why, just like anybody else." - -"Like Dr. Braithwaite? Oh, me!" said Lucy, parenthetically. - -"No; not like Parson Braithwaite, my dear. Why, I couldn't even -follow Parson, he said such hard words." - -"I never tried," said Lucy, calmly. "I'm too sleepy to talk any -more. Good-night." And she composed herself on the pillow and -closed her eyes. - -"You don't pray like Dr. Braithwaite, I am sure, Cicely," said Celia. -"But how do you pray?" - -"Well, my dear, the prayers my mother taught me, there was three on -'em--the 'Our Father,' and the 'I Believe,' and 'Matthew, Mark, Luke, -and John.' I says the 'Our Father' yet, and 'I Believe' now and -then; but I've left off to say Matthew and them, for when I comes to -think, it sounds like the Papishes; and I don't see no prayers like -it in the Book neither. I mostly prays out of the Book now, just the -words that David did, and Moses, and the like of they; unless I wants -somewhat very particular, and then I asks for it quite simple like, -just as I'd ask you for a drink of water if I couldn't get it for -myself." - -Celia lay silent and thoughtful, but "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," -roused Lucy in a minute. - -"What's that about Matthew, Cicely?" - -"Well, my dear, I'm not sure that 'tis more than foolishness. But my -mother taught it me, and I used to say it a many years: - - 'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, - Bless the bed I lie upon; - Four parts around my bed, - Four angels guard my head. - I lay me down upon my side, - I pray that God my soul may guide; - And if I die before I wake, - I pray that God my soul may take.'"[2] - - -"O Cicely!" exclaimed Lucy, laughing. - -"It does sound rather like praying to the apostles, Cicely," -suggested Celia; "but the end of it is better." - -"That's where it is, Mrs. Celia; and that's why I dropped it. Now -don't you begin talking to-night--go to sleep, there's dears. -There'll be as many hours in to-morrow as to-day. Eh! but, my dear, -did you ask Madam, as I said?" - -"Yes, Cicely," said Celia, half-rising. "She will tell me to-morrow." - -The troubled look in old Cicely's face deepened. But she only said, -as she took up the light, "Go to sleep, dear hearts!" - - -"I ask your pardon, Madam!" said Cicely, courtesying low, as Madam -Passmore opened her bedroom-door in answer to her tap. "But could I -have a minute's speech with you, if you please?" - -"Come in, Cicely, and sit down. Is anything the matter?" - -"Well, Madam," said Cicely, glancing round the room, as if to make -quite sure there were no listeners, "I'm afeared there's somewhat up -about Mrs. Celia. This afternoon, as I was a-going down the lane to -Mally Rihll's, with the cordial water and jelly you was pleased to -send for sick Robin, there was a fellow met me, that I didn't half -like the looks of. I should know him again, for he stopped me, and -began to talk;--asked the way to Moreton (and I doubt if he really -wanted to go, for he took the t'other turning when he come to it), -and asked whose the Park was, and if Master was at home; and was -going on to what family he had, and such like impudent questions. -'If you want to know all that,' says I, 'you'd better go up and ring -the bell, and ask Squire his own self,' I says. Well, he didn't ask -me no more questions after that, but went shuffling on his way, and -took the wrong turning. But when I got to Mally's, and while we sat -a bit, she tells me that my gentleman had been there asking for a -drink of water, and a lot more impertinence. And asked her right out -if there warn't a young lady at the Park of the name of Celia, and -how old she were, and when her birthday were, and all on like that. -And Mally--(you know, Madam, she's but a simple soul)--I could hear -from her story, she up and told him everything he asked, and maybe -more than he asked, for aught I know. And what does he do but -(seeing, no doubt, what a simple soul she was) outs with a -table-book, and actually sets down in black and white what she was -a-telling of him. 'The impudent rascal!' say I to Mally, when I -hears that: 'and why couldn't you have given it him hot and strong, -as I did?' I says. And she says he looked so like a gentleman, for -all his shabby coat, with nigh a quarter of a yard of lace pulled off -the bottom, and all a-flapping about in the wind, as is both full and -cold to-day, as she hadn't the heart to say nothing impertinent, says -she. But 'Impertinent!' says I; 'I think, after all the impertinence -he'd given you, you might have give him a dose without hurting of him -much,' says I. So I thought I'd come and tell you, Madam, at once." - -"You have done right to tell me, Cicely," said her mistress. "I -think--I am afraid--there will be some inquiry for the dear child, -before long." - -"Well, Madam, and that's what I'm afeared on, too," said Cicely. -"And to see Mrs. Celia sitting there so innocent like!" - -"She must know, Cicely--she must know soon." - -"If I was you, Madam, I'd tell her now," said Cicely,--"asking your -pardon for being so bold as to say it to you." - -"Yes, Cicely, so I shall," replied Madam Passmore, in a very -despondent tone. - -"Madam," said Cicely, suddenly, "would you be offended with me if I -said a word to you?" - -"My good Cicely, why should I? Speak your mind." - -"Seems to me, Madam," said Cicely, confidentially, "as you haven't -asked the Lord about this trouble. And though He knows all things, -yet He likes to be asked and told about 'em: He says so somewheres. -Now, if I was you (asking your pardon, Madam), and didn't like for to -tell Mrs. Celia (and I'm sure I shouldn't), I'd just go and tell Him. -It'd come a sight easier, would telling her, after that. You see, -Madam, the Lord don't put troubles on us that He don't know nothing -about. He's tried 'em all Himself, and He knows just where they -pinches. And when He must needs be bring one on us, or we shall be -running off down the wrong road like so many chickens, He whispers -like with it, 'Don't be down-hearted, child; I've tried it, and I -know.'" - -"Cicely, how did you come to know all this?" inquired her mistress in -astonishment. - -"Bless your heart, Madam, I don't know nothing!" humbly disclaimed -Cicely,--"never did, nor never shall. 'Tis with the Lord's lessons -like as with other lessons;--takes the like of me a month or more to -spell out a word, where there be folks'd read it off plain. I knows -nothing, only I knows the Lord." - -Madam Passmore made no answer, but in her secret heart she wondered, -for the first time, whether the one thing which Cicely owned to -knowing were not worth a hundredfold all the things which she knew. - - -"Sit down, Celia, my dear. I will now tell you all I know." - -Madam Passmore spoke rather sadly, and Celia sat down with a beating -heart. - -"Celia," said her mother again, "would you like me to tell you right -at once, or by degrees?" - -"At once, if you please, Mother. Let me know the worst." - -"I am not sure that I know that, my dear," sighed the lady. -"However, I will say the worst I know. Celia! you are not my -daughter." - -"Mother!" was Celia's inconsistent but very natural exclamation. - -"I have told the truth," said Madam Passmore, gently. - -"But who--who are my father and mother?" asked Celia, in a bewildered -tone. - -"I know not, my dear Celia. Only you are not our child, nor akin to -us. I will tell thee all about it. It was on the 10th of June, my -dear, when Bell was seven days old, nineteen years ago"-- - -"Is Bell not my sister, then?" - -"No. I know nought of any of thy kindred. But hark!" - -"I beg your pardon, Mother. Please go on." - -"My husband came up into my chamber, where was only Cicely beside -with the babe on her lap; and he said, 'Lucy, my dear, there is a -strange thing happened at the Park gates. A little babe lies there -all alone,--it would move thy motherly heart to see it. Shall we -send and take the poor little soul in?' I said, 'Send Cicely to see -and fetch it.' So Cicely brought it in--a poor, weak babe that had -scarce strength to breathe. It was lapped in fine white linen, laced -with real point, and there was a gold pin fastening a paper on its -little coat, with but one word--'Celia.' Well, to be sure, Cicely -had some work to bring it round! For hours we feared it would die. -But at last it seemed a little easier, and we thought it breathed -stronger. And when my husband next came up he said, 'Well, Lucy, -shall we send the babe away?' But I said, 'Nay, John, it seems -fairly to ask pity from us: let us keep it, and bring it up as our -own, and call it Bell's twin-sister. It will never harm -us--perchance bring a blessing with it, for truly it looks as if God -Almighty had sent it to us.' So we did that. I do not know, my -dear, whether it was quite right of us to call you Bell's -twin-sister: I am afraid not, for certainly it is not true. But as -to your having brought a blessing with you, that's true enough. But -that is how it was." - -Celia sat still and silent, feeling crushed and cut off from all she -loved by this disclosure. - -"You have no thought," she said slowly, at last, "who I was, nor -whence I came?" - -"Well, my dear, my husband thought you might be the child of some -Jacobite forced to fly, who must needs leave you behind. 'Twas plain -you were not forsaken because your father was too poor to keep you, -for he must have been well to do, to judge from the lace on your -clothes and the gold pin. Mayhap some nobleman, for aught I know." - -"Mother," said Celia, with a great effort, "think you that my -parents, whosoever they were, could be--Papists?" The last word was -scarcely more than whispered. It conveyed to the Passmore mind the -essence of all that was wrong, cruel, and fearful. - -"I trust not, indeed, my dear," replied Madam Passmore, kindly, but -evidently struck and distressed by Celia's question, "for I know -nought. Now, Celia, child, don't take this to heart. Remember thou -art as much our daughter, bound to us by every bond of love and -custom, as before I spoke a word regarding this. There is ever a -home for thee at Ashcliffe, child; and truly I scarce love my own -better than I do thee. Let it not trouble thy mind. Go and chat -with Harriet and Bell, to keep off the vapors.[3] Farewell, my dear!" - -Madam Passmore kissed Celia, and let her go. She did not follow her -advice to go and chat with her sisters, but walked very slowly along -the passage which led to her own room. She felt as if all around her -were changed, and she herself were isolated and lost. Heretofore the -old house and its furniture had seemed a part of herself: now they -felt as if suddenly placed at an immense distance from her. Even the -portrait in the passage of the Squire Passmore who had fought at -Edgehill, brandishing his sword fiercely--even the china dragons -which faced the hall-window--old familiar objects, seemed to scowl at -her as she went by them. She would be Celia Passmore no longer. At -another time she would have smiled at the superstitious fancy--only -natural now--that these disowned her as a daughter of the house. She -turned aside sadly, mechanically, into the little room where old -Cicely sat sewing and singing. Her joint occupations ceased when she -saw Celia's face. - -"Eh, my dear! I see Madam's told you. Come hither and sit down a -bit. Is it very sore, dear heart?" - -"Cicely, do you know any more?" Celia asked, without answering her -question. - -"I know nought more than Madam," said Cicely. "I went and fetched -you, sweet heart, and a nice little babe you was, though you did keep -crying, crying on for everlasting. Such beauties of clothes as -they'd wrapped you in! I never see a bit of finer lace than was on -them, nor never want; and the cambric was just beautiful! I have -them laid by, if you'd like to see." - -"Oh! let me see them, Cicely! I meant to have asked Mother." - -What a mockery the last word seemed now! - -Cicely unlocked one of her cupboards, and produced the clothes, very -handsome ones, as she had said, yellow with time, and edged with rich -point. The gold pin was still there, with the paper, on which a -manly, yet delicate, Italian hand had written the one word which -alone remained to Celia of her unknown origin. She wondered whether -it were her father's writing. - -"Cicely," she said, suddenly, "was I ever baptized?" - -"Whether afore we had you or not, Mrs. Celia, I can't say," replied -old Cicely, quietly. "Madam thought this here"--pointing to the -paper--"meant as you wasn't, and they'd like you to be christened -'Celia;' and Master thought it meant as you was christened already. -So old Parson Herring--him as was here afore Parson Braithwaite--he -christened you in church, as it stands in the prayer-book, 'if thou -hast not been baptized,' or what it is. Squire thought that'd do -either way." - -"And you saw nothing when you went to fetch me, Cicely?" - -"Nothing at all, my dear. There might have been somebody a-watching, -you know--the place is so thick with trees--but I see nought of any -sort." - -The long pause which followed was broken by Cicely, who perceived -that Celia's handkerchief was coming surreptitiously into requisition. - -"If I was you, Mrs. Celia, I wouldn't trouble, my dear. Very like -nobody'll ever come after you; and if they did, why, a grown lady -like you might sure say where you'd be--without your own father and -mother asked you; I'd never counsel you to go again them; though it -would be a sore job parting from you, to be sure. You see, my dear, -you've lived here nineteen years, and never a word said." - -"But that man, Cicely!" said Celia, under her breath. - -"Well, that man, my dear," repeated Cicely doubtfully, "he's very -like of no kin to you, only somebody as knowed who you be." - -"He was a Papist," said Celia, in the same tone. "But even so, -Cicely, should I make no search for my father and mother? I am -theirs, whoever they were; even if they were Papists." And the -handkerchief came out openly. - -"Cry it out, my dear; you'll be all the better for it after. And if -you'll list me, Mrs. Celia, you'll never trouble no more about this -by yourself, but just go and tell the Lord all about it. He knows -who they be, child, and He made you their child, knowing it. And, my -dear, I do find 'tis no good to carry a burden to the Lord, so long -as I just get up and lift it on again. I'm very much given to -lifting on again, Mrs. Celia, and perchance you be. But when I find -that, why, I just go and go again, till I can lay it down and come -away without it. Takes a deal of going sometimes, that do! But what -would you think of me, if I says, 'Mrs. Celia, you carry this linen -up-stairs, if you please;' and then goes and walks off with it -myself?" - -Old Cicely's homely illustration was just what Celia wanted. - -"Thank you, Cicely," she said; "I will try to leave the burden -behind." - - -Father Cuthbert Stevens sat in his lodging at Moreton, complacently -turning over the contents of his portfolio. To his landlady he had -told the same tale as to Squire Passmore, representing himself as an -artist in the employ of Sir Godfrey Kneller; and had, to her -thinking, verified his story beyond all doubt, by producing in -part-payment of his debt a new shop-sign, representing a very fat and -amiable-looking lion, standing on one leg, the other three paws -flourishing in the air, while the eyes of the quadruped were fixed on -the spectator. Mrs. Smith considered it a marvellous work of art, -and cut off a large slice of Mr. Stevens' bill accordingly. Mr. -Stevens passed his sketches slowly in review, tearing up the greater -part, and committing them to the safe custody of the fire. But when -he came to the staircase at Ashcliffe, he quietly placed that in -security in a special pocket of the portfolio. He was too wise to -speak his thoughts aloud; but had he done so he would have said: - -"I have not done with this yet. To-morrow I propose to pay a visit -to Marcombe, and this will secure me an unsuspected entrance into Mr. -Rowe's family, where I may obtain some further information, on which -a little paper and lead will be well spent." - -Gilbert Irvine had rather remonstrated on Stevens' telling the same -tale to Mrs. Smith as to the Squire at Ashcliffe, reminding him that -it was well to have two strings to one's bow. Stevens answered, with -that calm confidence in his own wisdom which never forsook him, "It -is sometimes desirable, my good Gilbert, not to have too many strings -to one's bow. This is my official residence. Mr. Passmore, or some -other country gentleman, may find that I am lodging here. What do I -gain, in that case, by representing myself to this excellent woman as -a retired sea-captain or an officer on leave of absence? No; I am an -artist at Ashcliffe, and I am an artist at Moreton. My private -residence is----elsewhere. I am a citizen of the world. I am not -troubled by any inconvenient attachment to country or home. I can -sleep on a feather-bed, a green bank, or a deal board; I can eat -black bread as well as _pâté aux truffes_." - -"Ah! but can you do without either?" growled Gilbert, in reply. - -To return from this episode. Mr. Stevens was now alone, having, as -we saw, parted with Gilbert that afternoon, the latter returning to -the hiding-place at Ashcliffe, very much against his inclination. -The former worthy gentleman had supped on a hashed partridge, -obtained in an unsportsmanlike manner which would have disgusted -Squire Passmore; for while Stevens could talk glibly against poaching -or anything else, when he required a savory dish, he was not above -setting a snare on his own account. He had just placed safely in the -pocket of the portfolio such sketches as he deemed it politic to -retain, when a slight noise at the door attracted his attention, and -looking up, he saw Gilbert Irvine, with white face and dilated eyes, -standing in the doorway. - -"We are betrayed!" hissed the latter. - -Mr. Stevens, rising, quietly closed the door behind Gilbert, and set -a chair for his excited visitor. - -"Don't be rash, Gilbert," observed he, calmly tying the strings of -the portfolio. - -"Bash!" muttered Gilbert, between his closed teeth. "I tell you, -they have discovered the hiding-place!" - -"Have they? Then it was fortunate that I thought of dining to-day -with Mr. Passmore." - -"Father Cuthbert, do you care for nothing on earth?" said Gilbert, -raising his voice. - -"Gilbert," remarked Mr. Stevens, in his most placid manner, "I have -already desired you not to be too rash. Allow me to remind you, that -calling me 'Father Cuthbert' in a Protestant house, and especially in -that tone of voice, is scarce likely to advance our interests. As to -my caring for nothing on earth, I shall care to hear your -information, when you can deliver yourself of it in a reasonable -manner." - -Gilbert, with some difficulty repressing his indignation, came to the -conclusion that the being before him was inaccessible to feeling. - -"When I arrived at the well," said he, "I was very near falling into -it. I"-- - -"Ah! rash, as usual," commented Stevens, affectionately patting the -portfolio. - -"I lighted safely on the ledge of the door," pursued Gilbert, "but -when I gave the necessary push, I found that it refused to stir. It -had been made up from the inside." - -"Something underneath the door, which stuck, of course," said Stevens. - -"I took out my knife," replied Gilbert, "and with great difficulty -steadied myself so that I could pass the blade under the door. There -was nothing underneath, but the door refused to stir." - -"What did you do then?" - -"Came back to you directly, to ask you whether we ought to leave the -country." - -"You did not try at the other end?" - -"In broad daylight? Mr. Stevens, what can you be thinking of?" - -"The interests of the cause, my friend." - -"Ah, well! I have the greatest respect for the interests of the -cause, but I have also a slight disposition to attend to the -interests of Gilbert Irvine." - -"That is precisely your bane, my excellent Gilbert. And there are -other defects in you beside." - -"And pray, what excuse could you have devised to gain entrance?" - -"Gilbert, I wonder at your marvellous incapacity for lying. Now it -comes quite natural to me." - -"Seems so," said Gilbert, grimly. - -"Well, as your disposition to attend to the interests of Gilbert -Irvine is so strong, I will not require more of you than to attempt -the entrance by night. I noticed when I left the house that one of -the drawing-room windows was unfastened. You can get in that way, -and pass through Mrs. Celia's chamber." - -"I'm blessed if I'll try that style of putting my neck in a noose for -you more than this once!" Gilbert burst forth. - -"I don't ask it of you more than this once," replied Stevens. - -"And suppose they have fastened the window since you were there, as -is probably the case?" - -"If you cannot get in, come back to me. We must find out whether -they have discovered the hiding-place. But I will take the next -chance myself; and, Gilbert, it shall be in broad daylight." - -Gilbert stared at him, and shook his head with an incredulous laugh. - -"You are a poor conspirator, Gilbert," lamented Stevens. "Can you -plaster a wall?" - -"No," said Gilbert. - -"I can. Can you mend a harpsichord?" - -"Not I, indeed." - -"I can. And can you make a tansy pudding?" - -"Holy Mary! such women's work!" - -"Women are useful, my friend, in their way--occasionally. And it is -desirable, now and then, even for the nobler sex, to know how to do -women's work. Now I dare say you have not the least notion how a -shirt is made? I can sew beautifully." - -"By the head of St. Barbara!"--Gilbert began. - -"Avoid Catholic oaths, Gilbert, if you please. And never be above -learning. Pick up all you can--no matter what. It may come in use -some time." - -"I wish you would tell me how you mean to get in?" - -"Mr. Passmore was observing at dinner that he wanted a new -under-footman. I shall offer myself for the place." - -Gilbert's eyes and mouth opened rather wide. - -"I can carry coal-scuttles, my friend," said Mr. Cuthbert Stevens, -insinuatingly. "And I could black a boot. In a week (or as soon as -my purpose was served) I should have a bad cough, find that the work -was too hard for me, and leave." - -"Father Cuthbert, you are a clever fellow!" said Gilbert, slowly. - -Father Cuthbert made no attempt to deny the impeachment. - -"And where am I to be, while you are blacking your boots and carrying -your coal-scuttles?" - -"Quietly pursuing your inquiries between here and Exeter, and keeping -out of scrapes--if you can. You will find me here again this day -month." - - -On the evening of the next day, Squire Passmore saw and engaged a new -under-footman. - -"A tall, personable fellow," said he to his family; "very -well-spoken, and capable, he seems. He comes from Exeter, and his -name is George Shepherd." - -And much vexed was he, for he had taken a fancy to his new servant, -when, four days later, Robert announced to him that George had such a -bad cough, and found the work so hard for his weak chest, that he -wished to leave at the end of the month. - -"It ben't always the strongest-looking as is the strongest," observed -Cicely on the subject; "and I'm a-feared, Madam, that George is but -weakly, for all he looks so capable." - -Madam Passmore, who felt very sorry for poor George, tried -diet-drinks, linseed tea, and lozenges, but all were to no purpose; -and at the end of the month the new footman left. - - -"What _are_ you doing, Mr. Stevens?" demanded Gilbert Irvine, as he -entered the lodger's room at Moreton on the same evening that the -under-footman's place at Ashcliffe Hull was again left vacant. - -"Good-evening, Gilbert," responded Mr. Stevens, without looking up. -"Only making my official shirts into a rather smaller and neater -bundle. They may serve again, you know." - -"And what news?" asked Gilbert. - -"You were right," said Mr. Stevens. "They have found it out, and -have made up the well-door. But Mrs. Celia knows nothing about the -hiding-place, though she sleeps in the chamber." - -"Well, and why couldn't you believe me at first? What have you -gained by all your trouble?" - -"Why could I not believe you?" repeated Stevens. "Because you are -rash, as I always tell you. And what have I gained? A month's board -and lodging, and thirteen and fourpence. Look at it." - -"Ugh!" said Gilbert to the shillings. "Well, I would not have -blacked a lot of dirty boots for you, if you'd been twice as many!" - -"A mistake, Gilbert! a sad mistake!" said Stevens, tying up his -bundle. "Never be above doing anything for the good of the Church." - -"Nor telling any number of lies," responded Gilbert. "Well, and -where are we to go now?" - -"Back to France, and report to my Lady Ingram as quickly as possible." - -"And what then?" - -"That is for her to say. I should think she will come and fetch the -girl." - -"And how are we to live meanwhile?" - -"You, as you please. For me, being now so well equipped and in good -practice," answered Mr. Cuthbert Stevens, with an insinuating smile, -"if I found it impossible to get any other sort of work, I _could_ -take another place as footman!" - - -Time passed calmly on for some months after Madam Passmore's -disclosure to Celia. The latter gradually lost the fear of being -claimed by strangers, and devoted herself to the very diligent study -of the Scriptures. The Squire and Madam Passmore became slowly -grayer, and Cicely Aggett a little whiter than before. But nothing -occurred to break the quiet tenor of events, until Henrietta's -marriage took place in the summer of 1711. The bridegroom was the -heir of a family living in the adjoining division of the county, and -the day was marked at Ashcliffe by much splendor and festivity. The -bride showed herself quiet and practical on this occasion, as on all -others; and as she had made her mark but little, she was -comparatively little missed. Cicely cried because she thought it was -the first break in the family, and Dolly because she fancied it was -the proper thing to do; but Henrietta herself would have scorned to -run the risk of spoiling her primrose silk by tears. Everything was -done _en règle_--wedding and breakfast, throwing the slipper, -dancing, and a number of other small observances which have since -been counted tedious or unseemly. And when the day was over, and -Henrietta Carey had departed to her new home, things sank down into -their old groove at Ashcliffe Hall. - -When the year 1712 dawned, only the three younger sisters of the -family were at home. Harry had rejoined his regiment, and Charley -was away on a visit to his eldest sister and her husband. - -So matters stood at Ashcliffe Hall on that New Year's Day when what -Celia dreaded came upon her. - - - -[1] The peculiar drawing up of the chin towards the throat, known as -bridling, was a very essential point of fine breeding at the date of -this story. - -[2] Of _La Petite Patenôtre Blanche_ there are as many versions as -lines. The one I give in the text rests on oral tradition. There is -another known to me, probably an older version, which I should have -preferred if I could have been quite sure of the words. It was used -by a woman who died in 1818 at the age of 108, and who therefore was -born four years before the death of Queen Anne. It was repeated to -me when a child of eight, and the only copy I can recover is my own -record at the time. I give this for what it is worth: - - "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, - Bless the bed that I lie on; - Four corners to my bed, - Four angels at their head,-- - One to read and one to write, - And two to guard my bed [at night.]" - -[3] "The vapors" were pre-eminently the fashionable malady of the -reign of Queen Anne. The name answered to the sensation now known as -_ennui_: but doubtless, as Miss Strickland suggests in her "Lives of -the Queens of England," it was frequently used when its victim was -suffering from nothing more remarkable or novel than a bad temper. - - - - -IV. - -MY LADY INGRAM. - - "She had the low voice of your English dames, - Unused, it seems, to need rise half a note - To catch attention,--and their quiet mood, - As if they lived too high above the earth - For that to put them out in anything: - So gentle, because verily so proud; - So wary and afraid of hurting you, - By no means that you are not really vile, - But that they would not touch you with their foot - To push you to your place; so self-possessed, - Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes - An effort in their presence to speak truth: - You know the sort of woman,--brilliant stuff, - And out of nature." - ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. - - -The Tories were in power in the winter of 1711-12. The Duke of -Marlborough's credit at home had long been sinking, and he was now -almost at the lowest point in the Queen's favor. On that very New -Year's Day of which I have spoken, for the first time in the annals -of England, a Ministry had endeavored to swamp the House of Lords by -a wholesale creation of Peers. Politically speaking, Squire Passmore -was anything but happy, for he was a fervent Whig. He sat in the -parlor that morning, inveighing angrily against the Earl of Oxford -and all who followed or agreed with him--the Queen herself of course -excepted--for the edification of Madam Passmore--who was calmly -knotting--Isabella, and Celia. - -"'Tis pity, John," said Madam Passmore, quietly, "that you have no -Tories to list you." - -"I wish I had--the scoundrels!" exclaimed the Squire. - -"O Mother!" cried Isabella, rising hurriedly from her seat in the -window, "sure here is some visitor of quality. There is a carriage -at the front door with arms on the panels." - -"What arms?" asked her father. - -"I don't understand anything about arms," said Isabella, "and one of -the coats I cannot see rightly. The one nearer here is all cut up -into little squares, and in one part there is a dog on his hind legs, -and in another a pair of yellow balls." - -The Squire came to the window to see for himself. "Dog! balls!" -cried he. "A lion rampant and bezants--the goose!" - -"Well, Father, I told you I did not understand it!" remonstrated -Isabella, in an injured tone. - -"Madam, my Lady Ingram!" announced Robert, in a voice of great -importance. - -The Squire turned round directly, and offered his hand to conduct the -visitor to a seat, like a well-bred gentleman of his day,--Madam -Passmore rising to receive her, and her daughters of course following -her example. - -The stranger was a tall, commanding woman, with great stateliness of -carriage, and much languor of manner. She had evidently been very -handsome, but was now just past her prime. Her eyes and hair were -dark, her voice low and languishing. Altogether it struck Celia that -she was very like what Isabella would be in a few years, allowing for -the differences in color. She took the chair to which the Squire led -her, and addressed herself to Madam Passmore. There was a little -peculiarity of distinctness in her pronunciation. - -"You wonder to see me, Madam," she began. - -"Madam, I am honored by your Ladyship's visit." - -"I am the widow of Sir Edward Ingram, who held a commission under His -Majesty King James. I come to speak with you on business." - -"With _me_?" asked Madam Passmore, a little surprised. - -"You are Madam Passmore, of Ashcliffe Hall?--Yes." - -"Pray continue, Madam." - -"Your daughters, Madam?" inquired the visitor, with a languid wave of -her hand towards the young ladies. - -"Yes; does your Ladyship wish to see me without them?" - -"Not at all--oh! not at all. Which is Mademoiselle Celia?" - -"The woman's French!" exclaimed the Squire, under his breath. - -Celia's blood rushed to her face and neck, and then ebbed, leaving -her white and faint, as she rose and came slowly forward. "Is this -my mother?" she was asking herself, in a mental tumult. - -"Ah! that is you? Stand a little farther, if you please. I wish to -look at you." - -"No; this is not my mother!" said Celia, to her own heart. - -"Not by the half so tall as I should like--quite _petite_!" said Lady -Ingram, scanning Celia with a depreciatory air. "And so brown! You -cannot bridle--you have no complexion. Eh! _ma foi!_ what an -English-looking girl!" - -The Squire had almost arrived at the end of his patience. Madam -Passmore said quietly, "I ask your Ladyship's pardon, but perhaps you -will tell me why you make these remarks on my daughter?" - -"I beg yours," said Lady Ingram, languidly. "I thought I had told -you. She is a foundling?--Exactly. _Et bien_, she is my -daughter--that is, my husband's daughter." - -"Thank Heaven, not yours!" growled the Squire, heard only by Isabella. - -"My husband was married twice," pursued the visitor, unconscious of -his rising anger. "His first wife was an Englishwoman--short, I -suppose, and brown, like this girl. I am the second wife, _née_ -Mademoiselle de La Croix, daughter of Monsieur the Marquis de La -Croix. _Tu peux m'embrasser ma fille_." - -Celia would have obeyed somewhat reluctantly, had she understood her -step-mother. She stood still, unaware that she had been addressed at -all, since she had never learned the language in which Lady Ingram -had spoken to her. - -"Well, you will not?" - -"I beg your pardon, Madam," answered Celia, speaking for the first -time, and in a very tremulous voice. "I did not understand what you -said." - -"You speak French?" - -"No, Madam." - -"_Possible!_" exclaimed Lady Ingram. "You have never taught her to -speak French? She speaks only English? _Ma foi, quelle famille!_" - -"I could scarce teach her what I knew not," replied Madam Passmore, -with quiet dignity. - -"_C'est incroyable!_" drawled Lady Ingram, "Well, child, come here -and kiss me. How awkwardly you stoop! Your carriage is bad--very -bad. Ah, well! I shall see to all that. You will be ready to -return with me on Thursday?" - -This was only Tuesday. Celia heard the question put with a sinking -of dismay. How should she go? yet how should she refuse? - -"My Lady Ingram," said Squire Passmore, coming forward at last, "if -you were this child's own mother, or if her father were yet alive, I -could not of course set myself against your taking her away. But you -tell us that you are only her step-mother, and that her father is -dead. It seems to me, therefore, that she is at least as much our -child as yours--rather more, indeed, seeing that we have brought her -up from her cradle, and you have never cared to see her until this -day. Moreover, I hope your Ladyship will not take it ill of me, if I -ask you for some proof that you really are the child's step-mother." - -"What proof shall I give you, Mr. Passmore?" asked Lady Ingram, -quietly. "I have every wish to satisfy you. If you desire to see -proofs that I am really Lady Ingram, ask the servants my name, or -look here"-- - -She drew a letter from her pocket, and held it out to the Squire. -The direction was--"To my Lady Ingram." - -"Madam," said the Squire, returning the letter with a bow, "I do not -in the least doubt that I have the honor of addressing my Lady -Ingram. But can you satisfy me that you are Celia's step-mother?" - -"If my word is not enough to satisfy you, Mr. Passmore," answered -Lady Ingram, not at all annoyed, "I know of nothing that will do it. -The marriage-registers of Celia's parents, or my own, would give you -no information concerning her: and she has no register of baptism. I -believe, however, that her name was written on a paper left with her, -in Sir Edward's hand. If you will produce that paper, I will show -you more of his writing, which you can compare with it. I think the -fact of my knowledge on the subject ought to prove to you that I am -the person whom I represent myself to be." - -The writing on the two papers, when compared, tallied; and Squire -Passmore felt that Lady Ingram was right, and that she could not -produce any proof of her relationship so strong as the mere fact of -her knowledge of Celia's name and origin. If she really were Celia's -step-mother, he had no wish to prevent his adopted daughter from -making acquaintance with her own family: and he saw nothing for it -but to take Lady Ingram at her word. - -"I am satisfied, Madam, that you have some relation to Celia," said -he. "And as to her visiting you--for I cannot consent to her being -taken entirely away--let the child choose for herself. Sure she is -old enough." - -"Ah!" said Lady Ingram, shrugging her shoulders slightly. "Very -well. You shall decide, _chère_ Celia. At the least you will visit -me?" - -"I will visit you, Madam, with pleasure," answered Celia, a little to -the damage of truth; "but these dear friends, who have had a care of -me from my childhood, I could not leave them entirely, Madam." The -sentence ended in tears. - -"I am not an officer of justice, _ma belle_!" said Lady Ingram, -laughing faintly. "Ah, well! a visit let it be. You will come with -me--for a visit--on Thursday?" - -"I will attend your Ladyship." - -"You live near, Madam?" asked Madam Passmore, wondering whether she -could live so far away as the next county. - -"I live in France," was the unconcerned answer,--"in Paris in the -winter, and not far thence in the summer." - -The Squire almost gasped for breath. "And where is your summer -dwelling, Madam? I think, if you please, that I have a right to ask." - -"Oh! certainly. At St. Germain-en-Laye." - -"St. fiddlesticks-and-fiddlestrings!" roared the Squire. - -"Sir!" observed Lady Ingram, apparently a little startled at last. - -"Pope, Pretender, and Devil!" thundered the exasperated Whig. - -"Ah! I only know one of the three," said Lady Ingram, subsiding. - -"And pray which is that, Madam?" grimly inquired he. - -"_Le Roi Jacques_--you call the Pretender," said she calmly, drawing -on her glove. - -"If you please, Madam," asked Celia, with an effort, "do you know -what was my mother's name?" - -"White, Black--some color--I know not whether Red, Green, or Blue. -She was a nobody--a mere nobody," replied her successor, dismissing -Celia's insignificant mother with a graceful wave of her hands. - -"Have I any brothers or sisters, Madam?" - -"Sisters! no. Two brothers--one son of your mother, and one of mine." - -"They live with you, Madam?" - -"My son Philip does," said the Baronet's widow. "Your brother--Sir -Edward now--is away on his travels, the saints know where. But he -talked to me much about you before he went, and Philip teased me -about you--so I came." - -"Celia!" said the Squire, sternly, "this woman is an alien, a Tory, -and a Papist. Will you still go?" - -"Ought I not, Father?" she asked, in a low tone. - -"Judge for yourself, child," he answered, kindly. - -"I think I ought to go," said Celia, faintly. - -"I am a Catholic, Mr. Passmore, it is true," remarked Lady Ingram, -quietly; "yet you need not fear me. Sir Edward, my husband, was -Protestant, and so is his son Edward: and I do not interfere. We are -all surely going to heaven, and what matter for the different roads?" - -"I think I ought to go," repeated Celia, but Madam Passmore thought, -still more faintly than before. - -"On Thursday, then," answered Lady Ingram, touching Celia's cheek -with her lips. "Ah! _ma chère_, how I will improve you when I have -you to myself!--how I will form you! That _bon ton_, that _aisance_, -that _maintien!_--you have them not. You shall soon! Adieu!" - - -"Well, sure, 'tis sore to lose you, Mrs. Celia, my dear!" observed -Cicely Aggett, as she sat sewing; "but more particular to a -stranger--among them dreadful Papists--and such a way off, too! Why, -'tis nigh a hundred mile from here to Paris, ben't it?" - -"I don't know how far it is," said Celia, honestly; "but I am sure -'tis a very long way." - -"Well, anyhow, you'll not forget us, dear heart?" - -"I shall never do that, Cicely. But don't talk as if I were going -away altogether. 'Tis only a visit. I shall soon come back--in a -year, at the longest." - -"Maybe, my dear," answered Cicely, quietly; "and maybe not, Mrs. -Celia. A year is a long time, and we none of us know what the Lord -may have for us afore then. Not one of us a-going along with you! -Well, you'll have Him with you, and He'll see to you a deal better -than we could. But to think of you going among them wicked, cruel -Papists! Don't have no more to do with none of them than you can -help--don't, my dear! Depend upon it, Mrs. Celia, they ben't a bit -better now than they was a hundred and fifty years ago, when they -burned and tormented poor folks all over the country, as my -grandmother used to tell me." - -"What did she tell you about it, Cicely?" - -"She were to Exeter,[1a] Mrs. Celia, and she lived till I was a matter -of fifteen; and many a tale she's told me of their doings in them old -times. But the one I always liked best was one her mother had told -her. Her mother had been a young maid when the burnings was a-going -on; she were to London,[1b] and was woman to a lady, one of them as -was burnt." - -"Tell me about it, Cicely," requested Celia, with feelings of -curiosity and horror struggling for precedence. - -"I'll tell you all I know about it, my dear. There! your ruffles is -done. I'll take Mrs. Bell's next. Well, Mrs. Celia, her name, my -great-grandmother's mistress, was Kyme; she was to Lincolnshire, -leastwise her husband, for she was a London lady herself. An old -family them Kymes be; they've dwelt in Lincolnshire ever since Moses, -for aught I know. Mrs. Anne--that was her name--was a sweet, gentle -lady; but her husband, Mr. Kyme, wasn't so likely: he'd a cruel rare -temper, I've heard my grandmother say. Well, and after a while Mr. -Kyme he came to use Mrs. Anne so hard, she couldn't live with him no -longer, and she came back to her father and mother. She never went -back to Lincolnshire; she took back her own name, and everybody -called her Mrs. Anne Askew, instead of Madam Kyme. I never -understood quite the rights of it, and I'm not sure my grandmother -did herself; but however, some way Mrs. Anne she got hold of a Bible, -and she fell a-reading it. And of course she couldn't but see with -half an eye, when she come to read, that all them Papishes had taught -her was all wrong, when she didn't find not one of their -foolishnesses set down in the book. And by and by the priests came -to hear of it. I don't just know how that were; I think somebody -betrayed her, but I can't tell who: not my great-grandmother, I'm -sure, for she held her lady dear. Ay, but there was a scrimmage when -they knowed! Poor young lady! all turned against her, her own father -and mother and all and the priests had their wicked will. They took -her to Newgate, and tried first to talk her over; but when they found -their talk was no good, but Mrs. Anne she held fast by what God had -taught her, they had her into the torture-chamber." - -Celia drew a long breath. - -"Ah!" said old Cicely, slowly shaking her white head, "'tis easy to -say 'God forgive them!' but truly I misdoubt whether God _can_ -forgive them that tear the flesh and rent the hearts of His saints! -What they did to that poor young thing in that torture-chamber, God -knoweth. I make no doubt 'tis all writ down in His book. But Mrs. -Anne she stood firm, and not one word could they get out of her; and -my Lord Chancellor, who was there, he was so mad angry with her, that -he throwed off his gown and pulled the rack with his own hands. At -last the doctors said--for they had doctors there, the devils! to -tell them how much the poor wretches could bear--the doctors said -that if Mrs. Anne had any more, she would be like to die under it. -So then they took her down; but afore they let her be, they kept her -two hours longer a-sitting on the bare floor, and my Lord Chancellor -a-talking at her all that ever he could. Then at last, when they -found her too much for them, they took her away and laid her to bed. -'As weary and painful bones,' quoth she to my great-grandmother, 'had -I as ever had patient Job. I thank my Lord God therefor!'[2] And if -that warn't a good Christian saying, my dear, I'd like to hear one. -Well, for some months after that she laid in prison; the wicked -priests for ever at her, wearying her life out with talk and such. -So at the end of all, when they saw it was no good, they carried her -out to Smithfield, there to die. - -"They carried her out, really; for every bone in her was broken, and -if she had lived fifty years after, she could never have set her foot -to the ground again. But Mrs. Anne she went smiling, and they said -which saw her, as joyful as if she were going to her bridal. There, -at the stake, with the faggots round, they offered her, last thing, a -pardon if she would come round to their evil ways. Ah! they knew not -the strength within her! they saw not the angels waiting round, when -that poor broken body should be ashes, to take up the glad soul to -the Lord's rest. What was pardon to her, poor crushed thing? She -had seen too much of the glory of the Lord to set any price on their -pardons. So when they could do nought more with her, they burned her -to ashes at the stake." - -Old Cicely added no comment. Was any needed? But if she had known -the words spoken at one such holocaust by the mother of the martyr, -she might fitly have ended her tale with them: - -"BLESSED BE JESUS CHRIST, AND HIS WITNESSES!" - - -"_Bon jour, ma chère_. You look a little better this morning--not -quite so English. _Et bien!_ you are ready to come?" - -Celia had never felt so English as at that moment. She forced back -the tears, which felt as if they would work their way out in spite of -her, and said, in a very low voice, "I am ready, Madam." - -"Let us lose no time, then," said Lady Ingram, rising, and allowing -her hoop to spread itself out to its full width. "I wish you a -_very_ good morning, Madam." - -She swept slowly and statelily across the room, leaving Celia to -exchange passionate kisses with all the members of the family, and -then, almost blinded by the tears which would come at last, to make -her way to the coach which was standing at the door. - -"There, there, my dear!" said Lady Ingram, a little querulously, when -the coach had been travelling about five minutes; "that is quite -enough. You will make your eyes red. There is nothing, absolutely -nothing, so unbecoming as the red eyes. These people are not your -family--not at all so good. I do not see anything to cry about." - -"She does not mean to be unkind," thought Celia to herself. "She is -only heartless." - -True--but what an _only_! - -Lady Ingram, having done her duty to her step-daughter, leaned back -in the coach and closed her eyes. She opened them again for a -moment, and said, "We arrive on Tuesday in London, I start for Paris -not until the next Tuesday." Then the dark languishing eyes shut -again, rather to Celia's relief. The ponderous vehicle worked its -way slowly along the muddy roads. Celia sat by her step-mother, and -opposite was Lady Ingram's maid, a dark-browed Frenchwoman; both were -remarkably silent. Lady Ingram went to sleep, and the maid sat -upright, stony, and passive, frequently scanning the young stranger -with her black eyes, but never uttering a word. That evening the -coach clattered into Chard, where they slept. The Friday saw them at -Shaftesbury, the Saturday night at Andover, where they put up for the -Sunday. On the Monday evening they reached Bagshot, Lady Ingram -declaring that she must have the morning to pass Bagshot Heath, and -adding a few anecdotes of her past troubles with highwaymen which -terrified Celia. Two men travelling on horseback, who were staying -at the inn, joined their forces to the carriage, and the heath was -passed without any attack from the highwaymen. About ten o'clock, -when they were a little past the heath, Lady Ingram desired Celia to -keep her eyes open. "We are just entering Windsor," she said; "and -though I have not time to stop and let you see the Castle, yet you -may perhaps get a glimpse of it as we pass." They passed the Castle, -and drove down the park. Suddenly the coach came to a full stop. - -"The stupid man!" exclaimed Lady Ingram. "What does he?" - -The question was very soon answered, for William, the footman, sprang -from his perch, and presented himself at the carriage-window. Lady -Ingram let down the glass. - -"What is the matter?" she asked, testily. - -"If you please, Madam," was the answer, "there is a coach coming with -gentlemen on horseback, and two running footmen in attendance; and -Shale thinks it must be the Queen's." - -"Draw to one side immediately," commanded Lady Ingram, "and then open -the door and we will alight." - -All alighted except the coachman, and Lady Ingram took Celia's hand, -and stood with her just in front of her carriage. The running -footmen passed them first, carrying long wands, and dressed in -scarlet and gold livery. Lady Ingram's practised eye detected at -once that the liveries were royal. Then came three gentlemen, two -riding in front, the third behind. The coach, a large, handsome, but -very unwieldly vehicle, lumbered slowly after them. In it were -seated three ladies--one alone facing the horses, the others on the -opposite seat. - -"Which is the Queen, Madam?" asked Celia, excitedly. - -"The Princess Anne will sit alone, facing the horses," replied her -step-mother. - -The lady who occupied the seat of honor, and whom alone Celia -noticed, was the fattest woman she had ever seen. She had a fat, -round face, and ruddy complexion, dark chestnut hair, and regular -features. Her eyes were gray, and the expression of her face, though -kindly, was not indicative of either liveliness or intellect. She -wore a black dress trimmed with ermine, and a long black hood lined -with the same fur. Not until the Queen had become invisible to her -did Celia notice her ladies on the opposite seat. One of them was -remarkable for a nose not extremely beautiful, and abundance of curls -of a dusky red streamed over her shoulders. Celia glanced at the -other, and came to the conclusion that there was nothing particular -about her. - -"So that is Abigail Hill!"[3] said Lady Ingram, in a peculiar tone, -when the coach had driven past. "I thought she had had more in -her--at least to look at." - -"Is that the lady with the red hair, Madam?" - -"No, my dear--the other. The red-haired one is the Duchess of -Somerset."[4] - -Lady Ingram still stood looking after the royal carriage with a -meditative air. - -"I should like to see Abigail Hill," she said, as if to herself. "I -cannot tell how to do it. But we must not delay, even for that. Get -in, my dear." - -Celia got into the coach, wondering what reason her step-mother could -have for wishing to see Lady Masham, and also why she did not give -her the benefit of her title. Lady Ingram resumed her own seat in -silence, and leaned back in the carriage, apparently cogitating -deeply. Mile after mile the travellers journeyed on, until the dusk -fell, and at the little inn at Bedfont the coach pulled up. William -appeared at the window. - -"Please your Ladyship, we can cross the heath to-night," he said. -"There's a regiment of Colonel Churchill's just before: the host says -they haven't been gone five minutes." - -"Then bid Shale hasten on, without stopping to bait," answered his -mistress. "We must overtake them, for I do not mean to stop on the -road another night, unless it cannot be helped." - -The horses were urged on as fast as they could go, and in about a -quarter of an hour they came up with the regiment, under whose -guardianship they crossed the dreaded Hounslow Heath without fear of -molestation. At Hammersmith the coach stopped again. After a little -parley between William and the innkeeper, four men came out of the -inn with torches in their hands. Two of them placed themselves on -each side of the coach, and they slowly journeyed on again. It was -quite dark now. Gradually the road became busier and more noisy, and -houses appeared lining it at intervals. At length they had fairly -entered the metropolis. The coach worked its way slowly along the -muddy streets, for it had been raining since they left Staines, and -the shouts of the linkmen were almost deafening. As they proceeded, -another coach suddenly appeared and attempted to pass them. This -could not be permitted. The coachman whipped his horses, the linkmen -screamed, the great coach swayed to and fro with the unusual pace. -Lady Ingram opened the window and looked out, while the maid clasped -her hands and shrieked in her own tongue that she was killed. - -"Not at all, _ma bonne_," was the calm response of the mistress. -Then turning to Celia, she asked, "You are not afraid?" - -"Not unless you tell me there is something to fear, Madam," answered -Celia, in the quiescence rather of ignorance than of courage. - -"Ah! I like that answer," replied Lady Ingram, smiling her approval, -and patting Celia's cheek. "There is good metal in you, _ma chére_; -it is only the work that asks the polishing." - -Celia wondered what the process of polishing would be, and into what -kind of creature she would find herself transmuted when it was -finished. - -"William," said Lady Ingram, putting her head out of the window, -"whose coach is that other?" - -"Sir John Scoresby's, Madam." - -"A baronet of three years later," observed Lady Ingram, quietly -sinking back into her seat; "it is impossible to give way." - -"Ah, Madame!" faltered the _bonne_, in a shrill key. "Madame will -renounce her right? We shall be over! We shall be dead!" - -"Impossible, my good Thérèse," was the placid answer. "I know what -is due to myself and to others. To a baronet of one day earlier I -should of course give place without a word; but to one of a day -later--impossible!" replied Lady Ingram, waving her hands with an air -of utter finality. - -"But if we are all killed?" faintly shrieked Thérèse. - -"Absurd!" said Lady Ingram. "But if I were, Thérèse, know that I -should have the consolation of dying in the discharge of my duty. No -soldier can do more." - -"Ah! Madame is so high and philosophical!" lamented Thérèse. -"Madame has the grand thoughts! _C'est magnifique_! But we others, -who are but little people, and cannot console ourselves--hélas!" - -Meanwhile the battle was raging outside the coach. Shouts of -"Scoresby!" and "Ingram!" violent lashings of the struggling horses, -oaths and execrations, at last the flashing of daggers. When things -arrived at this point, Lady Ingram again let down the glass, which -she had drawn up, and Celia, like a coward, shut her eyes and put her -hands over her ears. Thérèse was screaming hysterically. - -"Ah!" remarked the Baronet's widow, in a tone of satisfaction, -replacing the window, "we shall get on now--William has stabbed the -other coachman. Thérèse, give over screaming in that way--so very -unnecessary! and Celia, my dear, do not put yourself in that absurd -position--it is like a coward!" - -"But the man, Madam!--the poor coachman!--is he killed?" questioned -Celia, in a tone of horror. - -"My dear, what does that signify?" said Lady Ingram. "A mere -coachman--what can it matter?" - -"But will you not ask, Madam?" pursued Celia, in a very pained voice. - -"Impossible, my dear!" replied Lady Ingram. "I could not demean -myself by such a question, nor must you. Really, Celia, your manners -are so wanting in repose! You must learn not to put yourself into a -fever in this way for every little thing that happens. Imagine! I, -Lady Ingram, stopping my coach, and yielding precedence to this -upstart Scoresby, to inquire whether this person--a man of no family -whatever--has had a little more or less blood let out by my footman's -thrust! Ridiculous!" And Lady Ingram spread out her dress. - -Celia shrank back as far as she could into the corner of the coach, -and spoke, not in words, to the only Friend she had present with her. -"Oh! send me back to Ashcliffe!" was the strong cry of her heart. -"This woman has no feelings whatever. Unless there be some very -necessary work for me to do in Paris, send me back home!" - -But there was very necessary work to be done before she could go home. - -After another quarter of a mile spent in struggling through the mud, -the coach drew up at the door of a large house. William, who seemed -none the worse for his battle, opened the door, and held out his arm -to assist his ladies in alighting. Lady Ingram motioned to Thérèse -to go first, and the maid laid her hand on the arm of her -fellow-servant. - -"Ah, bah!" exclaimed she, as she reached the ground. "Why you not -wipe de blood from de sleeve? You spoil my cloak--faugh!" - -"You had better not use your dagger, William," observed Lady Ingram, -as she stepped out, "unless it be necessary. It frightens Madam -Celia." And with a peculiar smile she looked back at her -step-daughter. - -Celia followed Lady Ingram into a lighted hall, where servants in -blue and gold liveries stood round, holding tapers in silver -candlesticks. They seemed to recognize Lady Ingram, though Celia -noticed that William's livery was different from theirs, and -therefore imagined that the house she was entering must be that of a -stranger. Lady Ingram walked forward in her usual stately manner -until she reached the head of the staircase, closely followed by -Celia and Thérèse. On the second step from the top stood a gentleman -in full dress, blue and gold. A conversation ensued between him and -Lady Ingram, accompanied by a great deal of bowing and courtesying, -flourishing of hands and shaking of heads, which, being in French, -was of course lost upon Celia; but could she have understood it, this -was what she would have heard. - -"You do me such honor, Monsieur?" - -"It is due to you, Madame." - -"The second stair, Monsieur! I am entitled only to the head of the -staircase." - -"Madame will permit me to express my sense of her distinction." - -"You overwhelm me, Monsieur!" - -"Pray let Madame proceed." - -"Not until Monsieur has done so." - -"Precedence to the ladies!" - -"By no means before His Majesty's Consul!" - -Here, then, appeared likely to be an obstacle to farther progress: -but after a good deal more palaver, the grave point of precedence, -which each was courteously striving to yield to the other, was -settled by Lady Ingram and the Consul each setting a foot upon the -top stair at the same moment. They then passed forward, hand in -hand, Celia as before following her step-mother. The three entered a -large, handsome drawing-room, where a further series of bowing and -courtesying ensued before Lady Ingram would sit down. Celia supposed -that she might follow her example, and being very tired, she seated -herself at the same time as her step-mother; for which act she was -rewarded with a glance of disapprobation from Lady Ingram's dark -eyes. She sprang up again, feeling puzzled and fluttered, whereupon -the Consul advanced to her, and addressed her in French with a series -of low bows. Celia could only courtesy to him, and look helplessly -at her step-mother. Lady Ingram uttered a few languid words in -French, and then said in English to Celia, "Pray sit down. You have -to be told everything." - -So she sat, silent and wearied, until after a time the door flew -open, and half a dozen servants entered bearing trays, which they -presented first to Lady Ingram and then to Celia. The first tray -contained cups of coffee, the second preserved fruits, the third -custards, the fourth various kinds of sweetmeats. Celia mentally -wondered whether the French supped on sugar-plums; but the fifth tray -containing cakes, she succeeded in finding something edible. Lady -Ingram, she noticed, after a cup of coffee and one or two cakes, -devoted her attention to the sugar-plums. - -"You are tired?" asked Lady Ingram, turning to Celia. "Very well, -you shall go to bed. I will leave the forming of your manners at -present; by and by I shall have something to say to you. Thérèse -will dress your hair in the morning. Adieu! come and embrace me." - -Thérèse appeared at the door, and after giving her some directions in -French, her mistress desired Celia to courtesy to the Consul and -follow Thérèse. The maid led Celia into a tolerably large room, with -a French bed, which Thérèse informed her that she would have to -herself. - -"Ah! dat you have de hair beautifuls!" said Thérèse, as she combed it -out. "I arrange it to-morrow. Mademoiselle like Madame?" - -Celia liked no part of this speech. She knew that her hair was not -beautiful, and felt that Thérèse was flattering her; while whatever -might be her feelings on the subject of Lady Ingram, she had no -intention of communicating them to her Ladyship's maid. Her answer -was distant and evasive. - -"Aha!" said Thérèse, with a soft laugh to herself. "Perhaps -Mademoiselle shall like Monsieur Philippe. Monsieur Philippe love to -hear of Mademoiselle." - -Celia's heart warmed in a moment to her unknown brother. "How old is -he?" she asked. - -"Nineteen," said Thérèse. - -"And my eldest brother, how old is he?" - -"Sir Edward?" asked the French maid. "Ah! I see him very little. -He is two, tree, five year older as Monsieur Philippe. He come -never." - -Celia resolved to question Thérèse no further, and the latter -continued brushing her hair in silence. - -"That will do, Thérèse," she said, when this process was completed. -"I will not keep you any longer," she explained, seeing that the -French girl looked puzzled. - -"Mademoiselle undress herself?" asked Thérèse, with open eyes. - -"Yes, thank you--I like it better. I wish to read a little first." - -"De great ladies read never," laughed Thérèse. "Mademoiselle leave -de book in Englands. Madame not like de read." - -"I will never leave you in England," whispered Celia to her little -Bible, resting her cheek upon it, when Thérèse was gone. "But oh! -how shall I follow your teaching here? I know so little, and have so -little strength!" - -And a low soft whisper came into her heart,--"Lo! I am with you -alway, even unto the end of the world."[5] - - -"When Mademoiselle is ready, Madame wish speak with her at her -dressing-chamber." - -This message was brought to Celia by Thérèse the next morning. She -was already dressed and reading. - -"Ah! dat Mademoiselle is early!" exclaimed Thérèse, lifting her -eyebrows. "Mademoiselle read always." - -There was a concealed sarcasm about everything this woman said to -her, which was particularly distasteful to Celia. She rose and -closed her book, only replying, "I will come to my Lady now." - -Thérèse led her along the passage into a handsomely-furnished room, -where, robed in a blue cashmere dressing-gown, Lady Ingram sat, with -her long dark hair down upon her shoulders. - -"Ah! good morning. Early!" was her short greeting to Celia, who bent -down and kissed her. - -"Now, my dear," pursued Lady Ingram, "please to sit down on that -chair facing me. I have two or three remarks to make. You shall -have your first lesson in the polishing you need so much." - -Celia took the seat indicated with some trepidation, but more -curiosity. - -"Very well," said her step-mother. "Now, first, about blushing. You -_must_ get rid of that habit of blushing. There--you are at it now. -Look in the mirror, and see if it does not spoil your complexion. A -woman of the world, Celia, never blushes. It is quite old-fashioned -and obsolete. So much for that." - -"But, Madam,"--Celia began, and hesitated. - -"Go on, my dear," said Lady Ingram. "You are not putting enough -powder on the left side, Thérèse." - -"If you please, Madam, I cannot stop blushing," pleaded Celia, doing -it very much. "It depends upon my feelings." - -"Well, it looks as if you could not," answered Lady Ingram, with a -short, hard laugh. "But, my dear, you _must_. And as to feelings, -Celia, a modish woman never has any feelings. Feeling is the one -thing absolutely forbidden by the mode. Laugh as much as you please, -but mind how you feel merry; and as to crying, that is not allowable -except in particular circumstances. It looks well to see a girl weep -for the death of her father or mother, and, within reasonable limits, -for a brother or sister. But if you are ever left a widow, you must -be very careful not to weep for the loss of your husband: that would -stamp you instantly. And it is not _bien séant_ for a mother to cry -much over her children--certainly not unless they are quite babies. -A few tears--just a few--may be very well in that case, if you have a -laced handkerchief at hand. But you must never look astonished, no -matter what happens to you. And, Celia, last night, when the Consul -spoke to you, you absolutely looked perplexed." - -"I felt so, Madam," said Celia. - -"Is not that just what I am telling you?" replied Lady Ingram, with -that graceful wave of her hands which Celia had seen before. "My -dear, you must not feel. Feeling is the one thing which the mode -cannot permit." - -"Pardon me, Madam," answered Celia, looking perplexed now; "but it -seems to me that you are trying to make me into a statue." - -"Exactly so, my dear Celia--that is just it. A modish woman is a -piece of live marble: she eats, she drinks, elegantly and in small -quantities--she sleeps, taking care not to lie ungracefully--she -walks, glidingly and smoothly--she converses, but must be careful not -to mean too much--she distributes her smiles at pleasure, but never -shows real interest in any person. My dear, a heart is absolute ruin -to a modish woman! She may do anything she likes but feel. Now look -at me. Have you seen any exhibition of feeling in me since you have -known me?" - -Celia felt herself quite safe in acquitting Lady Ingram on that count. - -"No, of course not," continued her step-mother; "I hope I know myself -and the mode too well. Now, as to walking, what do you think the -Consul said to me last night when you left the room?" - -Celia confessed her inability to guess it. - -"He said, 'What a pity that young lady cannot walk!'" - -Celia's eyes opened rather widely. - -"It is quite true, you absolutely cannot walk. You have no idea of -walking but to go backwards or forwards. A walk should be a -graceful, gliding motion, only just not dancing. There--that will do -for this morning. As to walking, you shall have dancing lessons; but -remember the other things I tell you. You must not blush, nor weep, -nor eat more than you can help--in public, of course, I mean; you can -eat an ox in your own chamber, if you please--and above everything -else, you must give over feeling. You can go now if you wish it." - -"Madam, you order impossibilities!" said Celia, with tears in her -eyes. "I will eat as little as you please, if it keep me alive; and -I will do my best to walk in any manner you wish me. I will try to -give over blushing, if I can, though really I do not know how to set -about it; but to give over feeling--Madam, I cannot do it. I do not -think I ought to do it, even at your command. I must weep when I am -sorrowful--I must laugh when I am diverted. I will not do it more -than I can help, but I cannot make any promise beyond that." - -"Ah! there you are!" said Lady Ingram, laughing. "You island -English, with your hearts and your consciences, every man of you a -Pope to himself! Well, I will not be too hard upon you at first, _ma -belle_. That will do for the present. By and by I shall exact more." - -Celia had a request to prefer before she went. - -"Madam," she asked, trembling very much, "if it pleased you, and you -had no desire that I should do otherwise, would you give me leave to -hear Dr. Sacheverell preach on Sunday?" - -"_Ma chère!_" said Lady Ingram, "how can I, a Catholic, choose -between your Protestant teachers? You shall go where you like. The -Consul has been so good as to place one of his carriages at my -disposal, and as I shall remain here all the day, I place it at -yours. I will bid William ask where your great Doctor preaches." - -Celia went slowly back to her own room, feeling very strange, very -lonely, and very miserable, though she hardly knew why. As soon as -she reached it, she proceeded to contravene all Lady Ingram's orders -by a good cry. She felt all the better for it; and having bathed her -eyes, and comforted herself with a few words out of her Book, she was -ready when Thérèse came to summon her to go down to breakfast with -her step-mother. They breakfasted in a room down-stairs, the Consul -and his wife being present; the latter a voluble French woman, who -talked very fast to Lady Ingram. The days passed drearily to Celia; -but she kept looking forward to the Sunday, on which she hoped to -hear a sermon different from Dr. Braithwaite's. When the Sunday -arrived, the carriage came round after breakfast to take Celia to -hear Dr. Sacheverell, who, William had learned, was to preach at St. -Andrew's that morning. To Holborn, therefore, the coach drove; and -Celia entered St. Andrew's Church alone. She was put into a great -pew, presently filled with other ladies; and the service was -conducted by a young clergyman in a fair wig, who seemed more -desirous to impress his hearers with himself than with his subject. -Then the pulpit was mounted by a stout man in a dark wig, who -preached very fluently, very energetically, and very dogmatically, a -discourse in which there were more politics than religion, and very -much more of Henry Sacheverell than of Jesus Christ. - -All the attention which Celia could spare from the service and the -preacher was concentrated in amazement on her fellow-worshippers. -They were tolerably attentive to the sermon, but on the prayers they -bestowed no notice whatever. All were dressed in the height of the -fashion, and all carried fans and snuff-boxes. The former they -flourished, handled, unfurled, discharged, grounded, recovered, and -fluttered all through the service.[6] Whenever the fans were still -for a moment, the snuff-boxes came into requisition, and the amount -of snuff consumed by these fashionable ladies astonished Celia. They -talked in loud whispers, with utter disregard to the sanctity of -place and circumstances; and the tone of their conversation was -another source of surprise to their hearer. - -"Do you see Sir Thomas?" - -"I am sure he is looking this way." - -"There is Lady Betty--no, on your left." - -"Lady Diana has not come this morning." - -"How modishly she dresses!" - -"Look at the Duchess--what a handsome brocade!" - -"That lace cost five guineas the yard, I am certain." - -Then came a fresh flourishing of fans, varied by the occasional -rising and courtesying of one of the ladies, as she recognized an -acquaintance in the fashionable crowd. Did these women really -believe themselves in the special presence of God? thought Celia. -Surely they never could! There was one point of the service at which -all their remarks were hushed, their fans still, and their attention -concentrated. This was during the singing. Celia found that no -member of the congregation thought of joining the psalmody, which was -left to a choir located in the gallery. At the close of each chant, -audible comments were whispered round. - -"How exceeding sweet!" - -"What a divine voice she hath!" - -"Beautiful, that E-la!" - -And when the prayers followed, the snuff-boxes and fans began -figuring again. - -On the whole, Celia was glad when this service was over. Even Dr. -Braithwaite was better than this. And then she thought of her -friends at Ashcliffe, and how they would be rumbling home in the old -family-coach, as she stepped in her loneliness into the Consul's -splendid carriage. Did they miss her, she wondered, and were they -thinking of her then, while her heart was dwelling sadly and -longingly upon them? She doubted not that they did both. - -"_Et bien?_" said Lady Ingram, interrogatively, when she met Celia -after dinner. "Did you like your great preacher?" - -"Not at all, Madam." - -"Not at all? Then I wonder why you went. You look disappointed, _ma -belle_. You must not look disappointed--It gives awkward lines to -the face. Here--take some of this cake to console you; it is -particularly good." - -Celia took the cake, but not the consolation. - -"At eleven o'clock on Tuesday, my child, we depart for Paris. Do not -give yourself any trouble. Thérèse will do all your packing. Only -you must not walk in Paris, until you have some clothes fit to be -seen. I will order stuffs sent in at once when we arrive, and set -the women to work for you." - -"Do you know, Madam, if you please"--Celia hesitated, and seemed a -little uncomfortable. - -"Go on, child," said Lady Ingram. "Never stop in the middle of a -sentence, unless you choose to affect the pretty-innocence style. -Well?" - -"Do you know, Madam, whether there be any Protestant service in -Paris?" - -"I imagine there is a Huguenot _prêche_ somewhere--or was one. I am -not sure if I heard not something about His Majesty having stopped -them. Do not put your Protestantism too much forward there--the -Court do not like it." - -"I have nothing to do with the Court, Madam," said Celia, with sudden -firmness; "and I am a Protestant, and I cannot disguise my religion." - -"Oh dear! your Protestant consciences!" murmured Lady Ingram. "But -you have to do with the Court, my friend; it is to the Court that I -am taking you. Do you suppose that I live in the atmosphere of a -recluse? When I am an old woman of eighty, _ma chère_, very likely I -shall repair to a convent to make my salvation; but not just now, if -you please." - -"I am not an old woman--" Celia was beginning, but Lady Ingram -interrupted her. - -"Precisely, _ma belle_. The very reason why it is so absurd of you -to make a recluse of yourself, as I see you would like to -do,--unless, indeed, you had a vocation. But, so far as I know, -Protestants never have such things." - -"What things, Madam?" - -"Vocations, my dear--calls to the religious life." - -"Madam!" exclaimed Celia, very much astonished, "ought we not all to -lead religious lives?" - -"You are so absurd!" laughed Lady Ingram. "You absolutely do not -understand what is meant by the religious life. My dear child (for a -child you are indeed), the life which we all lead is the secular: we -eat, drink, talk, sleep, dance, game and marry. These are the -seculars who do these things. The religious are those who, having a -call from Heaven, consecrate themselves entirely to God, and deny -themselves all pleasures whatever, and so much of necessaries as is -consistent with the preservation of life. Their mortification is -accepted by Heaven, when extreme, not only for their own sins, but -for the sins of any secular friend to whom they may desire to apply -the merit of it. Now do you understand? _Ma foi!_ what a grave, -saint-like conversation you provoke!" - -"Not at all, Madam." - -"Let me hear your views then." - -Had Celia been left free to choose, Lady Ingram was about the last -person in her little world to whom she would have wished to give a -reason for the hope that was in her. But she felt that there was no -choice, and she must make the effort, though not in her own strength. -She lifted up her heart to God for wisdom, and then spoke with a -quiet decision which surprised her step-mother. - -"Madam, I believe all persons to be religious who love God, and whom -God loves. Because God loved us, He gave His Son to die for us, that -we who believe in Him might have eternal life. It is He who saves -us, not we who make our own salvation; and it is because we love God -that we wish to serve Him." - -"Well, my dear," answered Lady Ingram, slowly, as if considering -Celia's speech, "I can see very little difference between us, except -that you would have all men hermits and friars instead of some. We -both believe in Jesus Christ, of course; and no doubt there is a -certain sense in which the religious feel love to God, and this love -inclines them to the cloister. I do not therefore see wherein we -differ except on a few unimportant points." - -Celia saw an immense distance between them, on points neither few nor -unimportant; but the courage which had risen to a high tide was -ebbing away, and her heart failed her. - -"Well, this will do for to-day, my fair divine," said Lady Ingram, -with a smile. "Now bring me my silk-winders, and hold that skein of -red silk while I wind it--or stay, is that a matter of conscience, my -little votaress?" - -"On the Lord's Day, Madam, it is, if you please." - -"Very well, let the silk alone; I can wind it to-morrow just as well. -Would it be breaking the Sabbath for you to tell Thérèse that I wish -to speak with her? Pray don't if you feel at all uncomfortable." - -Celia gave the message to Thérèse, and then locked herself into her -own room, and relieved her feelings by another fit of crying. - - - -[1a][1b] A Devonshire phrase, as well as an American one, signifying, in -the former case, "she belonged to, or lived at," the place. - -[2] Foxe's "Acts and Monuments," ed. Townsend, 1846, vol. v., p. 550. - -[3] Abigail Hill was a cousin and dependent of Sarah Duchess of -Marlborough, and supplanted her in the Queen's favor. She was a -violent Tory. She married Samuel Masham, one of the Queen's pages, -created Baron Masham, December 13, 1711. - -[4] Elizabeth Percy, only child of Josceline Earl of Northumberland, -and Elizabeth Wriothesley: born 1665-6; married (1) 1679, Henry -Cavendish, Lord Ogle, (2) 1681, Thomas Thynne Esq., (3) 1682, Charles -Seymour, Duke of Somerset; she died December 1722, and was buried in -Salisbury Cathedral. The Duchess of Somerset succeeded the Duchess -of Marlborough in the office of Mistress of the Robes to Queen Anne. - -[5] Matt. xxviii. 20. - -[6] For the meaning of these technical phrases in "the exercise of -the fan," see the _Spectator_ of June 27, 1711. - - - - -V. - -THE HARRYING OF LAUCHIE. - - "'Have I received,' he answered, 'at thine hands - Favors so sweet they went to mine heart-root, - And could I not accept one bitter fruit?'" - LEIGH HUNT. - - -"Now, use your eyes, my young anchorite--if it be not wicked to look -out of the window: this is the Rue de Rivoli, the finest street in -Paris. By the way, you ought not to have been ill in crossing the -Channel--so very undignified. Here is my town-house--that with the -portico. Till your manners are formed, I shall give you a private -closet as well as a bedroom, and an antechamber where you can take -lessons in French and dancing.---- Good evening, St. Estèphe! Is -Monsieur Philippe here?" - -"Monsieur Philippe is not at himself, Madame; he ride out with -Monsieur Bontems." - -Lady Ingram knitted her brows, as if the information were not -agreeable to her. She alighted, and desired Celia to follow her -up-stairs. Through suites of spacious rooms, splendidly furnished, -and along wide corridors she led the way to a quiet suite of -apartments at one end of the house--an antechamber, a bedroom, and a -small but elegant boudoir. - -"These are your rooms," she said. "I will give you a new attendant, -for I must have Thérèse to myself now. These will be entirely at -your disposal, within certain restrictions. I shall visit you every -morning, to have your masters' opinions as to your improvement, and -you will take a dish of coffee or chocolate with me in my boudoir at -four o'clock every afternoon. Until you are formed, you must dine -alone, except when I dine entirely _en famille_. Your masters will -attend you in the antechamber every morning. No one must be -permitted to cross the threshold of your boudoir, except myself and -your brothers, your own attendant, or any person sent by me. Do you -dislike that?" - -"No, Madam; I am very glad to hear it." - -"Ah! my Sister of St. Ursula!" said Lady Ingram, laughing. "But -remember this is only until you are formed, and the sooner that -happens the better pleased I shall be." - -"I am anxious to obey your wishes in everything not forbidden by my -conscience, Madam." - -"Very well," said Lady Ingram, still laughing. "The conscience -requires a little formation too, _ma belle_, as well as the manners. -Farewell! I will send your attendant." - -She sailed away with her usual languid stateliness, and Celia went -forward into the bedroom. She was vainly endeavoring to find an -unlocked drawer in which to place her hood and cloak, when a low, -quiet voice behind her said: - -"Here are the keys, Madam. Will you allow me to open them for you?" - -Celia looked up into a face which won her confidence at once. Its -owner was a woman of middle height, whose age might be slightly under -sixty. Her dress was of almost Quaker simplicity, and black. Her -hair and eyes were of no particular color, but light rather than -dark; her face wore no expression beyond a placid calm. But Celia -fancied that she saw a peculiar, deep look in the eyes, as if those -now passionless features might have borne an expression of great -suffering once. - -"Oh, thank you!" said Celia, simply. "Is it you whom my Lady -promised to send?" - -"I am to be your woman, Madam. I am her Ladyship's sewing-woman; my -name is Patient Irvine." - -The "lady's woman" of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was -the ancestress rather of the modern companion than of the maid. She -was called by her Christian or surname, sewed for her mistress, and -assisted her in dressing; but in every other particular the mistress -and maid were upon equal terms. The "woman" was her lady's constant -companion, and nearly always her _confidante_. She sat at her -mistress's table, went with her into company, and appeared as a -member of her family when she received her friends. As a rule, she -was the equal of her lady in education, and not seldom her superior. -Her inferiority lay in birth and fortune, sometimes in the latter -only. - -"And what would you like me to call you?--Patience or Irvine?" asked -Celia of her new acquaintance. - -"Patient, if you please, Madam." - -"Patient--not Patience?" - -"I was not baptized Patience, Madam. My father was a Scottish -Covenanter, and he named me, his first-born child, -'The-Patient-Waiting-for-Christ.'" - -"What a strange name!" involuntarily exclaimed Celia. - -"Yes, Madam; very strange, I doubt not, to such as have never met -with our Puritan practice of Scripture-text names. I have known -divers such." - -"Do the Puritans, then, commonly give their children such names?" - -"Very often, Madam. I had an aunt who was called -'We-Love-Him-Because-He-First-Loved-Us.'" - -"They called her Love for short, I suppose?" - -"Yes, Madam," answered Patient, in her calm, passive manner. - -Celia thought this very odd indeed, and turned the conversation, lest -she should get comic associations with texts of Scripture of which -she could not afterwards divest herself. She wondered that Patient -did not feel the ludicrous strangeness of the practice, not knowing -that all sense of the ludicrous had been left out of Patient's -composition. - -"And how long have you lived in France, Patient?" - -"Since I was of the age of twenty years, Madam Celia." - -"You know my name, then?" said Celia, smiling. - -"I know you, Madam, much better than you know me. I have borne you -about in mine arms as a babe of a few hours old. And just now, when -I saw you, you looked to mine eyes as the very image from the dead of -my dear Miss Magdalene." - -"Patient! do you mean my mother?" - -"Yes Madam. I ask your pardon for calling her such a name, but it -ever sounds more natural to mine ear. She was my Lady Ingram for so -short a time, and I knew her as Miss Magdalene when she was but a wee -bonnie bairn." - -"What was her name?" - -"Magdalene Grey, Madam. She was the Minister's daughter at the Manse -of Lauchie, where my father and I dwelt." - -"Then she was a Scottish lady?" - -"Yes, Madam, at least she was born in Scotland, and her mother was -Scottish. Her father, Mr. Grey, was English by descent, though his -fathers had dwelt in Scotland for three generations afore him." - -"And where did my father meet with her? He was not Scottish?" - -"He was not, Madam. And I will tell you all the story if it please -you; but will you not dress now?" - -"You can tell me while I comb my hair, Patient. I want to know all -about it." - -"May I do it for you, Madam? I can speak now, if that be your -pleasure; but 'tis almost necessary that I tell mine own story in -hers." - -"Will it pain you, Patient?" asked Celia, kindly. - -"No, Madam; I am far past that," answered Patient, in her calm, -passionless voice. - -"Then please to let me hear it." - -"My father's name, please you," Patient began, "was Alexander Leslie, -and he dwelt on Lauchie Farm, near to the Manse. And sith Mr. Grey, -our Minister, wedded Mrs. Jean Leslie, of the same clan, it fell out -that Miss Magdalene and I were somewhat akin, though in worldly goods -she was much beyond us. For Mr. Grey was not one of our poor -ministers of Scotland, but a rich Englishman, who made his way into -what the English deemed our wild valleys, for no cause but only the -love of Christ. Miss Magdalene being an only bairn, without brother -or sister, it so fell that I and Roswith were called up whiles to the -Manse to divert her." - -"You and who?" - -"Roswith, my sister." - -"What strange names your father gave his daughters!" - -"Ay, that was a strange name, and all said so. It came out of an old -chronicle that he had, a very ancient book, and he deemed it a fair -name, and gave it in the baptizing to his youngest-born. Those were -evil days, Madam, on which we fell. Yet why should I call them evil, -when they were days of growing in the truth, and of the great honor -of suffering for the Lord's sake? Mr. Grey, your grandfather, Madam, -was a very gracious man, and did preach most savory discourses. -Wherefore, he was one of the first on whom the blow fell. And when -King Charles sent his troopers into our parts, under command of -Claverhouse,[1] bidding them hunt and slay all that would not conform -unto his way, they came, one of the first places, into our valley. -Many an humble and honest husbandman, that feared God, was hung up at -his own door by the wicked Claverhouse and his troopers, and many a -godly man and woman was constrained to dwell in caves and dens of the -earth until this enemy was overpast. I could tell many a tale of -those days that would stir your blood, Madam, if it pleased you to -hear it. We were amongst those whom the Lord was pleased to honor by -permitting them to suffer for His name's sake. Mr. Grey refused to -fly. He was dragged down, one Sabbath morn, from the pulpit in -Lauchie Kirk, Claverhouse himself being at the door. He had been -preaching unto us a most sweet, godly, and gracious discourse of -casting care upon the Lord, and standing firm in the truth. And just -when he was speaking that great and precious promise of the Lord, -'Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world,' the -troopers burst in. Then the whole kirk thronged around our Minister, -and sought to free him from the evil men. Mine uncle Jock Leslie, -fell, thrust through with the swords of the troopers, and many -another. But at length they had their wicked will, and bound us, -men, women, and children, two and two, with one strong rope, like a -gang of slaves going to the market-place. I was greatly honored to -have the next place to Mr. Grey, hand in hand with whom walked Miss -Magdalene, a sweet young maid of scarce fourteen years. His godly -wife was bound, just before, with Janet Campbell, an old wife of nigh -eighty. So we were marched down eleven miles to the shore. Ah! but -my heart ached for Miss Magdalene and Roswith ere we reached it! It -was a grand comfort to find Roswith bound with me, for she was but a -wee wean of eight years, and I a grown maiden of twenty. Doubtless -this was the Lord's mercy. When we came to the sea, we saw a great -ship lying afar off, and we were all thrust into boats to carry us -thither. When we were aboard, the troopers, some of whom came with -us, did drive us below, and shut down the hatches upon us: which, it -being summer time, was hot and painful, and many women and children -fell sick therewith. Whither we were to go we knew not, only Mr. -Grey surmised that they thought either to sell us for slaves in -Barbary unto the heathen there, or else to convey us unto the King's -plantations in Virginia or those parts; though if they were bound -unto Virginia he knew not wherefore they should set sail from the -eastern part of the kingdom. For three days and nights we were thus -kept under hatches, to our much discomfort, and the ship sailing -northwards with all the speed the sailors could make. During which -time we were greatly comforted with the thought of Christ our Lord, -and the three days and three nights which He was in the heart of the -earth. Likewise Mr. Grey did oft exhort us, and prayed us to bear -all that should come upon us meekly and bravely, and as unto the -Lord. Then some of us which were mighty in the Scriptures did say -certain parts thereof for the comfort of the rest; in particular, old -Jamie Campbell, Janet's guidman, and Elsie Armstrong, his sister's -daughter. So passed these three days until the Wednesday even. And -then arose a great and mighty tempest, with contrary winds, driving -the ship down, so that, notwithstanding all the skill of the shipmen, -she lost in one day and night more than she had gained in all the -three. Verily she fled like a mad thing afore the violence of that -wind. And on the Thursday night, a little on the hither side of -midnight, she flying as thistledown afore the wind, we felt a mighty -shock, and suddenly the water came in at our feet with a great rush. -Mr. Grey said he thought the ship must have lighted on some rock, and -that a hole was driven in her. Then the shipmen opened the hatches, -and in dolorous voices bade us come up on deck, for we were all like -to drown. Wherefore we ascended the ladders, thirty-five in all our -company, I alway holding tight the hand of my wee sister. When we -were upon deck, we found from the words of the shipmen that they were -about to loose the boats. So when all the boats were loosed, the -troopers filled two of them and the seamen the third, and no room was -left for the prisoners. Then in this time we thought much on Paul -and his shipwreck, and how the seamen were minded to kill the -prisoners lest any should escape: and we marvelled if they counselled -to kill us, seeing there was no room for us in the boats." - -"O Patient! surely they laid no hands on any of you?" - -"No, Madam; they left that to the wind and the sea. The three boats -cast off, and we prisoners stood alone on the deck of the sinking -ship. We had neither wit nor material to make any more boats nor -rafts. And when we saw our death thus before us--for our ship, like -Paul's, was stuck fast in the forepart, but the sea beat freely on -the hinder--we stood like men stupid and amazed for a short season. -But then above all the noise of the storm came Mr. Grey's voice, -which we were used to obeying, saying, 'Brethren, in a few hours at -most, perchance in a few minutes, we shall stand before God. Let our -last hour be employed in His worship.' Then we gathered all around -him, on that part of the ship which was fast on the rock, and he led -the exercise with that Psalm:[2] - - 'O God, the heathen entered have - Thine heritage; by them - Defiled is Thine house: on heaps - They laid Jerusalem.' - - -"After the Psalm there was an exhortation. Our Minister bade us -remember that we were the Lord's freedmen--doubly so now, since our -enemies had cast us away from them, and we were left only on the -mercy of our God. Moreover, he recalled that of David, saying in his -strait, 'Let me fall into the hand of the Lord, for His mercies are -great.'[3] Then he prayed with us; and while the exercise yet -lasted, and Mr. Grey was still praying, and entreating the Lord to -deal with us in his mercy, whether for life or for death,--but if it -should be death, as there seemed no other, to grant, if it so pleased -Him, an easy dying unto the little children in especial--while he -prayed, the ship parted asunder with a great crash, and the waves, -leaping up on that part which stuck fast, swept every soul of us out -into the boiling sea." - -"O Patient, what a dreadful story! And how many were saved?" - -"Four, Madam." - -"Only four out of thirty-five!" - -"Ah, Madam! the thirty-one were happier than any of the four!" - -"Who were saved, Patient?" - -"Miss Magdalene, and wee Jamie Campbell--old Jamie's grandson--and -Roswith, and me.' - -"And not one of the others?" said Celia, pityingly. - -"Not one. They were carried by the angels into the rest of the Lord, -and He would not grudge them the crown of martyrdom." - -"And how did you get ashore?" - -"That, Madam, I never knew. I mind falling into the water, and -sinking down, it seemed to me, far and low therein; and then I was -buoyed up again to the top, and I tried to make some little struggle -for life. But the waters closed over me again, and I knew no more. -The next minute, as it felt, I was lying with mine eyes shut, -methought, in my little bed at Lauchie. I thought I had dreamed a -bad dream, sith I felt stiff, and sore, and cold, and wet, all over: -but as I awoke, I felt it was truly so: and at last I oped mine eyes -and strove to sit. Then I saw that I sat on the sea-sand, and above -me the blue sky, and I all alone: and an exceeding bitter cry rose to -my lips as it came back upon me what had been. When I fancied I -heard a bit groan no so far from me and I struggled up on my feet, -and crept, rather than walked, wondering I had no bones broken, to a -cleft of the rocks whence methought the groan came. And there was -Jamie Campbell, lying sorely bruised and hurt; and when I stooped to -him he lifted up his eyes, and saith, 'O Patient! I thought all were -drowned, and that there was none here but God.' I said, 'Are you -sore hurt, my poor bairn?' 'Yea,' quoth he, 'for I cannot move nor -sit, and methinks I have some bones broke.' Poor laddie! he was in a -sad way indeed. I tare mine own clothing to bind up his bruises, and -promising to return to him, I set out to see if any other might have -been saved from the wreck, ever hoping to find my father, my mother, -or Mr. Grey. I walked upon the sand to the right hand, and saw no -sign of any soul: then I turned to the left hand, and passing Jamie, -walked far that way. Not a soul did I see, and I was about turning -again in despair, accounting that he and I were the only two alive, -when all at once I fancied I heard Roswith's voice. I stood and -hearkened--sure enough it was Roswith's voice, for I never could -mistake that. I could not hear whence it came, and so weak was I -become with sorrow and weariness and fasting, that methought she was -speaking to me from Heaven. Then I called, 'Roswith!' and heard her -cry as in joy, 'Patient! O Miss Magdalene, Patient is alive! here is -Patient!' And before I knew aught more, her little arms were around -me, and Miss Magdalene, white and wan, stood at my side." - -"How had they been saved?" - -"They knew that no more than I did, Madam. Truly, Roswith, like a -bit fanciful lassie, said she thought the Lord sent an angel to help -her, and talked of walking over some rocks. I had not the heart to -gainsay the bairn, and how did I know that the Lord had not sent His -angel? Well, we all got back to Jamie Campbell, but what little I -could do for him was no good; he died that forenoon. Then I said we -would set forth and seek some house, for it was eleven hours gone -since we had eaten food. But afore we could depart, the tempest, -which was somewhat lulled, washed up two bodies at our feet, Mr. -Grey's and Elsie Armstrong's. We poor weak maids could do nought for -their burying; but Miss Magdalene cut off a lock of her father's -hair, and kissed him, and wept over him. Then we set out to try and -find some house near. When at last, after two hours' good walking, -we reached a cot, we found to our sorrow that they spake a strange -tongue. Miss Magdalene was the only one of us that could speak their -speech, and she told us that the country where we were thus cast was -the North of France." - - -"Patient! Patient Irvine, where are you?" - -"Here, Sir," answered Patient to the voice without. "Your brother, -Madam, Mr. Philip Ingram." - -Celia was half-way across the room before she remembered that one -side of her hair was still floating on her shoulders. - -"I will take him into your closet, Madam," said Patient, as she left -the room. - -The colloquy outside was audible within. - -"Mr. Philip, will you wait a few minutes? I have not ended dressing -Madam's hair, but by the time you have changed your boots she will be -ready to see you." - -"Pray what is the matter with my boots?" - -"They are splashed all over, Sir. My Lady would not allow you to -come into Madam's closet with such boots as those, which you know." - -"Leather and prunella! Never mind my boots nor my mother neither!" - -"Sir!" responded Patient, in a tone which admitted of but one -interpretation. - -"Well, come, I don't mean----you are always making me say something I -don't mean, you dear old tease!" - -"Sir, I must obey my Lady's orders." - -"Must you, really? Well, then, I suppose I must. Eh! Madam -Patient?" - -"If you will please to change your boots, Mr. Philip," quietly -repeated Patient, "Madam will be ready to receive you in a few -minutes." - -"Very well, Madam Patient. I will obey your orders." - -And the boots were heard quickly conveying their owner down the -corridor. Celia's hair was soon put up, for she was very wishful to -make the acquaintance of her half-brother; and she was in the boudoir -waiting for him before Mr. Philip Ingram had completed the changing -of his objectionable boots. - -"Come in!" she said, with a beating heart, to the light tap at her -door. - -"Are you my sister Celia? I am very glad to see you--very glad. I -must congratulate dear old Patient on having finished you sooner than -I expected." - -The first greeting over, Celia looked curiously at her half-brother. -He was not like what she had anticipated, and, except for a slight -resemblance about the eyes, he was not like Lady Ingram. He looked -older than his years--so much so, that if Celia had not known that he -was her junior, she would have supposed him to be her senior by some -years. Philip Ingram was of middle height, inclining rather to the -higher side of it, slenderly built, thin, lithe, and very active in -his movements, with much quickness, physical and mental. He had dark -glossy hair, brilliant dark eyes, and a voice not unmusically toned. - -"Well, Madam!" he said at last, laughingly; "I hope you like me as -well as I do you." - -Celia laughed in her turn, and colored slightly. "I have no doubt -that I shall like my new brother very much," she said. "Whom do you -think me like?" - -"That is just what I cannot settle," said Philip, gravely, -considering her features. "You are not like Ned, except about the -mouth; you have his mouth and chin, but not his eyes and forehead." - -"Am I like my father?" - -"Don't recollect him a bit," said Philip. "He died before I was -three years old." - -"Edward is not here, is he?" - -"No; he is on his travels." - -"Where has he gone?" - -"The stars know where! He did not ask me to go with him, and if he -had done, my Lady-Mother would have put an extinguisher upon it. I -wish he were here; 'tis only endurable when he is." - -"What is it that you dislike?" - -"Everything in creation!" said Philip, kicking a footstool across the -room. - -"You speak very widely," replied Celia, laughing, and thinking of -Charley Passmore. - -"I speak very truly, as you will shortly find, Madam, to your cost. -Wait until you have been at one of her Ladyship's evening assemblies." - -"I am not to go until she is better satisfied with my manners," said -Celia, simply. - -Philip whistled. "You will not lose much," he answered. - -"Don't you like them?" - -"What is there to like?" asked Philip, dissecting the tassel of the -sofa-cushion. "A thousand yards of satin and lace, or the men and -women under them, whose hearts are marble and their brains sawdust! -Celia Ingram, don't let my mother spoil you! From the little I see -of you now, I know you are not one of them. Indeed, I guessed that -from what my mother told me. She said you were absolutely without a -scrap of fine breeding--which she meant as a censure, and I took as a -compliment. I know what your grand ladies are, and what their fine -breeding is! And I hope you are a true English girl, with a heart in -you, and not one of these finnicking, fussy, fickle, faithless -French-women!" - -Philip let the sofa-cushion go when he had relieved his feelings by -this burst of alliteration. - -"I hope I have a heart, dear Philip," replied Celia. "But can you -find no friends anywhere?" - -"Just one," said Philip, "that is, beside Ned. You see, when Ned is -here, he is master; but when he is away, I am not master: her -Ladyship is mistress and master too." - -"But surely, Philip, you do not wish to disobey your mother?" - -"Disobey my mother!" answered Philip, reflectively, and resuming the -sofa-cushion. "Well, Madam, I never get much chance of doing that. -You don't know the sort of game my mother can play sometimes!" - -"What do you mean, Philip?" - -"I will tell you what I mean. Celia, there is a very, very pleasant -prospect before you. Imprimis, Madam, you will be converted; that -is, if she can manage it; and if she can't, it will show that you are -a clever hand. In the latter case, the probability is that she won't -think you worth the waste of any more time; but if she succeed in -converting you, she will then proceed to form you. She will turn -your feet out, and pinch your waist in, and stick your head up, and -make you laugh when you are angry, and cry when you are pleased. She -will teach you to talk without interruption for an hour, and yet to -have said nothing when the hour is over. You will learn how to use -your eyes--how to look at people and not see them, and _who_ to see, -or not to see. I can give you a hint about that, myself; a man who -wears no orders is nobody--you may safely omit seeing him. A man of -one order is to be treated with distant civility; a man of two, with -cordiality; but a man who wears three is to be greeted with the most -extreme pleasure, and held in the closest friendship." - -"But if I don't like the man, I cannot make a friend of him," said -Celia, in a puzzled tone. - -"My dear, that doesn't come into consideration. You will have to -learn never to look at the man, but only at his coat and decorations. -A man is not a man in genteel society; he is a Consul, a Marquis, or -a nobody. Never look at nobodies; but if a Duke should lead you to a -chair, be transported with delight. You have a great deal to learn, -I see. Well, after you have got all this by heart--I am afraid it -will take a long while!--my mother will proceed with her work. The -last act will be to take your heart out of you, and put instead of it -a lump of stone, cut to the proper shape and size, and painted so as -to imitate the reality too exactly for any one to guess it an -imitation. And then, with a lot of satin and velvet and lace on the -top, Mrs. Celia Ingram, you will be finished!" - -"Oh dear! I hope not," said Celia involuntarily. - -"So do I," echoed Philip, significantly. - -"But, Philip, I want to ask you one thing--are you not a Protestant?" - -"I?" asked Philip, with a peculiar intonation. "No." - -"You are a Papist?" said Celia, in a very disappointed tone. - -"No," said Philip again. - -"Then what are you?" asked she, astonished. - -"Neither--nothing," he answered, rather bitterly. "I am what half -the men of this age are, Sister Celia;--nothing at all. I call -myself a Catholic, just to satisfy my mother; and when I see her -becoming doubtful of my soundness in her faith, I go to mass with her -half a dozen times, to quiet her conscience--and perhaps my own. -But, Catholic as I am--so far as I own to anything--I do not believe -you have read more Protestant books, or heard more Protestant -preaching, than I have. I have tried both religions in turn, and now -I believe in nothing. I have lost all faith, whether in religion, in -morality, in man, or woman. I see the men of this city, Protestant -and Catholic, either bent on pursuing their own pleasures, or on -seeking their own interests--thinking of and caring for themselves -and nothing in the world else; and I see the women, such as I have -described them to you. I find none, of either faith, any better than -the rest. What wonder, then, that the fire of my faith--the old, -bright, happy trust of my childhood--has blackened and gone out?" - -"But, Philip, dear Brother," pleaded Celia in great pain, "surely you -believe in God?" - -"I believe in _nothing_," said he, firmly. - -Celia turned away, grieved at her very heart. - -"Listen to me, Celia," resumed Philip, now quite serious. "You will -not betray me to my mother--I see that in your eyes. You see I can -believe in _you_," he added, smiling rather sadly. "There was a time -when I believed all that you do, and more. When I was a little -child, I used to think that, as Patient told me, God saw me, and -loved me, and was ready to be my Friend and Father. All that I -noticed different from this in the teaching of my other nurse, -Jeannette Luchon, was that she taught me to think this of the Virgin -Mary, my patron saint, and my guardian angel, as well as of God. Had -I been struck deaf, dumb, and blind at that time, I might have -believed it all yet. Perhaps it would have been as well for me. But -I grew up to what I am. I watched all these highly religious people -who visit here. I heard them invoke the Virgin or the saints to -favor--not to forgive, mind you--but, before its committal, to -prosper--what they admitted to be sin. I saw my own mother come home -from receiving the Eucharist at mass, and tell lies: I knew they were -lies, I was taught that it was very wicked in me to tell lies, and -also that, in receiving the Eucharist, she had received Christ -Himself into her soul. How could I believe both the one and the -other? I was taught, again, that if I committed the most fearful -sins, a man like myself, sitting in a confessional, could with two -words cleanse my soul as if I had never sinned. How could I believe -that, when from that cleansing I came home and found it no whit the -cleaner? I turn to Protestantism. I hear your preachers tell me -that 'Without holiness no man shall see the Lord;' that God has -'purer eyes than to behold sin;' and many another passage to the like -effect. The next week I hear that one of the pastor's flock, or -perhaps the very preacher himself, has been guilty of some glaring -breach of common honesty. Does the man mean me to believe--does he -believe himself--what he told me from the pulpit only a few days -earlier? Romans and English, all are alike. I find the most zealous -professors of religion in both communions guilty of acts with which -I, who profess no religion at all, would scorn to sully my -conscience. I have seen only one man who seems to me really honest -and anxious to find out the truth, and he is about where I am; only -that his mind is deeper and stronger than mine, and therefore he -suffers more." - -"But Edward!" - -"Oh, Edward! He is a Protestant after your own heart. But he could -not enter into my feelings at all. He is one of your simple, honest -folks, who believe what they are taught, and do not trouble -themselves about the parts of the puzzle not fitting." - -"Philip, I do not know what to say to you," answered his sister, -candidly. "I do not think we ought to look at other people, and take -our religion from what they do, or do not do, but only from God -Himself. If you would read the Bible"-- - -"I have read it," he interrupted. - -"And do you find nothing to satisfy you there?" asked Celia, in -surprise. - -"I will tell you what I find. Very ancient writings, and very -beautiful language, which I admire exceedingly; but nothing upon -which I can rely." - -"Not in God's Word?" - -"How do I know that it is God's Word? How can I be sure that there -is a God at all?" - -Celia was silent. Such questions had never suggested themselves to -her mind before, and she knew not how to deal with them. At length -she said-- - -"Philip, I believe in one God, who is my Father, and orders all -things for me; and who gave His Son Jesus Christ to die for me, -instead of my dying for my own sins. Is this so difficult to -believe?" - -"I believe that you believe it," said Philip, smiling. - -"But you do not believe it yourself?" she asked, with a baffled -feeling. - -"I have told you," he said, "that I believe nothing." - -"Philip," she answered, softly, "I do not understand your feelings, -and I do not know what to say to you. I must ask my Father. I will -lay it before Him to-night; and as He shall give me wisdom I will -talk with you again." - -So she closed the subject, not knowing that the quiet certainty of -conviction expressed in her last words had made a deeper impression -upon Philip than any argument which could have been used to him. - - -"Come in!" said Lady Ingram, that afternoon, in reply to Celia's -gentle tap at her door. "I thought it was you, _ma chère_. I am -glad you are come, for I have something to say to you." - -"Yes, Madam," responded Celia, resigning herself to another lecture. - -"When you have taken dancing-lessons for a month, so that your -deportment is a little improved, I wish you to be present at my first -assembly for this year. Do not be alarmed--I require nothing more of -you than to dress well and sit still. I shall present you to my -particular friends, saying that you do not yet speak French, and none -of them will then address you but such as are acquainted with -English. You must remain in a corner of the room, where your awkward -manners will attract no notice; and I shall put you in Philip's -charge, and desire him to tell you who each person is, and so on. -You will then have the opportunity of seeing really fine breeding and -distinguished manners, and can help in the formation of your own -accordingly, as you will then understand what I require of you." - -"Yes, Madam," said Celia again. - -"I have ordered stuffs for you, and they are now in the house. My -assembly will be on Thursday week. There is quite time enough to -make you one dress; and you will not appear again until you are -formed--at least, that is my present intention. Thérèse will take -your measure this evening, and cut out the dress, which Patient can -then make. I wish you to have a white satin petticoat and a yellow -silk bodice and train, guarded with lace; and I will lend you jewels." - -"Thank you, Madam," answered Celia, giving herself up to all her -step-mother's requirements. - -"When you feel tired--I dare say you are not accustomed yet to late -hours--you may slip out of the room and retire to you own apartments. -Nobody will miss you." - -"No, Madam," meekly responded Celia again, to this not very -flattering remark. - -"I think that is all I need say," pursued Lady Ingram, meditatively. -"I do not wish to encumber and confuse your mind with too many -details, or you will certainly not behave well. I will instruct -Patient how you must be dressed, and I will look at you myself before -you descend to the drawing-room, to be sure that no ridiculous -mistake has been made. Thérèse shall dress your hair. Now help -yourself to the chocolate." - - -"Patient! will you bring your work into my closet? I want to hear -the end of your story." - -"If you please, Madam. I must try the skirt on you in a little -while, by your leave." - -So Patient and the white satin petticoat came and settled themselves -in Celia's boudoir. - -"You had just landed in France when you left off, Patient. I am -anxious to know if you found friends." - -"'Twould make it a very long tale, Madam to tell you of all that we -did and suffered ere we found friends. It was a hard matter to see -what we should do; for had I sought a place as woman to some lady, I -could not have left Roswith alone; and no lady would be like to take -the child with me. So I could but entreat the Lord to show me how to -earn bread enough for my wee sister and myself. The woman of the -house who took us in after the shipwreck was very good unto us, the -Lord inclining her heart to especial pity of us; and she greatly -pressed us to go on to Paris, where she thought we should be more -like to meet with succor. Therefore we set out on our way to Paris. -The Lord went with us, and gave us favor in the eyes of all them whom -we had need of on our road. Most of the women whom we met showed -much compassion for Roswith, she being but a wee bit wean, and a very -douce and cannie bairn to boot. It was in the month of October that -we arrived in Paris. Here the Lord had prepared a strange thing for -us. There was an uncle of Miss Magdalene, by name Mr. Francis Grey, -who was a rich gentleman and a kindly. He had been on his travels -into foreign parts, and was returning through this city unto his -place; and by what men call chance, Miss Magdalene and I lighted on -this gentleman in the Paris street, we returning from the buying of -bread and other needful matters. He was as if he saw her not, for he -afterward told us that he had heard nought of the harrying of -Lauchie, nor of our shipwreck. But she ran to him, and cast her arms -about him, calling 'Uncle Francis!' and after a season he knew her -again, but at first he was a man amazed. When he heard all that had -come upon us, and how Miss Magdalene was left all alone in the world, -father and mother being drowned, he wept and clipped[4] her many -times, and said that she should come with him to his inn, and dwell -with him, and be unto him as a daughter, for he had no child. Then -she prayed him to have compassion upon us also, Patient and Roswith -Leslie; who, as John saith, had continued with her in her -tribulation, and, it pleased her to say, had aided and comforted her. -Mr. Francis smiled, and he said that I, Patient, should be in his -service as a woman for her; and for Roswith, 'She,' quoth he, 'will -not eat up all my substance, poor wee thing! So she shall come too, -and in time Patient must learn her meetly unto the same place to some -other lady.' Thus it was, Madam, that at the time when we seemed at -the worst, the Lord delivered us out of our distresses." - -"Then you went back to Scotland?" - -"No, Madam, we never went back. For when Mr. Francis heard all, of -the harrying of Lauchie, and the evil deeds of the King's troopers, -and the cruelty of Claverhouse, he said there could be no peace in -Scotland more, and sent word unto his steward to sell all, and remit -the money to him. He bought a house at Paris, and there we dwelt -all." - -"It was in her uncle's house, then, that my mother met my father?" - -"There, Madam. Sir Edward took her to England, for they married in -January, 1687, while King James yet reigned; and Sir Edward was great -with the King, and had a fine land there. Her son, your brother, -Madam, that is Sir Edward now, was born in London, in the summer of -1688." - -"Patient, what kind of man was my father?" - -"He was a very noble-looking gentleman, Madam, tall, with dark eyes -and hair." - -"Yes, but I mean in his mind and character?" - -"Well, Madam," answered Patient, rather doubtfully, "he was much like -other men. He had good points and bad points. He was a kindly -gentleman, and open-handed. He was not an angel." - -"You scarce liked him, I think, Patient." - -"I ought not to say so, Madam. He was alway a good and kind master -to me. Truly, he was not the man I should have chosen for Miss -Magdalene; but I seldom see folks choose as I should in their places. -Yet that is little marvel, since, fifteen years gone, Patient Leslie -made a choice that Patient Irvine would be little like to make now." - -Patient's dry, sarcastic tone warned Celia that she had better turn -the conversation. - -"And where was I born, Patient?" - -"Well, Madam, you know what happened that summer your brother was -born. He that was called Prince of Wales was born in the same -month;[5] and in October King James fled away, sending his wife Queen -Mary[6] and the babe to France. When King William landed, it was -expected that he would seize all belonging to the malignants;[7] this -was not so entirely, yet so much that Sir Edward was sore afeared to -lose his. He kept marvellous quiet for a time, trusting that such as -were then in power would maybe not think of him. But when King James -landed in Ireland, he was constrained to join him, but he left my -Lady behind, and me with her, at his own house in Cheshire. After -the battle of Boyne Water,[8] whereat he fought, it happed as he -feared, for all his property was escheated to the Crown. At this -time Mr. Francis Grey came back into the country, and for a time Sir -Edward and my Lady abode with him at a house which he had near the -Border, on the English side: but Sir Edward by his work on the Boyne -had made the place too hot for to hold him, and he bethought himself -of escaping after King James to France. So about March, 1691, we -began to journey slowly all down England from the Border to the south -sea. Sir Edward was mortal afeared of being known and seized, so -that he would not go near any place where he could possibly be known: -and having no acquaintance anywhere in the parts of Devon, made him -fix upon Plymouth whence to sail. It was in the last of May that we -left Exeter. We had journeyed but a little thence, when I saw that -my Lady, who had been ailing for some time, was like to fall sick -unto death. I told Sir Edward that methought she was more sick than -he guessed, but I think he counted my words but idle clavers and -foolish fancies. At last she grew so very bad that he began to -believe me. 'Patient,' he said to me one morn, 'I shall go on to -Plymouth and inquire for a ship. Tend your Lady well, and so soon as -she can abide the journeying, she must come after. If I find it -needful, I may sail the first.' It was on a Monday that Sir Edward -rode away, leaving my Lady and the little Master, with me and Roswith -to tend them, at a poor cot, the abode of one Betty Walling." - -"Betty Walling of Ashcliffe? Why, Patient, I know her!" - -"Do you so, Madam? She knows you, I guess, and could have told you -somewhat anent yourself. Not that she knew my Lady's name: I kept -that from her. It was on the Friday following that you were born. -Saving your presence, Madam, you were such a poor, weak, puny babe, -that none thought you would live even a day. Betty said, I mind, -'Poor little soul! 'twill soon be out of its suffering--you may take -that comfort!' I myself never reckoned that you could live. I -marvel whether Madam Passmore would remember Betty Walling's coming -unto her one wet even in June, to beg a stoup of wine for a sick -woman with her? That sick woman was my dear Lady. It was the -Saturday eve, and she died on the Sunday morning. I laid her out for -the burying, which was to be on the Wednesday, and was preparing to -go thence unto Plymouth afterward, with Roswith and the babes, when -on the Tuesday night I was aroused from sleep by a rapping on the -window. I crept to the casement and oped it, and was surprised to -hear my Master's voice saying softly, 'Patient, come and open to me.' -I ran then quickly and let him in; he looked very white and tired, -and his dress soiled as if he had ridden hard and long. Quoth he, -'How fares Magdalene?' As softly as I could break it, I told him -that she would never suffer any more, but she had left him a baby -daughter which he must cherish for her sake. He was sore grieved as -ever I saw man for aught. After a while, he told me much, quickly, -for there was little time. He had not entered Plymouth, when, riding -softly in the dark, another horseman met him, and aroused his wonder -by riding back after him and away again; and this he did twice over. -At length the strange horseman rode right up to him, and asked him -plainly, 'Are you Sir Edward Ingram, holding King James's -commission?' And when he said he was, then said the horseman, 'If -you look to sail from Plymouth, I would have you know that you are -expected there, and spies be abroad looking for you, and you will be -taken immediately you show yourself. If you love your life, turn -back!' Sir Edward desiring to know both who he was and how he knew -this, the horseman saith, 'That I may not tell you: but ride hard, or -they will be on your track; for they already misdoubt that you are at -Ashcliffe, where if your following be, I counsel you to remove thence -with all the speed that may be.' Sir Edward said that he had ridden -for life all through three days and nights, and now we must move away -without awaiting aught. 'And we will go,' quoth he, 'by Bideford; -for they will expect me now, if they find I have given them the slip, -to take passage by Portsmouth or Southampton, and will scarce count -on my turning westward.' It grieved us both sore to leave my Lady -unburied, but there was no help; and Betty passed her word to follow -the body, and see that she was meetly laid in her grave. 'And how -will I carry the babe?' quoth I. 'Nay, truly,' said he, sorrowfully, -'the babe cannot go with us; it will bewray all by its crying. We -must needs leave it somewhere at nurse, and when better times come, -and the King hath his own again, I will return and claim it.' For -Master Edward was a braw laddie, that scarce ever cried or plained; -while you, Madam, under your leave, did keep up a continual whining -and mewling, which would have entirely hindered our lying hid, or -journeying under cover of darkness. So I called Betty when it grew -light, and conferred with her; and she said, 'Leave the babe at the -gate of the Hall, and watch it till one cometh to take it.' Madam -Passmore, she told us, was a kindly gentlewoman, that had sent word -she would have come to see my Lady herself if she also had not been -sick; and at this time having a little babe of her own, Betty thought -she would be of soft heart unto any other desolate and needful babe. -So I clad you in laced wraps, and pinned a paper on your coat with a -gold pin of my Lady's, and Sir Edward wrote on the paper your name, -'Celia,' the which my poor Lady, as she lay a-dying, had felt a fancy -to have you called. He said he had ever wished, should he have a -daughter, to name her Grissel, which was my Lady his mother's name; -'But,' quoth he, 'if my poor Magdalene in dying had asked me to name -the child Nebuchadnezzar, I would not have said her nay.' He was -such a gentleman as that, Madam; in his deepest troubles he scarce -could forbear jesting. So I carried you to the Hall, and laid you -softly down at the gate, and rang the bell, and hid and watched among -the trees. There first the Master rode up, looked strangely on you, -though pitifully enough, but touched you not: and anon came out a -kindly-looking woman of some fifty-and-five or sixty years, and took -you up, and carried you away in her arms, chirping pleasantly unto -you the while. So I was satisfied for the babe." - -"That was Cicely Aggett," said Celia, smiling: "dear old Cicely! she -told me about her finding me." - -"The next hour," pursued Patient, "saw us thence. We got safe to -Bideford, and away, the Lord aiding us, and after some tossing upon -the sea, landed at Harfleur in fourteen days thereafter. Thence we -came up to Paris, unto Mr. Francis Grey's house, which he had given -unto my Lady in dowry; and Sir Edward bought another house at St. -Germains, for he had had prudence to put some of his money out to -interest in this land, so that all was not lost." - -"And now tell me, Patient, how did he meet my step-mother?" - -"I must pray you to leave that, Madam, for the time, and try on this -skirt. Thérèse hath given me the pieces for the bodice." - - - -[1] John Graham, of Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, was the eldest -son of Sir William Graham and Lady Jane Carnegy his wife. He was a -descendant of the royal line of Scotland, through his ancestress the -Princess Mary, daughter of King Robert III. He fell at Killicrankie, -July 16, 1689. In person he was eminently beautiful, in politics -devoutly loyal; in character, a remarkable instance of the union of -the softest and most genial manners with the sternest courage and -most revolting cruelty in action. His least punishment as a General -was death; and his persecution of the hapless Covenanters was -restrained by no sense of humanity or compassion. - -[2] Ps. lxxix. - -[3] 2 Sam. xxiv. 14. - -[4] Embraced. - -[5] At St James's Palace, June 10, 1688. - -[6] Maria Beatrice Leonora, only daughter of Alfonso IV., Duke of -Modena, and Laura Martinozzi; born at Modena, October 5, 1658; -married (by proxy) at Modena, September 30, and (in person) at Dover, -November 21, 1673, to James Duke of York, afterwards James II.; died -of cancer, at St. Germain-en-Laye, May 7, 1718, and buried at -Chaillot. - -[7] This name was given, both during the Rebellion and the -Revolution, by each party to its opponents. - -[8] Fought July 1, 1689. - - - - -VI. - -THE TROUBLES OF GREATNESS. - - "Good Majesty, - Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you, - But when you are well pleased." - SHAKESPEARE. - - -"Very fair! Turn round. Yes, I think that will do. Now, do you -understand how to behave to people?" - -"If you please, Madam, I do in England, but I don't know about -France," said Celia, in some trepidation as to what her step-mother -might require of her. - -"Absurd!" said Lady Ingram. "Good manners are the same everywhere, -and etiquette very nearly so. Now, how many courtesies would you -make to a Viscountess?" - -"I should only make one to anybody, Madam, unless you tell me -otherwise." - -"_Incroyable_! I never saw such a lamentable want of education as -you show. You have no more fine breeding than that stove. Now -listen, and remember: to a Princess of the Blood you make three -profound courtesies, approaching a little nearer each time, until at -the last you are near enough to sink upon your knees, and kiss her -hand. To a Duchess, not of the Blood, or a Marchioness, three -courtesies, but less profound, and not moving from your place. To a -Countess or Viscountess, two; to any other person superior or equal -to yourself, one. Inferiors, of course, you will not condescend to -notice. Do you understand, and will you remember?" - -"I will do my best, Madam, but I am afraid I shall forget." - -"I believe you will, first thing. Now listen again: I expect -to-night the Duchesses of Longueville and Montausier, the Marchioness -de Simiane, and other inferior persons. What kind of seat will you -take?" - -"Will you please to instruct me, Madam?" asked Celia, timidly--an -answer which slightly modified Lady Ingram's annoyance. - -"You are very ignorant," said that Lady. "It is one comfort that you -are willing to be taught. My dear, when we are merely assembled _en -famille_, and there is no etiquette observed, you can sit on what you -like. But if there be any person present in an assembly of higher -rank than yourself, you must not sit on a chair with a back to it; -and whatever be the rank of your companions, on no occasion must you -occupy an arm-chair. You will take your place this evening on an -ottoman or a folding-stool. You will remember that?" - -"I will remember, Madam," replied Celia. - -"Should any member of the Royal House condescend to honor me by -appearing at my assemblies--I do not expect it to-night--you will -rise, making three deep courtesies, and remain standing until you are -desired to seat yourself." - -"Yes, Madam." - -"Very well. Now go down into the drawing-room, and find a stool -somewhere in the corner, where nobody will see you." - -Thus graciously dismissed, Celia retired from her step-mother's -dressing-room, with a long look at Lady Ingram, whom she had never -before seen so splendidly attired. She wore a blue robe, with a long -sweeping train, robe and train being elaborately embroidered with -flowers, in white, crimson, and straw-color; a petticoat of the -palest straw-colored satin, a deep lace berthe, and sleeves of lace -reaching to the elbow; long white gloves advanced to meet the sleeve, -and jewels of sapphire and diamond gleamed upon the neck and wrists. -Her hair was dressed about a foot above her head, and adorned with -white plumes, sapphires, and diamonds. Celia descended to the -drawing-room, feeling stiff and uncomfortable in her new yellow silk -and white satin, and nervously afraid of losing her bracelets and -necklace, of topaz and diamonds, which Lady Ingram had lent her for -the occasion. In the drawing-room she discovered Mr. Philip -resplendently arrayed in white and crimson, and occupied in surveying -himself intently in the mirrors. - -"O Celia!" said he, when she uttered his name, "I am glad you have -come early. It is such fun to see the folks come in, and do all -their bowing and courtesying; and I shall have some amusement -to-night in watching your innocent astonishment at some things, my -woodland bird, or I am mistaken. Please be seated, Madam; here is a -place for you in a nice little corner, and I shall keep by your side -devotedly all the evening. Has my Lady-Mother seen and approved that -smart new gown of yours?" - -Celia smiled, and answered affirmatively. - -"That is a comfort!" quoth Mr. Philip. "Now, I liked the looks of -you a good deal better in that brown cashmere. But I am an absolute -nobody, as you will find very shortly, if you have not done so -already." - -"The brown cashmere will go on again to-morrow, and I shall not be -sorry for it. But, Philip"-- - -"Stop! look out--somebody is coming." - -A gentleman in dark blue led in a lady very elaborately dressed in -pink. As they entered by one door, Lady Ingram came forward to -receive them from another. She stood and made three courtesies, to -which the lady in pink responded with one. Then Lady Ingram came -forward, and, taking the hand of her guest, turned to Celia and -Philip in the corner. - -"_Bon soir, ma tante_," observed the latter unceremoniously from his -station behind Celia's chair. - -"Celia, this is my sister, the Duchess de Montausier," Lady Ingram -condescended to say; and Celia, rising, made two low courtesies, -having already forgotten the number of reverences due. - -"Three," whispered Philip, too low to be overheard, thus saving his -sister a scolding. - -The Duchess returned the compliment with a single courtesy, Celia -thought a rather distant one. But her astonishment had not yet left -her at the meeting between the sisters. - -"Is that really your aunt?" she asked of Philip. - -"Yes, my mother's sister," answered Philip, smiling. "Why?" - -"They courtesied so!" was Celia's ungrammatical exclamation. - -"Ah! you think it unsisterly? The one, my dear, is a Duchess, the -other only the widow of a Baronet. You must not consider the -sistership." - -Celia laughed within herself to think how the Squire and Madam -Passmore would look, if they saw her and Isabella courtesying away at -each other in that style. - -"Now don't lose all these folks," resumed Philip, as more people -entered. "That little man dressed in black, with a black wig, to -whom my mother is courtesying now,--do you see him?" - -"I was just looking at him," replied Celia. "I cannot say that I -like him, though I have no idea who he may be." - -"Why?--because he is so short?" - -"Oh no! I hope I should never dislike a man for any natural -infirmity. I thought he looked very cross." - -"He has the happy distinction of being the crossest man in France," -said Philip. - -"Well, he looks like it," said Celia. - -"But one of the most distinguished men in France, my dear. That is -the great Duke de Lauzun,[1] who has spent ten years in prison for -treason, who aspired to the hand of Mademoiselle, the King's own -cousin, and whom King James trusted to bring the Queen and the Prince -of Wales over here from England." - -"I wonder he trusted him," observed Celia. - -"I never wonder at anything," philosophically answered Mr. Philip -Ingram. "Now look to your right! Do you see the lady in black, with -fair hair, and blue eyes, who seems so quiet and uninterested in all -that is passing?" - -"I think I do." - -"That is a cousin of my mother's, who would not have appeared here if -it had not been a family assembly. She is a Jansenist. Thirty years -ago she was a famous beauty, and a very fashionable woman. Now all -that is over." - -"What is a Jansenist, Philip?" - -"Ah! there you puzzle me. I thought you would want to know that. -You had better ask my Cousin Charlotte--she can tell you much better -than I can." - -"I do not like to speak to any one," said Celia, timidly. "Can you -not tell me something about them?" - -"Well, this much I can tell you--they are very bad people, who lead -uncommonly holy lives--ergo, holiness does not make a saint." - -"Philip, you are laughing at me." - -"No, my dear; I am laughing at the Catholic Church, not at you. The -Jansenists are a sort of heretic-Catholics, whom all real Catholics -agree to call very wicked. They hold all manner of wrong doctrines, -according to the Bishops and my Lady-Mother; and they lead lives of -such austerity and purity as to put half the saints in the calendar -to shame. Now this very Cousin Charlotte of mine, who sits there -looking so quiet and saintly, with her blue eyes cast down, and her -hands folded on that sombre black gown,--when my mother was a girl, -she was the gayest of the gay. About fifteen years since she became -a Jansenist. From that day she has been a very saint. She practices -all kinds of austerities, and is behaved to almost as if she were a -professed nun. Of course, in the eyes of all true Catholics, her -Jansenism is her worst and wickedest action. I don't quite see -myself how anything can be so very wrong which makes such saints of -such sinners. But you see I am a complete _extern_, as the religious -call it." - -"I should like to know something more about these people, Philip. -What doctrines do they hold?" - -"Now, what a remarkable attraction anything wrong and perilous has -for a woman!" observed Mr. Philip Ingram, with the air of a -philosopher. "Well, my dear, I have only heard one; but I believe -they have a sort of confession or creed, indicating the points -whereon they differ from the Church. That one is, that there is no -such thing as grace of congruity, and that men are saved by the favor -of God only, and by no merit of their own." - -"But, Philip, that is the Gospel!" exclaimed Celia, turning round to -look at him. "That is what we Protestants believe." - -"Is it, my dear? Well, I have no objection. (Now, return to your -condition of a statue, or you will have a lecture on awkwardness and -want of repose in your manners. Oh! I know all about that. Do you -think I was born such a finished courtier as you see me?) As to -merit, I have lived long enough to find out one thing, and that is, -that people who are always talking of merit are generally least -particular about acquiring it, while those who believe that their -good deeds are worth nothing, have the largest stock of them." - -"That is natural," said Celia, thoughtfully. - -"Is it?" asked Philip again. "Well, it looks like the rule of -contrary to me. But you see I have no vocation. Now look at the -lady who stands on my mother's left--the one in primrose. Do you see -her? - -"I see her," said Celia. "I like her face better than some of the -others. Who is she?" - -"The Marchioness de Simiane,[2] daughter of the Countess de Grignan, -and granddaughter of the late clever Marchioness de Sévigné. Her -flatterers call her an angel. She is not that, but I don't think she -is quite so near the other set of ethereal essences as a good many of -the people in this room." - -"What an opinion you have of your friends, Philip!" - -"My friends, are they?" responded Philip, with a little laugh. "How -many of them do you suppose would shed tears at my funeral? There is -not one of them who has a heart, my dear--merely lumps of painted -stone, as I told you. These are not men and women--they are only -walking statues." - -"Do you call that cross little man a walking statue?" asked Celia, -smiling. - -"He!--scarcely; he is too intensely disagreeable." - -"I should rather like to see the lady to whom you said that man took -a fancy, Philip. Is she here?" - -"Ah! my Sister," answered Philip, in a graver voice than any in which -he had yet spoken, "you must go to the royal vaults at St. Denis, and -search among the coffins, to do that. She was buried twenty years -ago.[3] She was so unfortunate as to have a heart, and he has a -piece of harder marble even than usual. So when the two articles -met, the one broke the other." - -"I never can tell whether you are jesting or serious, Philip." - -"A little of both generally, my dear. Don't lose those ladies who -are going through the courtesying process now--they are distinguished -people. The elder one is the Duchess du Maine,[4] one of the -daughters of the Prince of Condé, who is emphatically '_the_ Prince' -in French society. The younger is Mademoiselle de Noailles,[5] the -daughter of the Duke de Noailles--a famous belle, as you may see. -She will probably be disposed of in a year or two to some Prince or -Duke--whoever offers her father the best lump of pin-money. We don't -sell young ladies in the market here, as they do in Barbary; we -manage the little affair in private. But 'tis a sale, for all that." - -"It sounds very bad when you look at it in that light, Philip." - -"A good many things do so, my dear, when you strip off the gilding. -His Majesty gave a cut of his walking-stick once to a gentleman with -whom he was in a passion, and was considered to have honored him by -that gracious notice. Now, if he had been the Baron's son, and the -other the King, whipping to death would have been thought too good -for him after such an insult to Majesty. We live in a droll world, -my Sister." - -"But, Philip, there must be differences between people--God has made -it so." - -"Aren't there?--with a vengeance! On my word, here comes Bontems, -the King's head _valet-de-chambre_. Now we shall have some fun. You -will learn the kind of differences there are between people--Louis -XIV. and you, to wit." - -"What do you mean by fun?" - -"You shall hear. Here is a chair, Monsieur Bontems, and I am -rejoiced to see you." - -"Sir, I am your most obedient servant," responded a dapper little -gentleman, dressed in black and silver, with a long sword by his -side, and large silver buckles in his shoes. He sat down on the seat -which Philip indicated. - -"I trust that His Most Christian Majesty enjoys good health this -evening?" began that young gentleman, with an air of the greatest -interest in the reply to his question. - -"Sir, I am happy to say that His Majesty condescends to be in the -enjoyment of most excellent health." - -"Very condescending of him, I am sure," commented Philip, gravely. -"May I venture to hope that His Royal Highness the Duke de Berry[6] -is equally condescending?" - -"Sir," answered Monsieur Bontems, looking much grieved, "I regret -exceedingly to state that Monseigneur the Duke is not in perfect -health. On the contrary, he has this very day been constrained to -take medicine." - -"How deeply distressing!" lamented Mr. Philip Ingram, putting on a -face to match his words. "And might I ask the kind of medicine which -had the felicity of a passage down Monseigneur's most distinguished -throat, and the honor of relieving his august sufferings?" - -"Sir," answered Monsieur Bontems, not in the least perceiving that he -was being laughed at, "it was a tisane of camomile flowers." - -"I unfeignedly trust that it has not affected his illustrious -appetite?" - -"Sir," was the reply, always commencing by the same word, "I am much -troubled at the remembrance that His Royal Highness's appetite at -supper was extremely bad. He ate only two plates of soup, one fowl, -fifty heads of asparagus, and a small cherry tart." - -"Ah! it must have been very bad indeed," said Mr. Philip, with a -melancholy air. "He generally eats about a couple of geese and half -a dozen pheasants, does he not?"[7] - -"Sir?" said Monsieur Bontems, interrogatively. "I am happy to say, -Sir, that all the members of the Royal House have tolerably good -appetites; but scarcely--two geese and six pheasants!--no, Sir!" - -"Yes, I have gathered that they have, from what I have heard you -say," answered Philip, gravely. "Monsieur Bontems, I am anxious to -inform my sister--who speaks no French--of the manner in which His -Majesty is served throughout the day. I am not sure that I remember -all points correctly. It is your duty, is it not, to present His -Majesty's wig in the morning, and to buckle his left garter?" - -"The left, Sir?" asked Monsieur Bontems, somewhat indignantly. "The -right! Any of His Majesty's ordinary valets may touch the left--it -is my high office to attend upon the august right leg of my most -venerated Sovereign!" - -"I beg your pardon a hundred thousand times!" - -"You have it, Sir," said Monsieur Bontems affably. "A young -gentleman who shows so much interest in His Majesty's and -Monseigneur's health may be pardoned even that. But you are a little -mistaken in saying 'buckle.' His Majesty is frequently pleased to -clasp his own garters; it is my privilege to unclasp them in the -evening." - -"Would you kindly explain to me, that I may translate to my sister, -His Majesty's mode of life during each day?" - -"Sir, I shall have the utmost pleasure," replied Monsieur Bontems, -laying his hand Upon his heart. "Madam," he continued, addressing -himself to Celia, though she could understand him only through the -medium of Philip, "first thing in the morning, when I rise from the -watch-bed which I occupy in the august chamber of my Sovereign, -having noiselessly dressed in the antechamber, I and Monsieur De St. -Quentin, first gentleman of the chamber, reverently approach his -royal bed, and presume to arouse our Sovereign from his slumbers. -Then Monsieur De St. Quentin turns his back to the curtains, and -placing his hands behind him, respectfully presents the royal wigs, -properly curled and dressed, for His Majesty's selection." - -"Pardon my interrupting you; I thought the King's attendants never -turned their backs upon him?" - -"Sir, His Majesty cannot be seen without a wig! Profanity!" cried -Monsieur Bontems, looking horrified. "This is the only part of our -service in which we are constrained to turn our ignoble backs upon -our most illustrious Master." - -"I beg your pardon, and understand you now. Pray proceed." - -"When the King has selected the wig which he is pleased to wear, St. -Quentin puts away the others; and then, His Majesty placing his wig -on his august head with his own royal hands, he indicates to me by a -signal that he is ready for the curtains to be undrawn. As soon as I -have undrawn the curtains, there is the familiar _entrée_. This is -attended by the Princes of the Blood, and by His Majesty's -physicians. Then I pour into the hands of my Sovereign a few drops -of spirits of wine, and the Duke d'Aumont,[8] first Lord of the -Bedchamber, offers the holy water. Now His Majesty rises, and I -present his slippers. After putting on his dressing-gown, if it be -winter, His Majesty goes to the fire. The first _entrée_ follows. -The King shaves on alternate days. Monsieur De St. Quentin has the -high honor of removing the royal beard, and washing with spirits of -wine and water our Sovereign's august chin. I hold the glass, while -His Majesty wipes his face with a rich towel. Then, while His -Majesty's dresses, the _grande entrée_ takes place. His Most -Christian Majesty is assisted in dressing by the Grand Master of the -Robes, Monsieur d'Aumont, a Marquis (graciously chosen by the -Sovereign), Monsieur De St. Quentin, my humble self, three valets, -and two pages. Thus, as you will see, many attendants of the Crown -are allowed the felicity of approaching near to the person of our -most illustrious Master." - -"Too many cooks spoiling the broth, I should say," was the -translator's comment. "Fancy ten people helping a fellow to put his -coat on!" - -"His Majesty's shoes and garters are clasped with diamonds. At this -point the king condescends to breakfast. On an enamelled salver a -loaf is brought by the officers of the buttery, and a folded napkin -on another: the cup-bearer presents to the Duke d'Aumont a golden -cup, into which he pours a small quantity of wine and water, and the -second cup-bearer makes the assay. The goblet, carefully rinsed and -replenished, is now presented to His Majesty upon a golden saucer. -The napkin is offered by the first Prince of the Blood present at the -_entrée_. His Majesty then intrusts to my hands the reliquary which -he wears about his neck, and I carefully pass it to one of the lower -attendants, who carries it to the royal closet, and remains there in -charge of it. The royal shirt is then presented--by the Grand Master -of the Robes, if no person of more distinction be present; but if any -more august persons have attended the _entrée_, it is passed on till -it reaches the first Prince of the Blood. I assure you, on frosty -winter days, I have known it perfectly cold on reaching His Majesty -(though always carefully warmed), the persons of distinction through -whose hands it had to pass being so numerous." - -"Ah! 'Pride costs more than hunger, thirst, or cold,'" observed Mr. -Philip Ingram. "That is a copy I had set me ages ago. But what a -very cool proceeding!" - -"When His Majesty's lace cravat is presented, he is pleased himself -to indicate the person who shall have the honor of tying it. Then I -bring him the overcoat which he wore on the previous day, and with -his own august hands he removes from the pockets such articles as he -is pleased to retain. Lastly, Monsieur De St. Quentin presents to -him, on an enamelled salver, two handkerchiefs laced with superb -point. Now His Majesty returns to his _ruelle_[9] for his private -devotions. Two cushions are placed there, upon which His Majesty -condescends to kneel. Here he prays aloud, all the Cardinals and -Bishops in the chamber following his royal accents in lower tones." - -"I hope he learns his prayers by heart, then, or all his Cardinals -following will put him out abominably!" was the interpolation this -time. - -"Oh dear, Philip!" murmured Celia, "it reminds me of Daniel and -Darius." - -"'Save of thee, O King?'[10] No, he is a little better than that." - -"Our Sovereign," pursued Monsieur Bontems, "now receives the envoys -of foreign powers, not one of which powers is worthy to compete with -our august Master." - -"I say, draw that mild!" objected Mr. Philip Ingram. - -"Then he passes into his cabinet, and issues his orders for the day; -when all retire but the Blood, and a few other highly distinguished -persons. After an interval of repose, His Majesty attends mass." - -"How sadly he must want his repose!" - -"After mass, and a visit to the council-chamber, at one o'clock His -Majesty dines. This is either _au petit couvert_, or _au grand -couvert_; the _grands couverts_ are rare. His Majesty commonly dines -alone in his own cabinet, at a small table, three courses and a -dessert being served. Monsieur de St. Quentin announces the repast, -and His Majesty takes his seat. If the Grand Chamberlain be there, -he waits on the Sovereign; when he is absent, this is the privilege -of Monsieur de St. Quentin. Another interval of repose ensues before -His Majesty drives out. He frequently condescends at this time to -amuse himself with his favorite dogs. Then he changes his dress, and -drives or hunts. On returning, he again changes his attire, and -after a short period in his cabinet, repairs to the apartments of -Madame de Maintenon, where he remains until ten, the hour of supper. -At a quarter past ten His Majesty enters the supper-room, during -which interval the officers have made the assay"-- - -"What is the assay?" asked Celia of Philip, who repeated the question. - -"The assay," said Monsieur Bontems, condescending to explain, "is the -testing of different matters, to see that no attempt has been made -upon the most sacred life of His Majesty. There is the assay of the -plates, which are rubbed with bread and salt; the knife, the fork, -the spoon, and the toothpicks, which will be used by our Sovereign. -All these are rubbed with bread and salt, afterwards eaten by the -officers of the assay, to make sure that no deleterious matter has -been applied to these articles. Every dish brought to the royal -table is tested by the officers ere it may be set before His Majesty, -and the dishes are brought in by the comptroller-general, an officer -of the pantry, a comptroller of the buttery, and an equerry of the -kitchen, preceded and followed by guards, whose duty it is to prevent -all manner of tampering with the meats destined for the King." - -"Poor man!" said Celia, compassionately; "I am glad to be beneath all -that caution and preparation." - -"This done," proceeded Monsieur Bontems, "the house-steward enters, -with two ushers bearing flambeaux. Then comes His Most Christian -Majesty. All the Princes and Princesses of France are already -standing round the table. His Majesty most graciously desires them -to be seated. Six nobles stand at each end of the table. When His -Majesty condescends to drink, the cup-bearer cries aloud, 'Drink for -the King!' whereupon the officers of the cellar approach with an -enamelled goblet and two decanters. The cup-bearer pours out, the -officers taste. The cup-bearer presents the goblet to the Sovereign, -and as he raises it with his illustrious hand to his august lips, the -cup-bearer cries aloud, 'The King drinks!' and the whole company bow -to His Majesty." - -"What a tremendous bore it must be!" was Mr. Philip's comment. "How -can the poor fellow ever get his supper eaten?" - -"His Majesty commonly begins supper with three or four platesful of -different soups. Some light meat follows--a chicken, a pheasant, a -partridge or two--then a heavier dish, such as beef or mutton. The -King concludes his repast with a few little delicacies, such as -salad, pastry, and sweetmeats.[11] When he wishes to wipe his hands, -three Dukes and a Prince of the Blood present him with a damp napkin; -the dry one which follows I have the honor to offer. His Majesty -usually drinks about three times during supper." - -"How much at a time?" inquired Philip, with an air of deep interest. - -"Sir," replied Monsieur Bontems, gravely, "His Majesty's custom in -this respect somewhat varies. The goblet holds about half-a-pint, -and the King rarely empties it at a draught." - -"A pint and a quarter, call it," said Philip, reflectively. - -"After supper, His Majesty proceeds to his bedchamber, where he -dismisses the greater number of his guests; he then passes on to his -cabinet, followed by the Princes and Princesses. About midnight he -feeds his dogs." - -"Does he feed them himself?" - -"Sir, there are occasions upon which those indescribably happy -animals have the honor of receiving morsels from His Majesty's own -hand. The King now returns to his bed-chamber, and the _petit -coucher_ commences. An arm-chair is prepared for him near the fire, -and the _en-cas_ is placed upon a table near the bed. This is a -small repast, prepared lest it should be His Majesty's pleasure to -demand food during the night. It is most frequently a bowl of soup, -a cold roast fowl, bread, wine, and water." - -"And how many Dukes are required to give him those?" - -"Sir, my humble services are esteemed sufficient." - -"He appears to be much less august at some moments than others," -satirically remarked the translator. - -"When our Sovereign enters his chamber, he hands to me his watch and -reliquary, and delivers to Monsieur d'Aumont his waistcoat, cravat, -and ribbon. Two valets and two pages assist us in the removal of the -garments honored by His Majesty's wear. When the King is ready, I -lift the candle-stick, and deliver it to the nobleman indicated by my -Sovereign for that unparalleled honor. All persons now quit the -chamber save the candle-bearer, the physician, and myself. His -Majesty selects the dress which he will wear the next morning, and -gets into bed." - -"Can he get into bed by himself? I should have thought it would have -required five Dukes and ten Marquises to help him." - -"After the physician has visited his august patient, he and the -candle-bearer retire; I close the curtains, and, turning my back to -the royal couch, with my hands behind me, await the pleasure of my -Sovereign. It is to me that he delivers the wig, passing it outside -the curtain with his own illustrious hand. I now extinguish the -candles, light the night-lights, and take possession of the -watch-bed." - -"I wonder if you don't occasionally faint under such a weight of -honor--and bother," observed Mr. Philip Ingram, not to Monsieur -Bontems. "Well, now we have got His Most Christian Majesty in bed, -let him stay there. Monsieur Bontems, I am unspeakably indebted to -you for your highly-interesting account, and shall never forget it as -long as I live. I beg you will not allow me to detain you further -from the company, who are earnestly desirous of your enchanting -conversation, though less sensible of your merits than I am." - -Monsieur Bontems laid both hands upon his heart, and made three bows. - -"Sir, I beg you will not depreciate your high qualities. Sir, I take -the utmost delight in conversing with you." - -And the head-valet of the chamber allowed himself to be absorbed -among the general throng. - -"Well, is he not a comical specimen?" said Philip to Celia. "He -often makes me laugh till I am exhausted; and the beauty of it is -that he never finds out at what one is laughing. And to think who it -is that they worship with all these rites--an old man of -seventy-four, with one foot in the grave, who has never been any -better than he should be. Really, it reminds one of Herod Agrippa -and them of Tyre and Sidon!"[12] - -"'Thou shalt honor the face of the old man,'"[13] whispered Celia, -softly. - -"My dear," said Philip, "I don't complain of their honoring him. Let -them honor him as much as they like--he is their King, and they ought -to do. But what we have just heard is not honoring him, to my -thinking--it is teasing and worshipping him. I assure you I pity the -poor fellow with all my heart. He must have a most uncomfortable -time of it. No, if I were to envy any man, it would not be Louis -XIV." - -"Who would it be, Philip?" asked Celia, with a smile. - -"Simeon Stylites, perhaps," said Philip, drily. "I would quite as -soon be the one as the other!" - -"I don't know who he was," replied Celia. - -"A gentleman of the olden time, who worked out his salvation for -forty years on the top of a tall pillar," was the answer, accompanied -by an expression of countenance which Celia had seen before in -Philip, and could not understand. "Are you tired?" he added, -suddenly. - -"Scarcely, yet," she answered; "it is all so new to me. But what -time is it, Philip?" - -Philip pulled out a watch about three inches in diameter. - -"Ten minutes to one." - -"Do you mean to say it is one o'clock in the morning?" asked Celia, -in a voice of unmitigated amazement and horror. - -"It certainly is not one o'clock in the afternoon," replied Philip, -with much gravity. - -"I had no idea how late it was! Let me go, Philip, please do." - -And Celia made her escape rather hastily. But Lady Ingram was not -justified in saying that nobody would miss her, as she would have -seen if she had noticed the lost and _ennuyé_ look of Mr. Philip -Ingram after the disappearance of Celia. - - - -[1] Antoine Nompar de Caumont, Marquis de Peguilin and Duke de -Lauzun: born about May 1633; imprisoned from 1671 to 1681; created -Duke 1692; married, May 21, 1695, Geneviève Marie de Durfort, -daughter of Maréchal de Lorges; died November 19, 1723, aged ninety. - -[2] Pauline, daughter of François d'Adhémar, Count de Grignan, and -Françoise Marguerite de Sévigné: born at Paris, 1674; married, -November 29, 1695, Louis Marquis de Simiane; died July 3 or 13, 1737. - -[3] Anne Marie Louise, eldest daughter of Gaston Duke of Orleans and -Marie de Montpensier, in her own right Duchess de Montpensier, -Princess de Dombes, and Countess d'Eu, cousin of Louis XIV., was born -at the Louvre, May 29, 1627, and died at Paris, April 5, 1693; buried -in the Bourbon vault at St. Denis, whence her coffin was exhumed with -the rest at the Revolution, and her remains flung into a deep pit dug -in the Cour des Valois, outside the Cathedral. On the Restoration, -these bones were dug up from their desecrated grave, and were -reverently re-buried within the sacred precincts; but as it was -impossible to distinguish to whom they had belonged, they were -interred in two vaults made for the purpose. The engagement of -Mademoiselle with the Duke de Lauzun is one of the saddest stories -connected with the hapless Royal House of France--none the less sad -because few can see its sadness, and perceive but foolish vanity in -the tale of the great heart crushed to death, with no guerdon for its -sacrifice. - -[4] Marie Anne Louise Benedetto, daughter of Henri III., Prince of -Condé, and Anna of Mantua: born November 8, 1676; married, March 19, -1692, Louis Auguste, Duke du Maine, legitimated son of Louis XIV.; -died 1753. - -[5] Marie Victoire Sophie de Noailles: born at Versailles, May 6, -1688; married, February 22, 1723, Louis Alexandre Count de Toulouse, -brother of the Duke du Maine. - -[6] Charles, Duke de Berry, was the youngest son of the _Grand -Dauphin_ (son of Louis XIV.) and Marie Anna of Bavaria: he was born -August 31, 1686, and died at Marly, May 4, 1714, probably by poison -administered by his own wife, Louise of Orleans. - -[7] Nearly all the members of the Royal House of France, from Anne of -Austria and her son Louis XIV. downwards, have been enormous eaters. - -[8] Messrs. d'Aumont, St. Quentin, and Bontems are real persons, and -this account of the private life of Louis XIV. is taken from -authentic sources. - -[9] _Ruelle_, the space between the bed and the wall, at the head of -the bed. The _ruelle_ played an important part in etiquette, only -persons especially favored being admitted. - -[10] Dan. vi. 7. - -[11] "He was a very gifted eater. The rough old Duchess of Orleans -declares, in her Memoirs, that she 'often saw him eat four platesful -of different soups, a whole pheasant, a partridge, a plateful of -salad, mutton hashed with garlic, two good-sized slices of ham, a -dish of pastry, and afterwards fruit and sweetmeats.'"--_Dr. Doran's_ -"_Table Traits_," p. 421. - -[12] Acts xii. 20-23. - -[13] Lev. xix. 32. - - - - -VII. - -THE NIGHT BOSWITH DIED. - - "Thou art not weary, O sweet heart and glad! - Ye are not weary, O ye wings of light! - Ye are not weary, golden-sandalled feet - And eyes lift up in Heaven. Were we with thee, - We never should be weary any more. - - So sleep, sweet love, and waken not for us. - Ah! wake not at my cry, which is of earth, - For thou these twenty years hast been of Heaven. - Still not thy harp for me: I will wail low, - That my voice reach thee not beyond the stars. - Only wait for me, O my harper! since - When thou and I have clasped hands at the gate, - We never shall be weary any more." - - -"O Patient! I am very sorry to have kept you up so late as this--I -had no idea that you would wait for me!" exclaimed Celia, as, -hastening into her bedroom, she found Patient quietly at work beside -the fire. - -"I should have done that, Madam, at whatever hour you had returned," -was Patient's answer, as she helped Celia to unclasp her topaz and -diamond ornaments, and put them away carefully in their cases. "I -thought you were early; my Lady often does not quit her assemblies -till day-dawn." - -"You see," responded Celia, a little apologetically, awaking to the -fact that Patient had not expected her for another hour or two, "I am -so little accustomed to these things. I never was up at such an hour -as this before." - -"All the better for you, Madam," said Patient, quietly. - -"You do not like these assemblies?" - -"I have nothing to do with them, Madam." - -"But if you had," persisted Celia, looking for Patient's opinion as a -sister in the faith. - -But Patient seemed scarcely willing to impart it. - -"You command me to answer you, Madam?" she said. - -"I want to know, Patient," replied Celia, simply. - -"'What concord hath Christ with Belial?'" answered Patient. "Madam, -when I was but a young maid, I looked on the world as divided into -many sects--Covenanters, Independents, Prelatists, Anabaptists, and -the like, and I fancied that all who were not Covenanters (as I was) -must needs be more or less wrong. Methinks I am wiser now. I see -the world as divided into two camps only, and the army wherein I -serve hath but one rallying-cry. They that believe, and they that -believe not--here are the camps, 'What think ye of Christ?'--that is -the rallying-cry. I see the Church as a great school, holding many -forms and classes, but only one Master. And I think less now of a -fellow-scholar sitting on another form from mine, and seeing the -other side of the Master's face, if I find that he heareth His voice, -and followeth Him. Madam, what think you all those great ladies -down-stairs would say, if you asked them that question--'What think -ye of Christ?'[1] Poor souls! they never think of Him. And with -them in the enemy's camp I have nought to do, so long as they remain -there." - -"But may we not win them over to our side?" queried Celia. - -"Ah! my dear young lady!" answered Patient, rather sadly, "I have -seen that question lead many a disciple astray who did run well. -When a man goes over to the enemy's ground to parley, it ends at -times in his staying there. Methinks that it is only when we carry -the Master with us, and when we go like the preachers to the poor -savages in the plantations, that we have any hope of doing well. -'Tis so easy to think, 'I go there to please God,' when really we -only go to please ourselves." - -Patient remained silent for a few minutes, but said presently-- - -"The Sabbath afore the harrying of Lauchie, Madam, which was -Communion Sabbath, Mr. Grey preached a very rich discourse from that -word, 'He hath made with me an everlasting covenant.'[2] After, -fencing the tables, he spake from that other word of Paul, 'Ye are -Christ's.'[3] And in speaking on one head--he dividing his discourse -into thirty-seven points wherein believers are Christ's--he said one -word which hath stuck in mine heart since then. 'We are all vastly -readier,' quoth he, 'to try to follow the Master in the few matters -wherein He acted as God, and therefore beyond us, than in the -multitude wherein He did act as our ensample. For an hundred who -would willingly follow unto the Pharisee's feasting, there is scarce -one who is ready to seek out sinners, saying unto them, "Go, and sin -no more."'[4] Whereupon he took occasion to reprove them among his -flock that were of too light and unstable a nature, loving overmuch, -gadding about and taking of pleasure. I was then a young maid, and -truly was somewhat exercised with that discourse, seeing that I loved -the customs yearly observed among us on the 1st day of November, -which the Papistical folk called Hallowe'en." - -"What customs, Patient?" - -"Divers light and fantastical vanities, Madam, which you were no -better to hear tell of,--such like as burning of nuts with names to -them, and searching of eggs brake into glasses, for the discovering -of fortunes: which did much delight me in my tender age, though now I -know that they be but folly if not worse. Moreover, they would throw -apples in tubs of water, and the laddies and lassies, with their -hands tied behind, would strive to reach them by mouth, and many -other siccan fooleries." - -"It sounds rather amusing, Patient." - -"So it might be, Madam, for we bairns which were of too small age for -aught less foolish. But for us, who are members of Christ's body, -and have heard His voice and followed Him, what have we to do with -the deeds of this weary and evil world, which we cast off when we -arose to follow Him? Maybe I had better not have said this unto you, -Madam, seeing that (saving your presence) you are yet but a young -maid, and youth is naturally desirous of vain delights. When you are -a little further on in the way, the Lord will teach it you Himself, -even as He hath taught me." - -"To tell you the truth, Patient, while I quite see with you in the -main, I think you a little severe in the particular." - -"I do not doubt it, Madam. The Lord knoweth how to deaden your heart -unto this world, and He can do it a deal better than I. But if you -be His (the which I doubt not), it must needs be." - -"I have scarce a choice now," said Celia, in a low voice, feeling -doubtful how far she ought to make any remark to Patient which might -seem to reflect on Lady Ingram. - -"That I perceive, Madam," answered Patient, in the same tone. -"Only--if you will condescend to pardon the liberty I take in saying -it--take heed that the pleasing and obeying of man clash not with the -pleasing and obeying of God. 'For all that is in the world--the lust -of the flesh, and the lust of the eye, and the pride of life--is not -of the Father, but is of the world.'"[5] - -"Patient, there is one thing which I feel very much here--the want of -a Protestant service." - -"I used to feel that very sore, Madam. Not that I miss it not now, -'specially at times: yet scarce, me thinks, so sadly as I once did. -At first I was much exercised with that word, 'Forsake not the -assembling of yourselves together;'[6] and I marvelled whether I -ought to remain in this place. But I began to think that it was not -I that had forsaken mine own land, but the Lord which hath caused me -to be cast out thence; I having, moreover, passed a solemn word to my -dear Lady when she lay a-dying, that I would not leave Master Edward -his lone in this strange land while he was yet a bairn. Then me -thought of some words of Mr. Grey in that last sermon he ever -preached. 'A soldier,' quoth he, 'hath no right to choose his -position.' So now, seeing that since the Dragonnades, as they called -the persecution here, there is no worship permitted to be had, and -also that the Lord, and not I, hath placed me here, I am content. -Every Sabbath, ay, every day, He preacheth unto me in the Word, and -there is no finer discourse than His." - -"What persecution, Patient?" asked Celia, as she lay down on her -pillow. "This King hath never been a persecutor, hath he?" - -"Ay hath he, Madam. The morn, if it please you, I will tell you some -stories of the Dragonnades. My Lady hath given me further work to do -for you; and if you think meet, I can bring my sewing into your -closet as aforetime." - -"Pray do, Patient: I like your stories. Good-night." - -"Good-night, Madam, and the Lord be with you!" - - -"Your very obedient servant, Mrs. Celia Ingram," observed Mr. Philip, -lounging into his sister's boudoir the next morning. "I hope your -early rising has done you no harm." - -"I rose at my usual hour, which is six." - -"I rose at _my_ usual hour, which is nine." - -"O Philip!" cried Celia, laughing. - -"Well, now, what earthly inducement have I to rise earlier? I am -doomed--for my sins, I suppose--to spend four mortal hours of every -day in dressing, breakfasting, dining, and supping. Moreover, I am -constrained to ride a horse. _Item_, I have to talk nonsense. -Fourth and lastly, I am the docile slave of my Lady-Mother. Is there -anything in the list I have just given you to make a fellow turn out -of bed three hours before he can't help it?" - -"I should not think there was, except in the last item." - -"Not in the last item, Madam, seeing that her gracious Ladyship does -not shine upon the world any sooner than I do--have you not -discovered that yet?" - -"It seems to me, Philip, that you want something to do." - -"Well, that depends," said Philip, reflectively. "It might be -something I should not relish." - -"Well!" said Celia, a trifle scornfully, "I never would lead such a -useless life as that, Philip. 1 would either find something to do or -make it." - -"How very like a woman you talk!" loftily remarked Mr. Philip Ingram, -putting his hands in his pockets. - -Celia laughed merrily. - -"I don't like it, Celia," resumed Philip, more seriously, "but what -can I do? I wish exceedingly that my mother would let me go into the -army, but she will not. Edward, you know--or you don't know--is a -Colonel in King James's army; so that he can find something to do. I -wish you would talk to my mother about it." - -"_I!_" echoed Celia, in an unmistakable tone. - -"You," repeated her brother. - -"My dear Philip, you surely very much mistake my position with her. -I have no more influence with my Lady Ingram than--than her little -pug dog." - -"A precious lot, then," retorted Mr. Philip, "for if anybody ruffled -the tip of Miss Venus's tail, they would not be asked here again for -a twelvemonth. It is you who mistake, Mrs. Celia. The only way to -manage my mother is to stand up to her--to let her know that you can -take your own way, and you will." - -"Neither you nor I have any right to do that, Philip," replied Celia, -gravely. - -"I have not, that I allow," said Philip. "I don't quite see that as -regards you. Her Ladyship is not _your_ mother." - -"I think that she takes to me the place both of father and mother, -and that I have no more right to argue with or disobey her than them." - -"That is your view, is it?" inquired Philip, meditatively. "Well, if -you look at it in that way, of course you cannot ask her. So be it, -then. I must be contented, I suppose, with my customary and highly -useful mode of life." - -"I find no lack of occupation," observed Celia. - -"No, you are a woman," said Philip. "And as Patient's old rhyme (of -which I never can remember the first line) says, 'Woman's work is -never done.' Women do seem to possess a marvellous and enviable -faculty of finding endless amusement in pushing a needle into a piece -of linen, and pulling it out again--can't understand it. Oh! has my -mother told you that we are going to St. Germains next week?" - -"No," said Celia, rather surprised. - -"Then there is a piece of information for you." - -"She expects me to go, I suppose?" - -"If you don't I won't," said Mr. Philip Ingram, dogmatically. - -"Is the--the--Court"--began Celia, very hesitatingly. - -"Is the Pretender there? Come out with it now--I shall not put my -fingers in my ears. Yes, Madam, the Pretender is there, and his -mother too, and all the rest of them." - -"Oh!" sighed Celia, much relieved. "I thought you would be a -Jacobite." - -"You are a Whig, then, Mrs. Celia?" asked Philip in an amused tone. - -"I do not know that I am a politician at all," she answered; "but I -was brought up to the Whig view." - -"All right!" said Mr. Philip, accommodatingly. "Don't let my mother -know it--that is all." - -"I think my father--Squire Passmore, I mean"--Celia explained, a -little sadly, "told her so much at our first meeting." - -"So much the better. And you expected to find me a red-hot Jacobite, -did you? To tell the truth, I don't care two pins about it; neither -does my mother, only 'tis the mode here, and she has taken it up -along with her face-washes, laces, and lutestring. Of course I would -not call the King anything but 'Your Majesty' to his face--it would -hurt his feelings, poor gentleman, and I don't see that it would do -any good. But if you ask me whether I would risk the confiscation of -my property (when I have any) in aiding a second Restoration,--why, -not I." - -"Do you consider yourself an Englishman or a Frenchman, Philip?" - -"Well, upon my word, Mrs. Celia Ingram, you are complimentary! 'Do I -consider myself an Englishman or a Frenchman!' I am an Englishman, -Madam, and proud of it; and I will thank you not to insult me by -asking me whether I consider myself a Frenchman!" - -"I beg your pardon, dear Philip," replied Celia, laughing. "But you -have never been in England, have you?" - -"Never--I wish I had." - -"What is the Pretender like, Philip?" - -"Well, Madam, the Jacobites say he would be only and wholly like his -father, if he were not so very like his mother: while you Whigs are -of opinion that he resembles some washerwoman at Egham, or bricklayer -at Rotherhithe--don't remember which, and doesn't matter." - -"But what, or whom, do you think him like?" - -"Not very like his mother, in my judgment, which is very unbiased, -except in his height, and the shape of his hands and mouth. Still, I -should not call him unlike her. Of his likeness to his father I can -say nothing, for I don't remember King James, who died when I was -only eight years old. The son is a very tall man--there is over six -feet of him, I should say--with a long face, nearly oval,--dark eyes, -rather fine,--and a pleasant, good-natured sort of mouth." - -"Is he a pleasant man to speak to? Does he talk much?" - -"To the first question--yes; he is by no means without brains, and is -very gracious to strangers. To the second--no, very little. If you -are looking for me, Thérèse, in your wanderings up and down, here I -am, at her Ladyship's service." - -"It is not her Ladyship, Sir, dat want you. Dupont tell me to say -you dat Monsieur Colville is in your rooms." - -"Colville! that is jolly!" - -And Mr. Philip Ingram took his immediate departure. Celia guessed -that Mr. Colville was the solitary friend of whom he had before -spoken. - - -"Now, Patient, I want to hear about the Dragonnades. Oh! surely you -are not making up all those dresses for me?" - -"Yes, Madam," answered Patient, in her passive way. "My Lady has -ordered it." - -"Well," sighed Celia, "I wonder when I am to wear them?" - -Patient gathered up one of the multifarious dresses--a blue gauze -one--and followed her mistress into the boudoir. - -"You have never seen King Louis, Madam?" - -"Never; I should like to have a glimpse of him some day." - -"I never have, and I hope I never shall." - -"Do you think so badly of him, Patient?" - -"They call him The Great: methinks they might fitly give the same -title to the Devil. He is a man with neither heart nor conscience. -God forbid that I should judge any man: yet 'tis written, 'By their -fruits ye shall know them,'[7] and the fruits of this King are truly -dreadful. It doth look as if the Lord had given him 'over to a -reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient.'[8] -Privately, he is a man of very evil life; and publicly--you will hear -shortly, Madam, what he is. 'Tis now, methinks, nigh upon twenty -years since what they called the Edict of Nantes[9] was done away -with. That decree, passed by some former King of this country,[10] -did permit all the Protestants to hold their own worship, and to be -visited in sickness by their chosen ministers. This, being too -gentle for this King, he therefore swept away. His dragoons were -sent into every place throughout France, with orders to force the the -poor Protestants to go unto the wicked mass, and to harry them in all -manner of ways, saving only to avoid danger of their lives. One -Sabbath thereto appointed, they drave all in every place to mass at -the point of their swords, goading and pricking on such as lagged, or -showed ill-will thereto. I saw one crowd so driven, from a -window--for my Lady being a Papist, kept safe them in her house: or -else it was that I was not counted worthy of the Lord to have that -great honor of suffering for His sake. Poor souls! white-headed men -there were, and tender women, and little, innocent, frightened -children. It was a sight to move any human heart. I heard many a -tale of worse things they did. Breaking into the houses, destroying -and burning the household furniture, binding and beating the men, -yea, even the women; drumming with hellish noise in the chambers of -the sick, until they swooned away or were like to die; burning the -houses of some and the workshops of others: all this we heard, and -more." - -"Patient, how dreadful!" said Celia. "Why, 'tis near what they did -in the days of Queen Mary." - -"They only went a little further then on the same road--that was all, -methinks," answered Patient, calmly. "When the Lord readeth in the -Books before men and angels the stories of the persecutions in -England and in Scotland, He will scarce forget the Dragonnades of -France." - -"I did not know that there had been any persecution in Scotland, -Patient--except what King Charles did; I suppose that was a sort of -persecution." - -"Did you not, Madam?" asked Patient, quietly turning down a hem. "I -was not thinking of King Charles, but of the earlier days, when -tender women like Helen Stirk and Margaret Wilson perished in the -waters, and when the bloody Cardinal brent Master George Wishart, -that true servant of God and the Evangel, in his devil's-fire at St. -Andrews." - -"I never heard of all those people, Patient." - -"Ay, perchance so, Madam. I dare say their names and their -sufferings scarce went beyond their own land," replied Patient, in a -constrained voice, as if her heart were a little stirred at last. -"But the Lord heard of them; and Scotland heard of them, and rose and -bared her arm, and drave forth the men of blood from off her soil. -The Lord is their Avenger, at times, in this life--beyond this life, -always." - -"Tell me something more about them, Patient. Who was Master Wishart?" - -"He was a Scottish gentleman of good birth, a Wishart of Pitarrow, -Madam, who, giving himself up unto the service of God and the -Evangel, in Dundee and other towns, and bringing the blessed Word and -the blessed hope unto many a poor hungered soul, was seized by the -bloody Cardinal Beaton, and brent to death as the reward of his -labors, in the year of our Lord, 1546. They that did know him at -that time, and Master John Knox afterward, did say unto divers -persons, as I have heard, that even Master John was not fit to stand -up with George Wishart. He was a true man, and one that spake so -good and sweet words as did move the hearts of such as heard him. I -think the Lord knew how to ease him after his sore pain, and that, -now that he hath had rest in Heaven for one hundred and seventy -years, he accounts not that he bare too much for the Lord's sake, -that one bitter hour at St. Andrew's." - -"And who was Helen--what did you say her name was?--and Margaret -Wilson?" - -"Helen Stirk, Madam, was a wife that was permitted to die along with -her guidman for the name of the Lord, which she counted a grand -mercy. I can tell you a little more concerning Margaret Wilson, for -she died no so long since, and my father's sister's son, Duncan -M'Intyre, saw her die. It was at Wigtown, on the 11th of May, in the -year that King James became King. Duncan had business in the town, -where some of his kith on his father's side dwelt; and hearing that -two women were to be put to death, he, like a hare-brained callant as -he was, was set on seeing it. I heard not much about Margaret -Maclauchlan, who suffered at the same time, save that she was the -widow of one John Millikan, a wright of Drumjargan, and a woman -notable for her piety and discretion. But that of Maggie Wilson took -much effect upon mine heart, seeing that she was a young maid of just -eighteen years, mine own age. She and Agnes her sister, as Duncan -told us, were children of one Gilbert Wilson of Glenvernoch, who with -his wife were Prelatists. Maggie and Agnes, who were not able to -conform unto the ill Prelatical ways wherein their father and mother -were entangled, had joined many meetings of the Covenanters on the -hill-sides or in the glens, for preaching or prayer." - -"How old was Agnes? Was she a married woman?" - -"No, Madam; she was younger than Maggie--a maid of thirteen years." - -"But, Patient! I never heard of such a thing--two girls, thirteen -and eighteen, setting themselves up to judge their parents' religion, -and choosing a different one for themselves!" said Celia, in -astonishment, for she could not help thinking of the strong -expletives which would have burst from Squire Passmore, if she and -Lucy had calmly declared themselves Presbyterians, and declined to -accompany that gentleman to church as usual. - -"Madam, their father and mother were Prelatists," said Patient, -evidently of opinion that this settled the question. "They could not -go with them to church and read the mass-book." - -"Oh! you mean they were Papists?" - -"No, Madam--Prelatists," repeated Patient, a little perversely. "Not -that I see much disagreement, indeed, for methinks a Prelatist is but -a Papist with a difference. Yet I do trust there be Prelatists that -will be saved, and I can scarce think that of Papists." - -"I don't understand you, Patient. I suppose these Prelatists are -some sect that I have not heard anything about," said Celia, with -much simplicity, for she never supposed that Patient's stern -condemnation was levelled against her own Church, and would have been -sorely grieved and bewildered had she known it. "Go on, if you -please." - -Patient did not explain, and proceeded with her history. - -"When the late King James became King, on the death of his brother, -he put forth a proclamation granting liberty of conscience unto all -sects whatsoever. For a time the Puritans rejoiced in this mercy, -thinking it a favor unto them, but later they became aware that 'twas -but a deceit to extend ease unto the Papists. Maggie and Agnes -Wilson, the which were in hiding, did shortly after this proclamation -venture into the town, being wishful to speak with their kinsfolk. -They never reached their kith, being betrayed by one Patrick Stewart, -who came upon them with a band of men, and lodged them in the -thieves' hole. Thence they were shifted to another chamber, wherein -Margaret Maclauchlan already abode. Thomas Wilson, their brother, -did strive to set them free, thereby but harming himself;[11] and -they were had up afore the Sheriff,[12] and the Provost,[13] and some -others. The indictment of them was for attending field-conventicles, -and for joining in the rebellion at Bothwell Bridge and -Airsmoss,--they, poor feeble souls, never having been near the same -places. The jury brought the charge in proven, and the three women -were doomed to be justified[14] by water. They were to be tied to -stakes below the mark of the tide, in the water of Blednoch, near -Wigtown, until they should be dead, the tide sweeping over them in -its flow. Howbeit the Lord restrained them of having their will upon -the young maid Agnes. Maybe they were nigh shamed to justify such a -bairn: however, they tarried in her case. But on the day appointed, -which, as I said, was May 11th, one named Windram, being in command -over a band of soldiers, did hale Margaret Maclauchlan and Margaret -Wilson to the place of execution. The first stake, whereto Margaret -Maclauchlan was tied, was fixed much deeper in the bed of the river -than the other, they hoping that Maggie Wilson should be feared at -her death, being the sooner, and so brought to recant. Moreover, one -of the town officers did with his halbert press and push down the -poor old wife, who, having the lesser suffering of the two, was soon -with the Lord. As she strave in the bitterness of death, quoth one -to Maggie Wilson, 'What think ye of that?' 'Nay,' quoth she, 'what -do I see but Christ in one of His members struggling there!' Then -Maggie, bring tied unto the nearer stake, after singing of a -Psalm,[15] did read a chapter of the Word,[16] and prayed, so that -all might hear. And while she was a-praying, the water overflowed -her. And to see the devilish cruelty of these men! they left her -till she was nigh dead, and then, lifting her out of the water, did -use all care and means to recover her, as if they meant mercy. But -it was but that she might die over again. They murdered her twice -over--poor, poor maid! for she was past feeling when they got her -out. Then, when she could speak, this Windram did ask her if she -would pray for the King. Much cause they had given her! She then -answered that she wished the salvation of all men, and the damnation -of none. Then a maid which stood by Duncan, and had sobbed and wept -aforetime, which he thought must be of kin or friendly unto her, did -cry most dolefully, 'Dear Margaret! oh say, "God save the King!" say, -"God save the King!"' 'God save him if He will,' quoth she, 'for I -desire his salvation.' Windram now drawing near, commanded her to -take the oath unto the King, abjuring of the Solemn League and -Covenant. 'I will not,' quoth she; 'I am one of Christ's children.' -No sooner had she thus spoken, than one of the town's officers with -his halbert thrust her back into the water, crying, 'Tak' anither -drink, my hearty!' So she died." - -"Patient!" said Celia, in a low, constrained voice, "did God let -those men go scathless?" - -"Not so, Madam. The town's officer that thrust her back was ever -after that tormented with a thirst the which no draught could slake; -and for many generations the children of the other, which kept down -the old wife with his halbert, were all born with misshapen hands and -feet."[17] - -"Patient," said Celia again, in the same low reverent tone, "I wonder -that He suffers such things to be!" - -"I marvelled at that, Madam, years agone. It seemed very strange -unto me that He suffered us to be haled down to the beach at the -harrying of Lauchie, and that the storm should come on us and cut off -so many lives of His servants. It exercised me very sore." - -"And how did you settle it, Patient?" - -"I do not know that I should have settled it, Madam, had I not met -with an ancient gentleman, a minister, that used at one time to visit -Mr. Francis in Paris here. He was a reverend man by the name of -Colville, one of mine own country, that had fled out of Scotland of -old time, and had been dwelling for many years in Switzerland and -Germany." - -"Was he akin to this Mr. Colville who is Philip's friend?" - -"This young gentleman is his grandson, Madam; and little good he doth -Mr. Philip, I fear. If he were a wee bit more like his grandsire, I -would be fain. Howbeit, grace goeth not by inheritance, as I know. -He was a very kindly gentleman, Madam, this old minister; and when he -had sat a while ben with Mr. Francis and Miss Magdalene, he oft would -say, 'Now let me go but and speak unto the Leslies.' And one -day--ah! that day!--when Roswith was very ill, I asked of him the -thing which did exercise me. And he said unto me, gently and kindly, -holding mine hand in his quavering hand, for he was a very ancient -gentleman,--'Dear child,' quoth he, 'dost thou know so little thy -Father? Thou mindest me of my little son,' saith he, 'when the fire -brake out in mine house. When I hasted up into his chamber, which -was above the chamber a-fire, and tare the blankets from his bed, and -haled him thence somewhat roughly, the bairn greet, and asked of me -what made me so angry.' Well, I could not choose but smile to think -of the babe's blunder; and he saith, 'I see thou canst understand -that. Why, dear child,' quoth he, 'thou art about just the same -blunder as my bairn. Thy Father sendeth a messenger in haste to -fetch thy soul home to Him; and lo! "Father," sayest thou, "why art -thou so angry?" We are all little children,' quoth he, 'and are apt -to think our Father is angry when He is but short with us because of -danger. And dost thou think, lassie,' he said, 'that they which saw -the face of God first thing after that storm, rebuked Him because He -had fetched them thither by water?' So then I saw mine error." - -"Did this old gentleman teach you a great deal, Patient? I keep -wondering whence you have all the things you say to me. I don't -think such things as you do; and even Cicely Aggett, who is some -twenty years older than you, does not seem to know half so much about -God as you do. Where do you get your thoughts and your knowledge?" - -"Where the Lord doth mostly teach His children, Madam--'by the rivers -of Babylon, where I sat down and wept.'[18] I think he that beareth -the precious seed commonly goeth forth weeping,[19] for we cannot -enter into the troubles and perplexities of others which have known -none ourselves. And if it behoved _Him_ in all things to be made -like unto His brethren, that He might be a merciful and faithful High -Priest,[20] who are we that we should grudge to be made like unto our -brethren likewise? That is a deep word, Madam,--'Though He were a -Son, yet learned He obedience by the things which He suffered.'[21] -I have not got half down to the bottom of it yet. But for the matter -of that, I am but just hoeing at the top of all Scripture, and scarce -delving any depth." - -"Well, Patient," said Celia, with a perplexed, melancholy air, "if -you think you are but hoeing on the surface, what am I doing?" - -"My dear bairn--I ask your pardon, Madam," corrected Patient. - -"Don't ask it, Patient," replied Celia, softly; "I like that--it -sounds as if somebody loved me." - -"Eh, lassie!" said Patient, suddenly losing all her conventionality, -and much of her English, "did ye no think I loved Miss Magdalene's -bairn? I was the first that ever fed you, that ever dressed you, -that ever bare you about. I was just fon' on you when you were a bit -baby." Patient's voice became suddenly tremulous, and ceased. - -Celia rose from her chair, and kneeling down by Patient's side, threw -her arms round her neck and kissed her. Patient held her tight for a -moment. - -"The Lord bless you, my ain lassie!" she faltered, "You are just that -Miss Magdalene o'er again--her ain brown eyes, and her smile, and her -soft bit mou'! The Lord bless you!" - -Celia resumed her seat, and Patient her calm, respectful tone; but -the former understood the latter a great deal better after that -episode, and never forgot what a wealth of love lay hidden under that -quiet manner and somewhat stiff address. - -"Well, Patient, what were you going to say to me?" - -"I scarce think, Madam, that you have had much dwelling by the waters -of Babylon as yet. I don't mean that you have had no sorrow at all: -I misdoubt if any man or maid ever grew up to your age without -knowing what sorrow was. But there are griefs and griefs; and 'tis -one thing to visit a town, and another to abide there. David knew -what it was: 'My tears have been my meat day and night,'[22] quoth -he. And though in the main I conceive that and many another word in -David's Psalms to point unto Him that was greater than David, yet I -dare say 'twas no pleasant dwelling in the cave with all them that -were bitter of soul, neither fleeing on the mountains afore King -Saul, nor yet abiding in Gath. He felt them all sore crosses, I -little doubt." - -"Do you think that is what our Lord means, Patient, where He says, -'Take up the cross, and follow Me'?"[23] - -"I think he means whatsoever is undelightful to flesh and blood, that -cometh in the way of following Him. Is the gate strait? yet 'Follow -Me.' Is the way narrow? yet 'Follow Me.' Art thou faint, and cold, -and an-hungered, and a-weary? Yet 'Follow Me.' 'My grace is -sufficient for thee.'[24] My footsteps are plain before thee, My eye -is ever over thee. 'Follow Me.'" - -"But, Patient, don't you think that sometimes the footsteps are not -so very plain before us?" - -"We cannot see them when we don't look for them, Madam--that is -certain." - -"Ah! but when we do--is it not sometimes very difficult to see them?" - -"Madam, blind eyes cannot see. We are all blind by nature, and even -they that are God's children, I believe, cannot sin but it dims their -eyes. Even of them, perchance more 'see men as trees walking.'[25] -than as having the full use of their spiritual eyes. Well, it -matters little how we see men, if only we have eyes to see Christ. -Yet which of us, after all, ever really hath seen Him? But anent -crosses, Madam, I have a word to say, if you please. There's a -wonderful manufactory of crosses ever a-working among all God's -saints. Whatever else we are unskilful in, we are uncommon skilled -in making of rods for our own backs. And very sharp rods they are, -mostly. I had a deal sooner with David, 'fall into the hand of the -Lord' than into the hands of men:[26] but above all, may the Lord -deliver me from falling into mine own! There is a sharp saying, -Madam, which maybe you have heard,--'He that is his own lawyer hath a -fool to his client:' I am sure he that ruleth his own way hath a fool -to his governor. Yet every man among us would be his own God if he -might. What else are all our murmurings and disputings of the will -of the Lord?" - -"But, Patient, you don't call grieving murmuring? You would not say -that every cry of pain was a murmur? Surely when God uses His rod to -us, He means us to feel it?" - -"Certainly, Madam, He means us to feel it; else there were no use -laying it on us. There is a point, doubtless, where grieving doth -become murmuring; and where that is the Lord knoweth better than we. -He makes no mistakes. He will not account that murmuring which he -that crieth doth not intend to be such. I think He looks on our -griefs not as they be to Him, nor perchance to others, but as they -are to us; just as a kindly nurse or mother will comfort a little -bairn greeting over a bit plaything that none save itself accounted -the losing of worth naming." - -"We are very foolish, I am afraid, sometimes," said Celia, -thoughtfully. - -"Foolish! ay we are so!" returned Patient. "Setting our hearts, like -Jonah, on bit gourds, that grow up in a night, and are withered in a -night[27]--quarrelling with the Lord when His wisdom denies us our -own will--mewling and grumbling like ill bairns, as we be, at a -breath of wind that crosses us--saying, all of us at our hearts, 'I -am, and none else beside me'[28]--'Who is the Lord, that I should -obey Him?'[29] The longer I live, Madam, the more I am ever -marvelling at the wonderful grace, and patience, and love, of the -Lord, that He should bear with such ne'er-do-weels as we are, even at -our very best. 'I am the Lord, I change not; _therefore_ ye sons of -Jacob are not consumed.'"[30] - -Patient was silent for a while, and Celia broke the silence. - -"Patient, what became of Roswith? I never hear you name her now, but -always as belonging to past time." - -Patient did not answer for a moment. Then she said, her voice a -little less calm than usual: - -"There is no time, Madam, for her. She will never grow old, she will -never suffer pain, she will never weep any more. The Master has -been, and called for her." - -"She is dead!" said Celia, sympathizingly. - -"Dead? Nay, alive for evermore, as He is. 'Because He liveth, we -shall live also.'[31] She is in the beatific vision, before the face -of the Father, and shall never sin, nor suffer, nor depart any more. -And we, here in this body of pain and sin, call them 'dead!' O -Roswith! O my soul, my love, my darling! my wee bit bonnie bairn, -sister and daughter in one, whom I loved as David Jonathan, as mine -own soul! surely I am the dead, and thou art the living!" - -Celia sat amazed at this sudden flow of passionate words from her -usually imperturbable companion. She had seen her moved, only a -short time before, but not like this. Patient bent her head low over -her work, and did not look up for some minutes. When she spoke, it -was to say, very softly: - -"She never looked up rightly after the harrying of Lauchie. She -lived, but she never laughed rightly again. The Doctor deemed that -the ship wreck--the shock and the cold and the hunger--had wrought -the ill. Maybe they had. But she never was a strong, likely lassie. -She was ever gentle and quiet in all her ways, and could no bear much -putting upon. And after that she just pined and wasted away. It was -after Miss Magdalene died--after my Lady that is now was wedded--that -the end came. It was one Sabbath afternoon, and I, poor fool! -fancied her a wee bit better that day. She was lying on the bed in -our chamber, and we had been cracking of divers things--of our Lord -Christ and His resurrection, and that sweet prayer of His in John, -and the like. Her voice was very low and soft--but it was ever that, -I think--and her words came slowly and with pauses. And when we -ended our crack, she saith, 'Patient, Sister! sing to me.' I asked -her, 'What, dear heart?' and she saith, 'The Twenty-third Psalm.' So -I sang: - - "'The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want. - He makes me down to lie - In pastures green: He leadeth me - The quiet waters by.' - - -"And now and then, just for a line, I heard her weak voice joining -in. I sang to the end, and she sang the last lines: - - "'And in God's house for evermore - My dwelling-place shall be.' - - -"When I had done, I thought the place felt so still, as if the angels -were there. Surely they were so! for in a few minutes after I made -an end of singing, she arose and went to the Father. - -"I have been alone with God since that night Roswith died. I shall -go some day, but it seems afar off now. Perchance it may be nearer -than I deem. The Lord knoweth the time, and He will not forget me." - - -There was a long silence when Patient's voice ceased. Celia spoke -first. - -"Patient, you said once that you would tell me how my father met with -my step-mother. But I want to know also why no one ever sought me -out until now." - -"There was no chance, Madam, so long as you were a child. The -troubles in England were too great to allow of Sir Edward returning -himself. I believe he charged my Lady on his deathbed to seek you -out, and wherefore she tarried I know not. I had a mind once to go -myself, and I named it to her, but was called a fool for my pains, -and bidden to sit quiet and sew. But I was glad to see you." - -"Thank you, dear Patient," said Celia, affectionately. "And now tell -me about the other." - -"Do you know, Madam, that my Lady was a widow when she wedded Sir -Edward?" - -"No!" exclaimed Celia. "I never heard of that. But Philip--he is -really my brother, is he not?" - -"Oh yes, Madam! Mr. Philip is your brother. I will tell you:--After -my Lady Magdalene died, Sir Edward was for a time sore sick, and the -doctors bade him visit and go about for the recovery of his health. -I am scarce certain that it was the best thing he could do, howbeit -he did as they bade him. Among the gentlemen whom he used to visit, -where he whiles took his son Master Edward, and me as his nurse, was -the Marquis of La Croix, and another was one Mr. Camillus De -L'Orient. The Marquis was a stately old French gentleman, a kindly -man to his own, I think, but one that held himself mortal high, and -seemed to think that laboring men and the like were no better, if so -good, as his dogs and his horses. The Marchioness, his wife, was -much of the same sort, only I'm thinking she wasn't quite so stiff as -he. They had no son--and very grieved they were for it--only three -daughters: Madam Claudia, Madam Sophia, and Madam Amata. The last -young lady is dead; she died a maid, and to my thinking she was a -hantle the best of the three. Madam Sophia you saw the other -evening; she wedded the Duke of Montausier. Madam Claudia is my Lady. - -"I had never any great taking for Frenchmen, but to my thinking Mr. -Camillus De L'Orient was the best and pleasantest Frenchman I ever -saw. There was something about him so douce and kindly to everybody; -and 'tis very seldom the case with the French nobles. Sir Edward -came one day into the nursery, as he often did, to play him with the -bairn; and, said he, 'Patient, next week I shall go to Monsieur De La -Croix's _château_ in the provinces, and Mademoiselle Aimée has begged -for Edward to come too; so get him and yourself ready. Mademoiselle -De La Croix is to be married to Monsieur De L'Orient." Well, we went -to the castle; and surely there were fine doings: Madam Claudia in -white satin, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen--they were quite a -picture to look at. After the wedding and the revellings were over, -Madam Claudia and her husband went up to Paris for a while, and then -to pay a visit to Mr. Camillus' father and mother, who lived some way -off. Sir Edward meanwhile thought of going home too, but Monsieur -and Madam they begged of him to stay till Mr. Camillus came back, and -Madam Amata, who was mighty fond of children, and took wonderfully to -little Master Ned, she begged him not to take the bairn away; so the -end of it was that he stopped ever so long, and Master Ned and me, we -stopped too. About two months after the wedding, Mr. Camillus and -his new wife came back to the castle, and the fine doings began -again. There was nought but feasting and junketing for a fortnight; -and one morning, at the end of that time, Sir Edward, and Mr. -Camillus, and one Mr. Leroy, and three or four gentlemen more that -were staying at the castle, they went out for a stroll in the park. - -"I know not rightly how it was, but there arose some words among -these gentlemen, and they came to quarrelling. Sir Edward held fast -by Mr. Camillus, who was a great friend of his; but Mr. Leroy, whose -blood was up because of something that had been said, at last struck -Mr. Camillus a blow. Everybody cried directly that he must fight -him. Sir Edward ran back to the castle for pistols, for the -gentlemen were not armed; and he came in all haste into the chamber -where I was sewing, with little Master at his horn-book, and bade me -tell Madam Claudia as gently as I could that there was to be a duel -between Mr. Camillus and Mr. Leroy. I went up into the chamber where -the three young ladies were together, and Madam Sophia was trying of -a new gown. I told as quiet as I could what had happened. Madam -Amata cried out, and ran to her sister, and clipped her round the -neck. She said, 'Claude, _ma soeur, ma bonne, ma belle!_ go, go to -Camille, and ask him not to fight!' I looked at Madam Claudia. She -went as white as a sheet the first minute; but the next she lifted -her head up proudly, and she said, 'Shall I ask him not to revenge an -affront to his honor? _Noblesse oblige, ma soeur_.' 'You are such a -child, Aimée!' was all Madam Sophia said, as she looked round from -her tiring-glass. 'You always call me so,' said Madam Amata; 'but -this is dreadful--it is death, perhaps, my sisters!' Madam Sophia -took no heed of her, but went on trying her new gown, and showing her -woman where it did not please her. For a minute I thought that Madam -Claudia was going to give way and have a good cry; but she did not. -I scarce knew then that 'tis not our deepest sorrow that we weep for. -She sat down, still very white, and taking no heed to her sister's -new array, though she, poor thoughtless maid! kept calling to her, -didn't she like this and did she no think that was too long and -t'other too narrow? Madam Amata came softly up to me, and whispered -'_Ma bonne_, go down and bring us the first news.' So I slipped out -and down-stairs. About half an hour after a gentleman came in--a -French gentleman, but I forget his name now--who I knew had been at -the fighting. I called to him and asked him to pardon me for being -so bold as to speak to him, but for the love of God to tell me the -news. 'News?' quoth he, 'what! of the duel? Oh! they have fought, -and Monsieur De L'Orient has fallen: Sir Edward Ingram is carrying -him here'--and Mr. Somebody, I don't mind who it was. 'Is he dead, -Sir?' I said, all of a tremble. 'I really don't know,' says he, -quite careless; 'I think not quite.' - -"I hadn't the heart to speak another word to such a man. I crept up -again to the young ladies' chamber, and I knelt down by Madam -Claudia, and told her she must make ready for the worst. She -shivered all over, and then, scarce opening her white lips, she said, -'Is it all over?' I said, 'They think not quite; but Sir Edward is -bringing him hither.' When she heard that, she rose and glided down -the stairs to the hall, Madam Amata following her, and I likewise. -Even Madam Sophia was a trifle touched, I think, for she said a bad -word, as those French ladies do when they are astonished; but Madam -Amata was very white and crying, for if Mr. Camillus had really been -her brother born, I don't think she could have loved him much better -than she did. - -"Just as Madam Claudia reached the hall, Sir Edward came in, and the -other gentleman, bearing poor Mr. Camillus covered with blood. There -was a marble couch in the hall, with silken cushions; they laid him -down there, and he just spoke twice. First he said to Sir Edward, -'Tell my mother gently, and take care of my Claude.' And then when -Madam Claudia came and knelt by him, he said, '_Dieu vous garde, -mamie_!' Then he laid his head back and died. But when he died, -Madam Claudia threw her arms about him, and laid her head down on his -breast in spite of the blood: and then suddenly springing to her -feet, she flung up her arms wildly in a way that sent a shudder -through me, and the next minute she would have fallen on the ground -if Sir Edward had not caught her first. 'Let us carry her up, -Patient, to her own chamber, poor soul!' he saith. So we took her -up, I and he, and I laid her quiet on her bed. Madam Amata followed -us, and, poor young maid! it was pitiful to see her. She had never -been taught to do more than make fancy-work and play the violin and -such, and now she wanted to nurse her sister, and did not know how to -set about it. 'Do tell me, _ma bonne_, what I can do for Claude?--my -poor Claude!' she kept saying to me. 'Twas a long while ere Madam -Claudia came round, and when she did, she wept and mourned every -minute of the day for four days. I don't think she ever quite loved -anything again as she had loved him." - -Celia could hardly associate the idea of such mourning as this with -her cold, fashionable, impassive step-mother. - -"You think it scarce like, Madam?" asked Patience, seeing her thought -in her face. "I know what you think--ay, and more than you have -thought that. If you will forgive me to say it, you deem her cold -and hard. So she is. Ah Madam! wherever sorrow softens and -sanctifies not, it chills and hardens. I am sure, if I had known her -but now, I could never have thought her that bright lassie whom I saw -in her early maidenhood. You see, Madam, the Lord sends sorrow to us -all; but where He has to touch one of His chosen with it, He brings -it Himself. And there is a vast difference between the two. There -be to whom the having been with grief is the having been with Jesus; -and that always softens and tenders the heart. I think we hardly -come to know the Lord's best comforts, till we come to know how -sorely He can afflict whiles. But grief without Jesus--ah! that is -worth calling grief! - -"There is little more to tell now, Madam, for you know the end--that -Sir Edward wedded Madam Claudia. I will confess I did think they -might have waited a trifle longer, if it were only to the end of the -year after Mr. Camillus' death. He had scarce been dead six months, -and my Lady Magdalene not the year out, when they were married. -Howbeit, that was their business, not mine. Madam Sophia said, in -her odd way, that if her sister did not care, she saw no reason why -she should: but the tears stood in Madam Amata's eyes, though she -said nought. I liked Madam Amata very much. She died about two -years thereafter." - -"Patient, whom do you think Philip like?--his father or his mother?" - -"Neither much, Madam. Sir Edward is like his father, only that he -hath his mother's mouth. - -"Do you know when he will be back, Patient? I do so long to see my -_own_ brother." - -"No, Madam. He went off rather unexpected. Now, Madam Celia, if you -please to try this gown?" - -"Why, Patient! what have you done to that blue gauze?" inquired Lady -Ingram, entering so noiselessly that neither knew of her presence -until she spoke. "It is cut absurdly short in front. Turn round, my -dear. _Mais c'est affreux_! Pull the rag off, I beg of you. Is -that Thérèse's cutting or yours, Patient?" - -"Thérèse's, Madam." - -"_Incroyable_! I shall scold her right well for it. It is -atrocious. _C'est une chose à déchirer de coeur!_" - -Celia looked up into Lady Ingram's eyes, saw how calm and careless -they were, and wondered if there were left in her anything of that -early Claude De La Croix, whose sad story she had been hearing. - - - -[1] Matt. xxii 42. - -[2] 2 Sam. xxiii. 5. - -[3] 1 Cor. iii. 23. - -[4] John viii. 11. - -[5] John ii. 16. - -[6] Heb. x. 25. - -[7] Matt. vii. 20. - -[8] Rom. i. 28. - -[9] October 22, 1685. - -[10] By Henri IV. of France, April 13, 1508. - -[11] "It is said that Thomas Wilson endeavored to relieve his sisters -from confinement, but did not succeed. He kept himself in -concealment till the Revolution, when he entered the army, and served -King William in Flanders."--_Nicholson's_ "_History of Galloway_." -For a full account of these Scottish Martyrs of Wigtown, I am -indebted to the kindness of a (personally unknown) correspondent. - -[12] David Graham. - -[13] Colbran. - -[14] This word, so very odd in such a connection, is the old Scottish -term for _executed_. - -[15] She sang part of the 25th Psalm. - -[16] Rom. viii. - -[17] Nicholson's "History of Galloway." - -[18] Psalm cxxxvii. 1. - -[19] Psalm cxxvi. 6. - -[20] Heb. ii. 17. - -[21] Heb. v. 8. - -[22] Psalm xlii. 3. - -[23] Mark x. 21. - -[24] 2 Cor. xii. 9. - -[25] Mark viii. 24. - -[26] 2 Sam. xxiv. 14. - -[27] Jonah iv. 6-11. - -[28] Isaiah xlvii. 10. - -[29] Exod. v. 2. - -[30] Mal. iii. 6. - -[31] John xiv. 19. - - - - -VIII. - -WANTED, DIOGENES' LANTERN. - - "Smile, hypocrite, smile! It is no such hard labor, - While each stealthy hand stabs the heart of his neighbor: - Faugh!--Fear not; we've no hearts in Vanity Fair." - MISS MULOCH. - - -We have been absent for a long time from Ashcliffe Hall. In fact, -nothing has occurred there since Celia's departure of sufficient -moment to be recorded. But on Easter Tuesday of 1712, Harry returned -home for a short time. He brought plenty of town news, political and -otherwise. - -"Twelve new Tory peers were created on New Year's Day"-- - -The Squire swore at this piece of information. - -"And the Duke of Marlborough[1] has fallen in disgrace"-- - -"So we heard, lad, so we heard," said his father, discontentedly. -"Somebody ought to be ashamed of himself." - -"And Prince Eugene[2] is come to England on a visit to Her Majesty, -'tis thought to plead for the Duke." - -"O Harry! have you seen Prince Eugene?" - -"Yes, Lucy, several times. Do you wish to know what he is like? -Well, fancy a small, but well-made man, with a dark complexion, a -large Roman nose, black eyes, lively and piercing, and black hair." - -"Do you think the Queen will listen to his pleading for the Duke?" - -"I doubt it. 'Tis scarce so much with the Duke as with the -Duchess[3] that she is herself displeased; and Prince Eugene has -already offended her by coming to court in a bag-wig instead of the -peruque. She said to her ladies that next time she supposed he would -come in his night-cap. Prince Eugene, you see, is a soldier, -accustomed to think very little of matters of this kind; and in all -points of etiquette the Queen is mighty particular." - -"And what other news is there, Harry?" - -"Well, Sir, the Secretary for War, a young man named Robert Walpole, -has been sent to the Tower for bribery." - -"Why on earth have they sent him there for _that_?" asked the Squire, -sarcastically. "Does not every one of the Ministers sell all his -Secretary-ships? Didn't he buy his place, to begin with?" - -"Doubtless, Sir," answered Harry; "and every year the Duchess of -Marlborough, whose perquisite they are, either gives or sells the -Queen's old gowns; but when the blame must be laid on some one, 'tis -easy to find a man to bear it." - -"Any other piece of roguery?" asked his father. - -"No, Sir, I remember none," said Harry. "Just before I left London, -the Queen was touching for the evil.[4] 'Tis a solemn ceremony, I am -told, though I was not able to see it. 'Tis stale news, I fear, that -there hate been prosecutions of newspaper writers for attacks on the -Ministry. - -"No, Harry, I had not heard of that," said the Squire, quickly. -"Likely enough! A set of beggarly printers daring to bring out -lampoons on gentlemen in the Queen's service! Served 'em right!" - -"There have been a good many of the lampoons, I believe." - -"Is it only the Whig Ministers who suffered from these rascally -newspapers?" asked his father. - -"Both sides, Sir," answered Harry. - -"Well, I am glad the Tories got a bit of it." chuckled Squire -Passmore. - -"There are gentlemen on the other side, Sir, I think," hinted Harry -quietly. - -"Nothing but rogues on the other side, my lad," said his father. -"Why, how could they be on the other side if they weren't rogues?" - -"Why, Father!" said Lucy, who could take more liberties with that -gentleman than any one else, and knew it; "you don't think everybody -wrong who isn't on the same side as you?" - -"There can be only one right side," said the Squire, as evasively as -oracularly. "I am on it because 'tis right." - -"Well, my politics," said Charley, yawning, "are that 'tis right -because I'm on it." - -A piece of exalted egotism which provoked universal laughter. - -"I met in London with a rather pleasant fellow," remarked Harry, "who -told me he had been at Ashcliffe, and had the honor, quoth he, of -dining with you. A man of the name of Stevens." - -"Ob, aye! a painter," said the Squire. - -"Well, he had been in a painter's employ," returned his son, "but is -now in a newspaper office: he is employed on the _Gazette_." - -"What made him change his trade in that way?" - -"He told me that the painter who had employed him had been but a -temporary patron, and having now done with him, he had been unable to -get further employment in that line. And having some parts in the -way of writing, he had offered his services to one or two of the Whig -papers, and is now in the _Gazette's_ office." - -"He is a sensible fellow," said his father. "A right Whig, I could -see, and a thorough conscientious man." - -Could any person have lifted up the veil, and revealed to him the -history and identity of one George Shepherd, he would have felt both -amazed and humbled. - - -At the moment that this conversation was going on at Ashcliffe, the -thoroughly conscientious man of whom they were speaking was seated in -the back-parlor of a newspaper office in London. He had two -companions, a man in a fair wig, and another in a black one. The -wearer of the black wig, a large-limbed, long-faced, solemn-looking -man, had just folded up some letters after perusal. - -"Well, Mr. Mist, what say you?" asked he, laying down the letters. -"If you prefer to sever our connection, rather than engage to do as I -wish, of course you are at liberty to do so. But unless you will -keep measures with me, and be punctual in these things, I cannot -serve you further, nor be concerned any more." - -"I really beg you not to name such a thing, Mr. De Foe!" replied -Mist, bowing and nervously twisting a piece of paper. "I am your -very humble servant in these matters--all of them; and I engage -readily to conduct the _Journal_--Will you repeat your terms, Mr. De -Foe?" - -"The Government, Mr. Mist, have treated you with lenity and -forbearance," resumed De Foe,[5] oracularly. "They permit you to -seem on the same side as before, to rally the _Flying Post_ as much -as you please, and all the Whig writers, and even the word 'Whig;' -and to admit any foolish trifling things in favor of the Tories, such -as really can do them no good, nor the Government any harm." - -"Well, Mr. De Foe," said Mr. Mist, with a sigh, "that is liberty -enough. I am resolved that my paper shall for the future amuse the -Tories, but not affront the Government." - -"That, Mr. Mist," announced his dictator, "is the only way to keep -yourself from a jail, and to secure the advantages which now rise to -you from it; for you may be assured the complaint against you is so -general that the Government can bear it no longer."[6] - -"Would you mind telling me from whom you speak, Sir?" Mr. Mist meekly -wished to know. - -"I should mind it very much, Mr. Mist. Be satisfied that you have -been spoken to--ay, and warned." - -Mr. Mist was fully convinced of that. - -"You will write, Mr. Mist, a declaration, full enough to satisfy the -Government, of your intention to make no further attack upon them?" - -Mr. Mist would do anything he was told. The poor little mouse was -entirely at the mercy of the lion. He withdrew to pen his -declaration, and left the arch-conspirators together. - -"You see, Mr. Stevens, what difficulties we Government spies have to -contend with!" sighed the author of _Robinson Crusoe_. "But you know -that, of course, as well as I do." - -"'Bowing in the House of Rimmon,'" responded Stevens, with a peculiar -smile. "I fancy the spies on the other side have their difficulties -also." - -In which observation, though De Foe was completely unaware of it, Mr. -Stevens was alluding to himself. - -"'Bowing in the House of Rimmon!'" repeated De Foe. "I thank you, -Mr. Stevens, for so apt a comparison. You see, Sir, I am for this -service posted among Papists, Jacobites, and High Tories--a -generation which my very soul abhors. I am obliged to hear -traitorous expressions and outrageous words against Her Majesty's -person and Government and her most faithful servants, and to smile at -it all as if I approved of it." - -"You are scarce the first person, Mr. De Foe, who has been -constrained to smile at what he disapproves." - -"Well, his Lordship's instructions are positive." - -"You have them, I think, from himself?" asked Stevens, deferentially. - -"Through Mr. Buckley. I introduced myself to Mr. Mist in the -disguise of a translator of foreign news, with his Lordship's -approbation, who commissioned me, in this manner, to be so far -concerned in this weekly paper of Mist's, as to be able to keep it -within the circle of a secret management, and also prevent the -mischievous part of it; but neither Mist nor any of those concerned -with him have the least guess by whose direction I do it. You, Mr. -Stevens, are one of ourselves, so I speak freely to you." - -"Quite so," answered Stevens, dryly. - -"Some time ago," resumed De Foe, "I was concerned in the same manner -with Dyer's News-Letter. Old Dyer was just dead, and Dormer, his -successor, being unable by his troubles to carry on that work, I had -an offer of a share both in the property and management. Well, I -immediately sent to the Minister, who, by Mr. Buckley, let me know -'twould be a very acceptable piece of service, for that letter was -really very prejudicial to the public, and the most difficult to come -at in a judicial way in case of offence given. Upon this I took upon -myself (and do still take) the entire management of the paper, so -that the style still continues Tory, that the party may be amused, -and not set up another, which would destroy the design."[7] - -"Of course your object was not wholly political?" smilingly suggested -Stevens. - -"You mean, there was a matter of money betwixt us? Of course there -was--money or money's worth." - -"We have it on good authority that 'the laborer is worthy of his -hire,'" answered Stevens, still smiling. "Ah! Mr. De Foe, 'tis in -truth such as you and I that rule kingdoms--not Kings nor Ministers." - -When Stevens left the office of Mist's _Journal_, which was in truth -Mist's private habitation, he sauntered slowly for a while along the -busy streets; turned into a (Whig) coffee-house, which he frequented -every Tuesday morning, and called for a dish of coffee and the -_Postboy_; wandering on, turned into another (Tory) coffee-house, -which he frequented every Tuesday afternoon, and called for a glass -of usquebagh and the _St. James's Chronicle_. Having made his weekly -impression on the society of the two coffee-houses, he sauntered on -again until he reached Gray's Inn Road. Here his proceedings -suddenly changed. He walked up the Road with the air and pace of a -man who had no time to spare, and entering a whitesmith's shop, -inquired in a rather loud tone whether Butler (the whitesmith) could -attend to a little matter of business. Mrs. Butler, who was in the -shop, having informed him that her husband was at leisure to -undertake anything required, Stevens sinking his voice to a low -whisper, asked further-- - -"Is the old horse in the old stall?" - -"He is, Sir," answered Mrs. Butler, in the same tone, adding, in a -louder one, "Pray go up-stairs, Sir, and speak with Butler yourself." - -Stevens found his way without difficulty up a dark and rickety -staircase in the corner, with the intricacies of which he appeared -well acquainted, and pausing at a door on the right hand, at the head -of the stairs, placed his lips to the keyhole, and gave a low, soft -whistle. The door opened with a spring, and Mr. Stevens was admitted -to the chamber within. - -In the room in question, two men were sitting at a green baize table -covered with books and papers. The younger was about the age of -Stevens himself, and he looked up with a nod and smile of recognition -to the new-comer: the elder, a bald-headed man with a fringe of white -hair, did not stir from his close examination of the papers on the -table until Stevens stood before him. - -"Your blessing, Father!" requested the young priest. - -The old man looked up abruptly. "Peace be with thee, Brother -Cuthbert," said he, in a harsh, brusque tone; and he went back -immediately to his papers. The younger man pointed to a seat at his -side, which Stevens took; but neither ventured to interrupt the -studies of the old priest, until he at last laid down his papers and -took off his spectacles. - -"Well, Brother, what news?" said he, looking up at Stevens. - -In answer to this query, Stevens gave him a condensed account of the -information which he had just received from De Foe. - -"That is awkward, Father, is it not?" asked the younger of the -strangers. - -"Not at all, my son," said the old Jesuit, placidly wiping his -spectacles. "The Protestants are welcome to work against us as much -as they please. They cannot combine; they have no organism; hence -their wiles are mere shadows compared with ours. They are sure to -fade and fail, sooner or later. However, we are not above learning -even from enemies. It might be as well to have a friend so employed -on some few Whig papers. Could you manage that?" he asked, suddenly -turning to the young stranger. - -The person addressed smiled, but shook his head rather hopelessly. - -"I do not think I could, Father Boniface," said he. - -"No," assented the old man; "your talents do not lie in that -direction. Brother Cuthbert, here is employment for you--yours do." - -"My talents commonly lie in any direction to which I find it -convenient to turn them, Father," said Stevens, with as modest an air -as if he were disclaiming praise instead of bestowing it upon -himself. "And as I hold a general dispensation for anything that may -be needful, I have no scruples in using it." - -The old man, having finished a very careful cleansing of his glasses, -put them on, and inspected Stevens through them. - -"Brother Cuthbert," said he, "had you been suffered to sink into the -abyss of heresy, as at one time seemed likely, it would have been a -great loss to the Church." - -"Well, I rather think it would," was the cool reply of Mr. Cuthbert -Stevens. - -"It was a blessed act of our Brother Arnold," resumed Father -Boniface, "an inspired thought, which led him to steal you away, an -infant untainted by heresy, from the cradle wherein your heretic -mother had laid you, while she went to watch the dancing on the -village-green. That was Brother Cuthbert's introduction to the -Church, Jerome," observed he, turning to his companion. "Our Brother -Arnold--he is among the blessed now, I trust, for I have myself -offered hundreds of masses for the repose of his soul--he found, in a -village in France, an infant in a cradle, by a cottage-door, with -none to watch over it. Impelled by philanthropy, he inquired how -this was from the next-door neighbor, and was told that a Huguenot -carpenter lived in the cottage; he was out at work, and his wife had -gone to see the dancers. 'This must not be,' said Arnold; 'I will -myself carry the infant to his mother, and reprove her for such -foolish conduct.' I should have told you that, the village being -full of these misguided heretics, Arnold, in his zeal to recover some -of these straying sheep to the true fold, had attired himself as a -heretic teacher. 'You will do well, Master Pastor,' said the -neighbor; 'for though she is kindly and well-meaning, 'tis her worst -fault to love gadding about, and she is very young and needs -teaching.' So Arnold took the babe, and instead of going to the -green, piously brought it to us at the monastery. Thou wert a sad -trouble for a long time, Brother Cuthbert; for the brethren were not -wont to deal with such tender young creatures, and thou wouldst eat -nothing presented to thee, and didst wail and howl ceaselessly." - -And the old priest shook his head sorrowfully, as if he remembered -too well the trouble which the Huguenot baby had brought upon the -brotherhood. Stevens laughed, and so did Jerome; but the latter -seemed to enjoy the novel idea more of the two. - -"Do you know the name of the village, Father? It might be a good act -to endeavor to win over some of these Huguenots." - -"We thought it better, Brother Cuthbert, that you should not know the -name of your birthplace. Ties of kindred are strong at times; and, -as I have often observed to you, when a man becomes a priest, he -ceases to have any kindred ties. The Church is your mother, her -monks are your brethren, her nuns your sisters. Be satisfied." - -Stevens was far too much accustomed to instant and implicit -submission to offer the slightest remonstrance to this slight -mandate. But this was the first time that he had ever received a -detailed account of his origin. He knew that he had been brought to -the monastery as an infant, but hitherto he had known nothing more, -and had naturally supposed himself to be a foundling. In this idea -he had grown up. He had never loved any human being, nor, so far as -he knew, had any human being ever loved him. But that afternoon a -vision rose before him of the poor Huguenot mother coming back from -her thoughtless expedition to find her darling gone. He wished he -could have found her. He would have tried to convert her to Romanism -if he had done so; for he honestly believed his Church the true one. -But she might perhaps have loved him; and nobody ever had done so -hitherto. - -"In these papers, Brother Cuthbert," resumed the old Jesuit, "you -will find instructions in cipher. I need not charge you to keep them -carefully." - -Stevens put them safely away in a private pocket. - -"And I will detain you no longer." - -Stevens had reached the door, when he turned back. - -"Father Boniface, if you think it not an improper request, would you -tell me in what part of France I was found?" - -Father Boniface looked into his young friend's face, and thought it a -very improper request. But he had his own reasons for not bluntly -refusing an answer. - -"In Auvergne, my son," he said, shortly. "Ask no more." - -Cuthbert Stevens passed out of the whitesmith's shop without stopping -for his customary five minutes' chat with Mrs. Butler. - -"Ah, poor gentleman!" said she to herself; "he's had a bit of bad -news." - -He had had something like it. He walked very rapidly up Gray's Inn -Road, knowing little and caring less whither he was going, till he -found himself in the fields beyond Clerkenwell. There he threw -himself on the grass, and resting his head upon his hands, gave -himself up for one hour to mournful and profitless visions of that -Auvergne home, and of the unknown father and mother who might have -loved him once. - -"And I shall never see them!" he thought. "So near the Waldensian -valleys:--what a stronghold of heresy they must be! Ah, well! I can -say every day a mass with an intention for my parents. Who knows if -God may be merciful to them, after all? The soul is worth more than -the body, and eternal happiness is worth more than any amount of ease -or felicity in this world. From what a fate, therefore, have I been -rescued! I ought to be very thankful." - -But gratitude and love are the last things into which a man can scold -himself, and Stevens did not feel so thankful as he thought he ought -to be. He might have been more so, had he known that Father Boniface -had not troubled himself to tell him the exact truth. It was from -the outermost village of the Val Martino, in the Waldensian valleys, -not from Auvergne, that he had been stolen away. And in that Val -Martino, though he was never to know it, every night knelt Lucetta -Carmagnoli, mourning before God--less for the martyred husband, or -for the two brave young sons slain in battle, than for the lost -first-born, whose fate she could guess only too well. Wavering from -hour to hour between the passion of hope--"Oh that Ishmael might live -before Thee!"[8]--and the passion of despair--"Would God I had died -for thee! O Absalom, my son, my son!"[9] - -Such prayers and tears seem lost sometimes. But "are they not in Thy -book?"[10] "What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know -hereafter."[11] It is not only Simon the son of Jonas who is asked, -now in the tempest, now in the still, small voice, "Lovest thou Me -more than these?"[12] - -Stevens rose from his green couch, and walked back to London. His -heart had been dormant all his life till now, and it went easily to -sleep again. His conscience the Jesuits had crushed and twisted and -trained so early that it never troubled him with a single pang. By -the time that he had reached Fleet Street, and had solaced his inner -man with a second dish of coffee (and something in it) at the Tory -coffee-house, Mr. Cuthbert Stevens was himself again. And if he did -look back on the hour spent in the fields at Clerkenwell, it was only -to reflect with momentary annoyance that, as he would have phrased -it, he had made a fool of himself. And it was very rarely indeed -that he thought that substantive applicable in the slightest degree -to the Rev. Cuthbert Stevens. - -"Well, there is one comfort," he meditated, as he sat imbibing the -mixture: "nobody saw me do it." - -And fortified by this consideration, and the coffee, &c., Mr. Stevens -walked into the residence of the Editor of the _Postboy_, and -expressed his desire for an interview with that rather awful -individual. There was a smile on his lips when he came out. He was -engaged at a high salary to supply foreign news to the columns of the -Whig paper. Mr. Buckley, the Ministerial agent, had spoken very -highly of Mr. Stevens to the Editor. Mr. Stevens was rejoiced to -hear it, and he told the truth for once when he said so. The Editor -thought Mr. Stevens set a rather high value on his services. Mr. -Stevens could assure him that he had received innumerable -applications from the Tory side, and it was only his deep attachment -to the Whig cause, and his respect for the _Postboy_ in particular, -which had led him, by asking so little, rather to underrate the -importance of the information he could supply. The importance, -indeed, of the information which Stevens could have supplied would -not have been overrated at double the figure; but of this little fact -the Editor of the _Postboy_ was unconscious. - -Here we part with the Rev. Cuthbert Stevens. The rest of his life -was a mere repetition, with variations, of what we have seen. The -Whigs continued to take him for a Whig spy, the Tories for a Tory, -while he himself cared in reality for neither, and was devoted but to -one thing, and ready to be either, neither, or both, in the service -and at the command of that Church which supplied to him the place of -home, and parents, and friends, and God. And at the close of such a -life followed the priest, and the crucifix, and the unction, and the -false hope which shall perish, and the death that has no bands. - -Ere this Rome has employed, and destroyed, many a Cuthbert Stevens. -What do the crushed devotees matter to the idol? Let the car of -Juggernaut roll on! "Thou art become guilty in thy blood that thou -hast shed, and hast defiled thyself in thine idols which thou hast -made."[13] "In the cup which she hath filled, fill to her -double."[14] - -Perhaps the greatest of Lucetta Carmagnoli's mercies was what she -thought the bitterest of her sorrows--that she never knew what became -of her lost child. - - -It is time for us to return to France. - -On one of these spring afternoons of 1712, Celia stood looking out of -her bedroom window. They were in Lady Ingram's country-house at St. -Germain-en-Laye. She was very curious, and yet almost afraid, to see -the Palace--that house in which, as she knew, he dwelt whom Squire -Passmore called the Pretender, and Lady Ingram the King. Celia -herself had owned to no politics at all. She found it quite work -enough to steer between her religious Scyllas and Charybdises, -without setting up political ones. In all things not absolutely -wrong, she was resolved meekly to submit to Lady Ingram, so that her -step-mother might have no just cause for dissatisfaction with her in -respect to those few points which to her were really matters of -conscience. When Patient came quietly in with an armful of the linen -which she was unpacking and putting away, Celia said-- - -"Patient, do you know where the _château_ is?" - -"The Pretender dwells over yonder, Madam," answered Patient, pointing -in the direction which she wished to indicate. - -"So you call him the Pretender!" observed Celia, smilingly. - -"I was taught, Madam, when a wean, that the people should have nought -to do with an uncovenanted King. Moreover, the reign of His Highness -the Lord Protector being so much better for the faith, hath perhaps -turned me a little against this one and all his." - -Celia laughed softly to herself. What would Squire Passmore have -said, from whose lips the gentleman so respectfully designated by -Patient was, at the gentlest, "that scoundrel Oliver"? She began to -wonder how many more phases of political feeling she should find. - -"I ask your pardon if I have grieved you, Madam," said Patient, when -Celia remained silent, "I would not willingly do that. Sir Edward, I -know, was strong for King James, and would doubtless have been so for -his son: and 'tis most like you will feel with your father. Only we -were taught otherwise. When King James was driven out of London, I -heard that, the Sabbath after, in Scotland, a certain godly minister -did discourse from that word--'And death shall be chosen rather than -life by all the residue of them that remain of this evil family, -which remain in all the places whither I have driven them, saith the -Lord of hosts.'"[15] - -"I think that was rather too strong, Patient," said Celia, doubtfully. - -"Perchance so, Madam. Indeed, I know there be some that do think -King Charles the First safe--in Heaven, I mean. God grant it! I -only know that he was a deceitful man, and an uncovenanted King." - -"I have always heard him called a martyr, Patient." - -"He was not _that_!" said Patient, less calmly than usual. "At -least, not if a martyr be a witness for the Lord's truth. Did he not -try to force Prelacy upon Scotland? Call such a man a martyr! A -martyr to Prelacy, forsooth! a martyr to deceit, and broken faith, -and cruel oppression! We were the martyrs, Madam." And Patient shut -a drawer wrathfully, for her. - -"I don't know much about it, Patient," said Celia, honestly. "I have -been taught to believe that King Charles was a good and misfortunate -man. But now I can hardly tell what to believe among you all. -My--Squire Passmore thinks that King Charles was a good man and a -martyr, yet calls this man the Pretender, and will scarce hear him -named with patience. My step-mother thinks them both good; and you -think them both bad. I cannot tell what to think." - -Celia came from the window as Lady Ingram entered the room. - -"Patient," she said, "lay out Mrs. Celia's new court-dress on the -bed--you know which it is. My dear, this afternoon I will lead you -to kiss the Queen's hand. Your manners are slightly improved, and I -wish you to show respect to the Court." - -"Very well, Madam," resignedly answered Celia. - -"You will enter behind me; stop, and go forward, when I do. When I -draw aside, come forward, kneel, and kiss the Queen's hand when she -offers it. Should she speak to you, remain kneeling while you -answer, unless she command you to rise. If she do not speak, rise, -draw to one side, as I shall have done, and stand there." - -"Yes, Madam." - -"Do not look about you: keep your eyes on the Queen. Don't look -awkward. Be self-possessed." - -"I will do my best, Madam." - -Lady Ingram tapped Celia's cheek with her fan, a sign, that she was -unusually gracious. "Be ready in an hour," she said, and departed. - -Thérèse came next to dress Celia's hair. Patient, in solemn and -evidently disapproving silence, helped her to dress. She found -herself, when the process was over, in a quilted pink satin -petticoat, a bodice and train of white satin, trimmed with gold -braid, white satin shoes, long white gloves, pearl necklace and -bracelets: her hair was dressed very high, and adorned with pink -roses and pearls. As Celia looked at herself in the glass, she felt -much inclined to sing with the celebrated little old woman, "Sure -this is none of I!" but much time was not allowed her for the -indulgence of that feeling. - -"Your servant, Madam!" observed Philip's voice in the corridor, -accompanied by a tap at the door. "Don't keep us waiting, -please,--we shall be very cross if you do. I protest! aren't you -smart!" - -Mr. Philip himself was scarcely less so. He wore a light blue coat -embroidered in gold, a white satin waistcoat and breeches, white silk -stockings, and white satin shoes with large rosettes. In the -drawing-room stood Lady Ingram, attired in white and gold. - -"Turn round!" was her greeting to Celia and Philip. "Nonsense, not -you!" as Philip made a _pirouette_ in answer. "That will do. Now, -follow me; and whatever you feel, don't look awkward or afraid." - -Celia meekly followed her step-mother to the carriage, which rolled -away with the trio, and in a few minutes deposited them at one of the -half-dozen doors of a large and stately mansion. On the terrace, -before them, ladies and gentlemen were walking and chatting, most of -them in rather shabby, though full, court-dress. Lady Ingram bowed -to two or three, gave her hand to her son, and once more enjoining -Celia to keep close behind, passed on into the Palace. - -"This is English ground, Madam," observed Philip, over his shoulder. - -Celia wished it were. Up lofty staircases, through suites of rooms, -past groups of servants in the royal livery of England, worn and -faded, she followed Lady Ingram and Philip, until in one apartment a -lady dressed in black rose to meet them, and shook hands with Lady -Ingram. - -"You can go in to the Queen, my friend," she said; "there is only His -Majesty with her." - -There were only two persons in the room beyond. A gentleman stood at -the window reading the _Gazette_; a lady in mourning sat writing at a -very shabby little table in the middle of the room. A glance at each -assured Celia that they were mother and son; and she speedily -discovered who they were, by Lady Ingram's kneeling before the -quiet-looking lady in mourning, who sat at the shabby little table. - -"Ah, _ma chère_!" said the lady, in a soft voice, turning to her; -adding, "I am very glad to see you. It is long since I had the -pleasure." - -Lady Ingram answered in French, and still kneeling, "I have been in -Paris, Madame, and in England for a short time. I had the honor to -inform your Majesty that I was going there to fetch my step-daughter." - -"This is your daughter?" asked the Queen, turning with a smile to -Celia. - -Lady Ingram drew aside to leave room for her. "She scarcely speaks -French yet," she observed. - -As Celia knelt and looked up into the face before her, she was much -struck with that smile. It changed the aspect of the whole face. -The air of subdued sadness which had dwelt upon the classic regular -features and in the quiet soft eyes, passed away, and a brighter -expression lighted them brilliantly while the smile remained. She -could fancy what that face might have been in the old days, when, at -the close of the coronation, nearly thirty years before, the -Westminster students had called up that smile by their spontaneous -shout of "_Vivat Regina Maria!_" Celia forgot all about kissing the -Queen's hand, until she heard Lady Ingram's voice beside her whisper, -in a subdued tone, "_Cette folle!_" Then she blushed painfully and -hastily performed her homage. The charm which enfolded the Jacobites -had been cast around her; the spell of voice, and eyes, and smile, -which she would never forget any more. - -"Why so hurried, my child?" asked the soft voice, in Celia's own -tongue. "Do not be frightened of me, I pray you." - -Frightened of _her_? No, indeed! thought Celia, as she rose from her -knees with a smile in answer to the Queen's. What fright she felt -was not for Her Majesty, but for Lady Ingram. As she regained her -feet, she suddenly saw that the Queen's son was standing beside his -mother. The formidable mortal, whom Squire Passmore would have -knocked down as his first greeting, and Patient have sermonized as an -uncovenanted King! Hardly knowing what she did, Celia knelt again -and kissed the hand that was extended to her. It was a soft white -hand, which did not look as if it would hold the sceptre very -harshly, and on one finger glittered a large gold ring set with a -balas ruby, upon which a cross was engraved. Celia would have -regarded that jewel with deep interest and veneration had she known -its romantic history, stranger than any romance. This was the last -relic of James's fallen fortunes, the ancient coronation-ring, "the -wedding-ring of England," which had gleamed from many a royal hand -before, and had been employed to many a strange end. While Philip in -his turn performed his homage, Celia studied the royal persons before -her. - -First, the King. He was tall, very tall[16]--a man whom few would -pass without wondering who he was; rather thin, but with all this not -ungraceful, and with an air of much distinction about him. An oval -face he had, with a bright complexion; a forehead smooth and high, -but not at all broad; arched eyebrows; eyes of a dark, rich -brown,[17] large, and very soft; a mouth rather too large for strict -proportion, but bearing an expression of mingled sadness and -sweetness, which grew into fascination when he smiled. His smiles -were rare, and his voice seldom heard; but very often Celia caught a -momentary upward glance of the eyes, accompanied by a silent motion -of the lips, and she wondered if it were possible that he was -praying.[18] He wore no wig, only his own dark chestnut hair curling -over his shoulders. - -This was the King whom England had cast out. She would have none of -him, under any pretext. Rather than be ruled by this son of her own, -she had set "a stranger over her, which was not her brother."[19] -Celia wondered, for the first time in her life, whether England had -done well. She turned with a sigh from the son to the mother, who -was conversing familiarly with Lady Ingram, seated beside her. - -The Queen, Maria Beatrice, or Mary, as the English called her, Celia -thought a most fascinating woman. She resembled her son in height -and form, being very tall,[20] and slender.[21] Her face was -oval,[22] her complexion clear and fair, but very pale;[23] her mouth -rather large,[24] but her smile to Celia perfectly enchanting; her -hair, eyebrows, and eyes were black. The eyes were very large, -clear, and brilliant;[25] though when they smiled, as they were doing -now-- - - "It was as if remembering they had wept, - And knowing they should some day weep again."[26] - - -"And now tell me all about it, my dear," the Queen was saying to Lady -Ingram. "Sophia gave you my message about the Bishop?" - -"Yes, Madam; and I am quite delighted to think of it. Your Majesty -is aware that the Tories are in greater power than ever?" - -"Dean Atterbury said so in his last note," replied the Queen, opening -her desk, and apparently searching for the letter. "He has written -often lately, and very kindly." - -Celia listened in much surprise, to hear that an unsuspected -Protestant dignitary was in constant and familiar correspondence with -the Court of St. Germains.[27] - -"Your Majesty has not heard from the Duke?" - -"From Blenheim? no, not since I saw you: but the Duchess of -Tyrconnel[28] was here not long ago, and she tells me that there -seems no hope of the Duke's return to power."[29] - -Celia's astonishment grew. - -"Does your Majesty fear that the Princess"--suggested Lady Ingram. - -"No, my dear, no," replied the Queen, rather sadly; "I do not think -she can have discovered. She is not naturally suspicious, and you -know that the Duchess has been her dearest friend for many years." - -"I scarcely think much of that," answered Lady Ingram. "Beside, as -your Majesty knows, this woman Abigail, who has crept up to power on -the wreck of hers, and who is a better friend of ours than ever she -was, has all the influence now over the Princess Anne; and she would -doubtless willingly let her know if she discovered it, simply to -spite the Duchess, and prevent her return to power. Of course the -supplanter would not like to be supplanted." - -"I know it, my dear Lady Ingram, I know it," responded the Queen, -with a sadder air than ever. - -"Also your Majesty will remember"----But here Lady Ingram bent -forward and spoke low, so that Celia could hear no more. She had -heard quite enough already to make her doubtful of the truth and -honesty of everybody in the room but Philip. - -"Is this your first visit to France?" - -Celia looked up suddenly to find herself addressed by the King. - -"Yes, Sir," she said, hesitating very much, coloring, and doubting -whether, in saying "your Majesty," she would have been doing right or -wrong. "Yes, this is my first visit." - -"Do you like it?" - -"Not so well as England." - -"Spoken like a true Englishwoman!" said the King, with his rare -smile. "Neither do I." - -Remembering that he had been carried away as an infant in arms, Celia -wondered what he knew about it. - -"I hope you are one of my friends?" was the next question. - -Celia looked up, blushed, and looked down again. "I do not know, -Sir," she said. - -"I compliment you on your honesty," said he. "'Tis a rare quality." - -Celia was beginning to think it was. - -"I beg your pardon, Sir," she replied, timidly; "I was brought up to -think otherwise." - -"Let us hope to convert you," he answered. "I assure you that your -friends can hope for no great degree of prosperity till they become -mine;[30] and I am not without hopes of changing all England on that -question. Do you think it impossible?" - -"I almost do, Sir," said Celia, smiling, and playing with her fan a -little nervously. - -"We shall see who is right," added the King, "Ingram, have you seen -Colville lately?" - - -"And I assure your Majesty," said Lady Ingram rising, "that I shall -make the fullest inquiries about it, and direct Sophie to do so." - -"So be it, my dear," said the Queen, quietly. "Farewell! You will -bring this little maid again? I _had_ a daughter--you know. In -Arcadia--once! '_Fiat voluntas Tua._'" - -The last words were spoken very low and falteringly. The beloved -Princess Louise, surnamed by her father _La Consolatrice_, had been -taken away from her mother's eyes as with a stroke, only six weeks -before.[31] - -And for one minute Celia forgot dishonesty and Popery and everything -else on the part of the exiled House, as she looked pityingly into -the tear-dimmed eyes of the almost desolate mother. There were four -graves at Westminster[32] beside the one at Chaillot, and the young -man who stood beside the Queen was the last of her children: "the -only son of his mother, and she was a widow!"[33] - -And the verdict Celia whispered to her own heart at the close -was--"Yes, England has done well--has done right. But oh, if it had -not been necessary!" - - -"Chocolate!" announced Mr. Philip Ingram to himself, simultaneously -with the presentation of himself at his sister's boudoir-door. -"Patient, bring me a cup--there's a good soul. Why, how long is it -before supper?" - -"Scarcely two hours, I know," said Celia; "but I had very little -dinner, and I am hungry." - -"You dined on your coming interview with the Queen, did you? Well, -how do you like her?" - -"I like her face very much, and feel very sorry for her." - -"You like her face!" repeated Philip, putting his hands in his -pockets. "What a droll answer! Do you mean that you dislike her -voice, or what part of her?" - -"Nothing in that way. Philip, I wonder if there is a scrap of -honesty left in the world!" - -"Precious little, my dear--I can tell you that. Patient, you are a -diamond of the first water!" The last remark by way of receipt for -the chocolate. - -"Well, I think so! I never could have imagined that such men as the -Duke of Marlborough and Dean Atterbury were eating the Queen's bread, -and deceiving her every day by writing to these people and offering -help." - -Philip laughed. "So that is what has angered and astonished you? -Why, any man in Paris could have told you that months ago. 'Tis no -secret, my innocence--from any but the Princess Anne." - -"'Tis rank dishonesty!" exclaimed Celia, warmly. "I don't complain -of their helping this Court, but of their want of truth. If they are -Jacobites, let them have the manliness to say so." - -"You are such an innocent!" responded Philip, still laughing. "Why, -my simple little sister, all is fair in politics, as in love and war." - -"I don't see that 'all is fair' in any of the three. What is right -is right, and what is wrong is wrong." - -"Excellent, my logical damsel! But what are right and wrong? That -is the first question. Is there a certain abstract thing called -right or virtue? or does right differ according to the views or -circumstances of the actor?" - -"I do not understand you, Philip. To do right is to obey God, and to -do wrong is to disobey God. There was no wrong in Adam's and Eve's -eating fruit: what made it wrong was God's having forbidden them to -touch that one tree. St. Paul says, 'Where no law is there is no -transgression.'"[34] - -"Upon my word, you are a regular divine! But--leaving St. Paul on -one side for the present--how, according to your theory, shall we -discover what is wrong?" - -"Just by not leaving St. Paul on one side," answered Celia, smiling; -"for the Bible is given us for that purpose." - -"Very few definite rules are to be found in the Bible, my doctor of -divinity." - -"Quite enough for all of us, Philip." - -"Pardon me! The very thing, I think, is, that there are not enough. -A few more 'thou shalts' and 'thou shalt nots' would be of infinite -service. Your view, if I understand it, is to bring the Bible to -bear upon every act of life; but how you contrive to do so I can't -imagine. Now, look here! I will give you a case, my fair casuist. -Would it be right or wrong for me, at this moment, sitting on this -sofa, to take a pinch of snuff?" - -"I must ask you a few questions before I can answer." - -"Catechize, by all means. 'What is my name?' Philip Eugene. 'Who -gave me this name?' Don't recollect in the least. 'What did they do -for me?' Why, one of them gave me a gold goblet, and another a set -of silver Apostle-spoons:[35] and I am not aware that they did -anything else for me." - -"Philip, Philip!" remonstrated Celia, laughing in spite of herself. -"Please don't let us jest upon these serious subjects. I don't want -to ask those questions." - -"Well, I won't jest, my dear. I will be very quiet and grave." - -"Does your mother object to your taking snuff?" - -"Not exactly. I don't think she much likes it." - -"Then your question is answered. If she does not like it, it is--for -you--wrong." - -"Oh! you arrive at your conclusions in that roundabout sort of way? -That is rather clever but I will see if I cannot puzzle you yet." - -"I have no doubt you can, very easily," said Celia. "You may readily -propound fifty such cases which I could not answer. You see, those -are not my circumstances: and we can scarce expect that God will give -us grace to see what is right in difficulties which He does not lay -upon us. Do you not think so, Patient?" - -"I do so, Madam. I have ever found it harder to see the way out when -I had hedged up mine own way, than when the Lord, as with Noah, had -shut me in." - -"Ah! there you come round to your divinity," said Philip, lightly. -"Whatever I ask you, you always centre there; and Patient will say -Amen to all your propositions, I have no doubt. But to return to our -point of departure: I hardly see your 'rank dishonesty' in the acts -of the Court. I believe this--that if the Queen thought it -dishonest, she would not do it. She is considered here a very -religious woman: not in your way, I dare say. But we freethinkers, -you know, do not set much value on small differences. If a man be -sincere, that is the chief thing; even some of the more enlightened -of the Catholic Fathers allow that. Does not the Bible say that -there are twelve gates to Heaven?[36] There is a reference for you." - -"A reference that'll no hold water, Mr. Philip," said Patient, -looking up. "For though there be twelve gates into the City, there's -only door into the Fold:[37] and I'll be fain to know how you are -shaping, without passing the one door, to get in at any of the twelve -gates. For whoso 'entereth not in by the door into the sheepfold, -but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a -robber.'"[38] - -"Philip," added Celia, softly, "there is but one gate and one way to -life, which is Jesus Christ." - -"Ah! at it again!" said Philip, lifting his eyebrows, and finishing -his chocolate. - -"Always at it," answered Celia, in the same tone. "'Out of the -abundance of the heart the mouth' must speak.[39] Philip, your idea -about sincerity will lead you terribly astray--I am sure it will. -There is but one truth; and if a man believe falsehood, will his -thinking it truth make it so? Sincerity is not the chief thing. The -chief things are faith and love in us, and the Lord Jesus Christ out -of us. 'He that hath the Son hath life: and he that hath not the Son -of God hath not life.'[40] O Philip! listen to me this once! 'It is -not a vain thing for thee, because it is thy life!'"[41] - -Philip looked into his sister's earnest eyes, rose and kissed her, -and sat down again. - -"You are a capital little sister," he said, "and admirably cut out -for a _réligieuse_. I am quite glad the Protestants don't take to -that amusement, or I should certainly lose you, and I like you too -well to afford it." - -Celia sighed. Her words did not appear to have made the faintest -impression. - -"What a sigh!" said Philip. "My dear little Celia! do you take me -for an utter reprobate, that you think it necessary to mourn over me -in that way?" - -"Philip," said Celia, very solemnly, "a man must be either inside the -sheepfold of Jesus, or outside it. Without is without, whether the -door which he refuses to enter be a yard from him or a thousand -miles. Without the Fold now, without the City hereafter. And -'without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, -and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.'"[42] - -"I know mighty few people who are in, then," said Philip, whistling, -and considering the carpet. - -"I am afraid so," answered Celia, shortly. "But the one question for -us, Philip, is--Are _we_ in?" - -A question to which Mr. Philip Ingram made no reply. - - - -[1] John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, second son of Winston -Churchill and Elizabeth Drake his wife: born at Musbury, 1650; died -at Windsor Lodge, June 16, 1722; buried in Westminster Abbey, August -9, 1722. - -[2] Eugenio Francesco, fifth and youngest son of Eugenio Maurizio, -Prince of Carignano, and Olympia Mancini his wife: born at Paris, -October 18, 1603; died at Vienna, April 10, 1736. - -[3] Sarah, daughter and co-heir of Richard Jennings: born at -Holywell, St. Albans, May 29, 1660; married, in the spring of 1678, -John Churchill; died at Marlborough House, October 18, 1744; buried -at Blenheim. - -[4] Queen Anne was the last Sovereign who performed this ceremony. - -[5] Daniel De Foe, author of "Robinson Crusoe:" born 1663; died in -London, April 24, 1731. - -[6] The account of his dealings with Mist, which are little to De -Foe's credit, has lately been brought to light. It is contained in a -series of letters from himself, recently discovered in the -State-Paper Office. They have been printed in the _London Review_, -June 4-11, 1864, and in _Notes and Queries_, 3d S., vi. 527. These -letters show painfully the utter demoralization of parties at the -time in question. The account given above of De Foe's interview with -Mist is taken almost verbatim from his own letters, and has received -no further change than was necessary to throw it into the form of -dialogue; but the event has been ante-dated by six years. It really -took place in 1718, and Lords Townshend and Sunderland were De Foe's -employers. - -[7] See De Foe's Letters, quoted above. - -[8] Gen. xvii. 18. - -[9] 2 Sam. xviii. 33. - -[10] Ps. lvi. 8. - -[11] John xiii. 7. - -[12] John xxi. 15. - -[13] Ezek. xxii. 4. - -[14] Rev. xviii. 6. - -[15] Jer. viii. 3. - -[16] Gray, the poet, who gives a very spiteful portrait of James, as -if he had some personal pique against him, speaks of his "rueful -length of person," and "extreme tallness and awkwardness." Spence -describes him as "a tall, well-limbed man, of a pleasing countenance. -He has an air of great distinction." - -[17] His Stonyhurst portrait gives him gray-blue eyes, and some -others dark blue, but the majority have brown. - -[18] Gray cynically remarks that "he has extremely the air and look -of an idiot, particularly when he laughs or prays; the first he does -not often, the latter continually." - -[19] Deut. xvii. 15. This passage was very frequently cited by the -Jacobites as barring the accession of William of Orange, though his -mother was the eldest daughter of Charles the I., and he stood next -in succession to the children of James II. It was much more -applicable to the House of Hanover, which was further from the -original English stock. - -[20] "Tall and admirably shaped," said Lord Peterborough, in -describing her to his royal master when negotiating the marriage in -1673. She was then fourteen. In 1688 Mademoiselle Do Montpensier -thought her "_une grande créature mélancolique_." Lady Cavendish -(_née_ Rachel Russell), writing to a friend, describes Mary II. as -"tall, but not so tall as the last Queen" (Maria Beatrice). - -[21] "_Fort maigre_"--Mdlle. De Montpensier. - -[22] "Face the most graceful oval."--Lord Peterborough. - -[23] "Complexion of the last degree of fairness."--Lord Peterborough. -"Complexion clear, but somewhat pale."--Mad. De Sévigné. "_Assez -jaune_."--Mdlle. De Montpensier. - -[24] "Mouth too large for perfect beauty, but her lips pouting, and -teeth lovely."--Mad. De Sévigné. - -[25] "Hair black as jet; eyebrows and eyes black, but the latter so -full of light and sweetness, that they did dazzle and charm -too."--Lord Peterborough. "Her eyes are always tearful, but large, -and very dark and beautiful."--Mad. De Sévigné. Some of her -portraits give her very dark brown hair and eyes. - -[26] Mrs. Barrett Browning's "Aurora Leigh." - -[27] Francis Atterbury, second son of the Rev. Lewis Atterbury and -Elizabeth Giffard his wife: born 1662; consecrated Bishop of -Rochester, July 5, 1713; was deprived for treason, May 16, 1723, and -died in exile at Paris, February 15, 1732. At this period he was -Dean of Carlisle. - -[28] Frances, eldest daughter of Richard Jennings, and sister of -Sarah Duchess of Marlborough, celebrated at the Court of Charles II. -as La Belle Jennings: married Richard Talbot, Duke of Tyrconnel; died -at Dublin, March 7, 1730. - -[29] The Duke of Maryborough corresponded with the royal exiles, -especially towards the close of Queen Anne's reign, and appears -sometimes to have held out hopes to them which it is doubtful whether -he ever intended to fulfil. - -[30] James said this to Mr. Spence about a dozen years later. - -[31] Louise Marie Thérèse, born at St. Germains, June 28, 1692; died -at the same place, after a few days' illness, of small-pox, a disease -very fatal to the House of Stuart, April 18, 1712. - -[32] Katherine Laura, buried October 5, 1675; Isabella, buried March -1681; Charles, buried December 1677; and Charlotte Maria, buried -October 1682. - -[33] Luke vii. 12. - -[34] Rom. iv. 15. - -[35] Apostle-spoons were spoons whose handles were carved into -figures of the Apostles. Twelve went to a set. - -[36] Rev. xxi. 12. - -[37] John x. 7. - -[38] Ibid. 1. - -[39] Matt. xii. 34. - -[40] 1 John v. 12 - -[41] Deut. xxxii. 47. - -[42] Rev. xxii. 12. - - - - -IX. - -INSIDE AND OUTSIDE. - -"But sure he is the Prince of the world; let his nobility remain in -his Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to -be too little for pomp to enter: some, that humble themselves, may; -but the many will be too chill and tender; and they'll be for the -flowery way, that leads to the broad gate and the great fire." - ---SHAKSPEARE, "_All's Well that Ends Well_," Act iv. Scene 5. - - -"My Dearest Mother,--(For I cannot bear to call you anything else)--I -have so much to tell you that I know not where to begin. I am now, -as you will see by my date, at St. Germains, which is a rather pretty -place. My step-mother is kind to me, in her way, which is not -exactly your way; but I am quite comfortable, so pray be not troubled -about me. I like Philip, my younger brother, very much; he oft -reminds me of Charley. My elder brother, Edward, I have not yet -seen, he being now absent from home. I have seen the Pretender and -the late Queen Mary,[1] both of whom are very tall persons, having -dark hair and eyes. I have made no friends here but one; you shall -hear about her shortly. So much for my news. - -"And now I wish very much to hear yours. Are you all well? And pray -tell me anything of note concerning any person whom I know. All news -from England has great interest for me now. - -"Pray give all manner of loving messages for me. Tell my dear father -that the people here hunt a great deal, but always stags. There is -no cock-fighting, at which I am glad, for 'tis but a cruel sport to -my thinking; nor no baiting nor wrestling, but a great deal of -duelling. I like the French gentlemen ill, and the ladies worse. -Bell should come here to see the modes; 'twould give her infinite -pleasure. I can speak French tolerable well now, and if my father -and you choose, could teach Lucy on my return. For I am looking -forward to that, Mother dear--sometimes very much indeed. To think -that 'tis six months, nearly, since I saw one of you! and if you have -writ I have not had your letters. If aught should bring Harry to -Paris, do pray bid him visit me; I should be so infinitely glad. -Pray give my love to Cicely, and tell her I would she knew my woman -here, whom I like mightily, and so would she. I hope Charley is a -good boy, and that Lucy tries to fill my place with you. At the end -of this month, if my Lady Ingram say nought, I shall ask her when she -will part with me. I beg that you will write to me, if 'twere but a -line. Indeed I should like dearly to hear from every one of you. -Anything you like to write will be infinitely welcome to-- - - "Madam, - "Your dutiful child and faithful servant, - "CELIA INGRAM.[2] - - "ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE, - _May_ 15, 1712." - - -Celia folded her letter, addressed it, and sat thinking. How would -they receive it? She pictured Lucy rushing into the parlor, waving -it above her head, and Isabella languidly rebuking her for her rough -entrance. She could guess the Squire's comments on many things she -had said, and she knew that the very mention of the Pretender would -call forth some strong participles. Madam Passmore would fold up the -letter with "Dear child!" and drop it into her ample pocket. Cicely -would courtesy and ask if Mrs. Celia was a-coming. One month more, -and then surely Lady Ingram must be satisfied. But then came another -thought. She would be very sorry to leave Philip and Patient, even -to return to Ashcliffe. Would Lady Ingram be induced to let her take -Patient with her? As to Philip, surely he could visit her if he -chose. - -"Mademoiselle!" said the voice of Thérèse beside her. - -Celia turned, and saw that Thérèse was holding a little pink note, -which having delivered, the French maid departed. She broke the -seal, and discovered to her surprise that the note was from Lady -Ingram herself. It ran thus: - - -"MY DAUGHTER,--I shall not be able to receive you this afternoon, as -I am suffering from megrims.[3] I will send Philip to keep you -company. I wish you to know that when I return to Paris, which will -be in four days, I will lead you to kiss the hand of the King of -France. After this you will be able to enter into company. - -"CLAUDE INGRAM." - - -Celia dropped the note in the trepidation which it caused her. She -had no desire to be presented to the originator of the Dragonnades. -And what was "entering into company?" She was sure it meant what she -would not like, and might think actually wrong. - -"Do you drive out this afternoon, Madam?" asked Patient, appearing at -the door. - -"No, Patient," said Celia, hesitatingly, for she was still thinking -of the note. "Mr. Philip will drink a dish of chocolate with me -here." - -"Yes, Madam," replied Patient, and disappeared. - -Celia changed her dress with a heavy heart, and came back into her -boudoir, where preparations for the chocolate were made. She found -Mr. Philip Ingram very comfortably established on her sofa. - -"Good evening, Madam," observed that gentleman, without any -alteration in his attitude of repose. - -"Philip, what is it to go into company?" - -"To dress fine and tell lies. Why?" - -Celia gave him the note in answer. - -"Ah!" remarked he. "Megrims, has she? Let me see now--the megrims -are Père Letellier; yes, Père Dumain is a cold on the chest." - -"What do you mean, Philip?" asked Celia, in bewilderment. - -"Only my Lady-Mother's style of cipher correspondence, my dear. She -gives an occasional _séance_ to her spiritual advisers, on which -occasion she tells the world--fibs." - -"You do not really mean it?" - -"Of course I do." - -"But what does she do?" - -"In her _séance_? Confesses her sins--that is, so far as I can judge -from my recollection of one such occurrence at which I was present -when a small kitten, she regales her spiritual pastor with some very -spicy tales of all her friends and acquaintances." - -"I am sure you are joking, Philip. But please tell me what it is -that she wants me to do? Is it to go to all her assemblies?" - -"Precisely, my Grey Sister--and to a few Court balls, and a play or -two." - -"O dear!" sighed poor Celia. "I never can do _that_," - -"Don't sigh in that heart-rending style," said Philip. "As to -assemblies, there will not be above three more this summer, and we -may be in China by next year. What is your special grief?" - -"It looks like conformity to the world," answered Celia, in a low -tone, for she did not expect Philip to understand her. - -"Where is the world?" laughed that irreverent young gentleman. "That -superb satin gown of yours, or the chocolate, or the talk? Eh, -Patient? What do you say, my veteran prioress?" - -"In your heart, Mr. Philip," answered Patient, setting down the -chocolate-pot which she had just brought in. "The world outside, and -an evil worldly human heart within, will work no little mischief. -I'll warrant it did _Him_ no harm dining with the Pharisee[4]--not -that Simon was an over-pleasant man to do with, I should say: and -when your heart is as pure and holy as His, why, Sir, I'm thinking -you may go, and welcome. But I've work enough cut out for me in -keeping the devil without mine own door, without calling at his to -ask how he fareth." - -"Thank you, Dr. Patient. Rather a short sermon. Celia, my dear, I -have a scrap of information for you which will make you open your -eyes." - -"The shortest sermon I ever heard of was one of the most salutary, -Sir,--to wit, when Nathan said to poor sinful David, 'Thou art the -man!'"[5] - -"You are very disrespectful to His Israelitish Majesty," said Philip, -lightly. "Well, Mrs. Celia, know that I have succeeded at last in -obtaining her Ladyship's leave, and the King's commission, to go into -the army. Lieutenant Ingram, Madam, at your service!" and Philip -rose and made a bow which would not have disgraced Monsieur Bontems. - -"Philip! Are you really a lieutenant?" - -"Really. And the best half of the battle is the battle. There is a -prospect of the troops being called to active service." - -Celia turned pale. - -"Does your mother know that?" - -"No." - -"O Philip! you have not been deceiving her, have you?" - -"Smooth your ruffled brow, my fair reprover. I did not know it -myself until after His Majesty had promised me a commission. Of -course, after this I must be a fervent Jacobite. So don't you talk -any politics in my hearing, Mrs. Patient Irvine, unless you wish me -to fight you." - -"I shall scarce be like to do that, Sir, unless you give me the -starting," quietly responded Patient. - -"Thank you, no! I will keep my hands off that gunpowder-magazine. I -know how you can go off sometimes when touched by a few odd matches. -So, my charmer, your interview with me on the 18th of next month will -be the last for a while." - -"Where are you going, Philip?" - -"We march to the Netherlands Border, and meet Prince Eugene. We are -to be at Landrécies by the 10th of July."[6] - -"Mr. Philip, you shall not go hence without a Bible in your knapsack." - -"Thank you very much. Am I to read it when I am not firing?" - -"If I could help it, Sir, you would not go without one other thing, -but that I cannot give you." - -"What thing may that be?" - -"The grace of God in your heart, Sir." - -"You think me entirely devoid of it?" asked Philip, gravely. - -"I do so, Mr. Philip," said Patient, looking him full in the face. - -"Well, you are candid, if not complimentary," said he. "'Tis -fortunate for me that my conscience gives a rather fairer report than -you do. I wish Edward were back. I should like to have gone into -battle under dear old Ned's wing, and I'm in his own regiment, too. -He must have got an awful furlough." - -"Your conscience, Sir!" exclaimed Patient, in a peculiar voice. "Do -you think that when Adam fell he left his conscience out?" - -"My dear Patient, I wonder what you mean? God has given to every man -his conscience as his ruler, counsellor, and guide. He who hearkens -to his conscience is hearkening to God." - -Patient did not answer at once. Then she said: - -"Sir, I desire to speak with due reverence of the Lord's dealings. -But 'tis my true belief that he did nothing of the kind you say. He -gave, 'tis true, a guide to every man; but that guide was His own -blessed Word and His own Holy Spirit, not the man's poor, miserable, -fallen conscience. Truly, I would not take my conscience, which is -myself, to be my 'ruler, counsellor and guide.' One is my Ruler, -which is in heaven. One is my Counsellor--the Wonderful -Counsellor.[7] And one is my Guide--the Spirit, in the Word which He -hath written. Conscience given us for a guide, Mr. Philip! Why, -Paul went according to his conscience when he kept the clothes of -them that stoned Stephen.[8] Peter went according to his conscience -when he withdrew himself from them that were not of the circumcision, -and refused to eat with them.[9] Alexander the coppersmith very like -went according to his conscience when he did the Church much -evil.[10] To come to our own day, I dare be bold to guess that King -Charles went according to his conscience,--Charles the First, I mean; -I doubt his son had none. And Claverhouse, and this King Lewis, and -the Pretender--ay, the Pope himself, poor old sinner!--I'll be bound -they go according to their consciences. Nay, nay, Mr. Philip! When -Adam fell in Eden, surely his conscience fell with him. And just as -there can be nothing more sweet and gracious than an enlightened -conscience and a sanctified will, so there is little worse than a -blind conscience and a carnal will." - -"You have such a curious set of arguments as I never heard. You are -for ever talking about the fall of Adam, which you seem to fancy -accounts for the falls and slips of you and me. I never knew Adam, I -am sure, and I don't hold myself responsible for his taste in apples. -How do you know that Adam 'fell,' as you are pleased to call it? And -supposing that he did, what in the name of common sense has that to -do with me?" - -"It has more to do with you than you think for, Mr. Philip. As -Christ is the Head of His saved Church, so is Adam the head of the -whole family of man. 'In Adam all die.'[11] And as to knowing that -Adam fell, to say nought of the Lord's record of it, I scarce think I -need more evidence of that than your doubting it, Sir. If you can -look upon this world, as it is at this moment, and doubt that man is -a fallen, lost, ruined, miserable creature, there must be something -sore wrong with the eyes of your understanding." - -"Or of yours," suggested Philip. "Oh, I see evil enough in the -world, I warrant you: but I see good along with it. Now the -principle you are fond of laying down is according to a text which I -think you have quoted to me twenty times--'In us dwelleth no good -thing.'"[12] - -"I wish you thought so, Mr. Philip." - -"Thank you for wishing me such an agreeable view of myself. But -while you are fixing your eyes intently on all the evil in the world, -you leave the good unseen." - -"Would you kindly point it out to me, Sir?" - -"Willingly. Take only one point. There are hosts of people in the -world--Catholics and others, even Mahometans and idolaters, I dare -say--whom you would consign kindly and certainly to everlasting -perdition"-- - -"I consign no man to perdition, Sir. The keys of hell and of death -are not in my hands, thank God! But I read of 'the son of -perdition,'[13] who went to his own place.'"[14] - -"Well, among all these very wicked people, there is a vast deal of -charity. Is that good or bad?" - -"Charity is good, Sir," said Patient, cautiously. "Paul would have -counted himself nothing worth if he had not charity.[15] But"-- - -"Then they are good for indulging it?" interrupted Philip. - -"Sir, 'charity' is a much misused word. You are speaking of mere -alms, the which are good for them that receive them, if they use them -rightly; and good for them that give them, when given in a right -spirit. But these are no more evidence of a man's standing before -God"-- - -"Patient Irvine, have you read the Twenty-fifth chapter of Saint -Matthew?" - -"I have read the Twenty-fifth of Matthew, Sir," answered Patient, -dryly, leaving out the "Saint." - -"And are not the good people commended in that chapter, and do they -not obtain everlasting life, simply and solely for their charity to -the poor?" - -"No, Sir," said Patient, placidly. - -"Well, upon my word!" exclaimed Philip. - -"Sir," resumed Patient, gravely, "it takes but a kindly heart to give -alms for its own sake, or for the receiver's sake. But it takes a -renewed heart to give alms for Christ's sake. Not the giving of alms -was the title to life everlasting, but the giving them 'unto Him'[16] -was the seal and evidence of their grace. They that know Christ will -look for a savor of Him in all things, and such as have it not are -bitter unto them. And I would call to your mind, Sir, that 'tis 'he -that believeth'[17] which shall be saved: not he which giveth alms. -At least, there is no such passage in _my_ Bible." - -"You always run off to something else," said Philip, discontentedly. -"However, to come back to our first point--as to my conscience, -begging your pardon, and with your gracious leave, I think that God -has given it to me as a guide, and that I am bound to follow it." - -Patient laid down her work, and looked Philip in the face. - -"I read in the Word, Mr. Philip, of different sorts of consciences. -There is a defiled conscience. 'Unto them that are defiled and -unbelieving is nothing pure; but even their mind and conscience is -defiled.'[18] There is an evil conscience. 'Having our hearts -sprinkled from an evil conscience;'[19] and nought in earth or heaven -will sprinkle them to this end save the blood of Christ. There is a -conscience lost and smothered in dead works. 'How much more shall -the blood of Christ ... purge your conscience from dead works?'[20] -Now, Mr. Philip, see your 'good' and charity to the poor. _Works_, -you see: but, coming from dead hearts and souls--_dead_ works. And -lastly, deepest and deadliest of all, I read of a conscience 'seared -with a hot iron.'[21] Ay, there have been some of those in our day. -The Lord protect us from it! The devil hath such a grip of them that -they cannot free themselves; and, poor blind souls! they never know -it, but think they are doing God's service. Are these consciences -given as guides, Mr. Philip?" - -"Well, you see, all that is Saint Peter's opinion." - -"I ask you pardon, 'tis Paul, not Peter.' - -"Oh, St. Paul? Well, 'tis all the same." - -"Ay, Mr. Philip, it is all the same, for it was the Holy Ghost that -spake through both of them. And _His_ opinion is scarce to be dealt -with so lightly, methinks, seeing that by His word we shall be judged -at the last day." - -Patient took up her work again, and said no more. Philip was silent -for a time: when he next spoke it was on a different subject. - -"Celia, I want you to come down at my mother's next assembly. I -should like to present my friend Colville to you." - -"I am rather curious to see him," she admitted. - -"Mr. Philip, if I might presume to say a word"-- - -"'Presume to say a word!' you may presume to say a thousand, my dear -old Covenanter. What's in the wind now?" - -"I wish you went less about with that Mr. Colville." - -"Why? Does he wear his cravats without starch?" asked Philip, -stretching himself out lazily. - -"I am afraid, Mr. Philip, that he wears his soul without grace," said -Patient, determinately. "If he were such another as his grandsire, I -would wish no better than to see you in his company. But I am sore -afraid that he draws you off, Sir, to places where you should not go." - -"He never draws me off, Reverend Mother, to any place where I don't -choose to go, I assure you. He would find that a hard matter." - -"The case is scarce bettered by that, Mr. Philip," replied Patient, -mournfully. "Nay, rather worsened, I'm thinking. O Mr. Philip! bear -with me, Sir, for I have sobbed many a prayer over your cradle, and -many a wrestle have I had with the Lord for a blessing on your soul. -You little ken, Sir, how even now, whenever I see you go out with -that Mr. Colville, I lay the case before the Lord at once. I could -not rest else." - -"My dear old darling!" said Philip, smiling, and very affectionately, -"I wish you did not look at me through such very black spectacles. -There are better men than I am--many a one; but I hope there are a -few worse." - -"That won't satisfy me, Sir," answered Patient. "I would have Sir -Edward and you the two best men in the world." - -"And we are not!--at least I am not; I am not sure that Ned is not. -What a pity!" - -"Ay, Mr. Philip, a bitterer pity than you'll ken till you come to -stand before God. I have watched you for years, Sir, like a mother -her babe, trusting to see you quietened and calmed by grace: and -to-night you seem to me lighter and gayer than ever. 'Tis no manner -of use--no manner of use. 'I have labored in vain; I have spent my -strength for nought.'"[22] - -"Dear Patient," said Celia, as the door closed on Philip, "have you -forgotten that verse we read last Sunday--'Though Israel be not -gathered, yet shall I be glorious in the eyes of the Lord, and my God -shall be my strength.'[23] It comes, you know, just after the text -you repeated." - -"Ou ay, Mrs. Celia," answered Patient, dropping into Scotch, as was -usual with her when deeply stirred,--"ou ay, I mind that word. But -it was the gathering I wanted, Madam--it was the gathering!" - -Back in Paris, and once more attired in full court costume, Celia -somewhat sadly joined her step-mother. This visit to the Tuileries -was even more distasteful to her than that she had paid at St. -Germains. The idea of kneeling to kiss the hand of the man who had -ordered the Dragonnades, came, she thought, very near the border of -absolute wrong; at the same time, she did not feel so certain of the -wrong as to make her resist Lady Ingram's order. Her position was -exceedingly disagreeable, since, while she could not be sure that she -was doing wrong, she felt very doubtful whether she was doing right. -Philip tried to rally her upon her sorrowful face, but his banter -fell flat, and he looked puzzled and compassionate. - -"I am ready, my dear," said Lady Ingram as she came in. "But what a -face! Do you think that I am taking you to see an execution?" - -"Madam," said Celia, summoning all her courage, "I wish your Ladyship -would allow me to remain at home." - -"Is this wicked, my votaress?" asked Lady Ingram, with the scornful -smile which by this time her step-daughter knew so well. - -"I cannot say that, Madam; but I am not quite sure that it is right. -Does your Ladyship wish me particularly to accompany you?" - -"Of course I do, my clear. 'Tis an opportunity which it would be a -sin to lose. You consider it a venial sin, I suppose. Well, you can -say another prayer or two." - -"I know nothing about venial sins, Madam. Sin is sin to me; but as I -am not sure that this is a sin, if your Ladyship absolutely commands -me, I will go: at the same time, I would much rather remain." - -"Ah! I know what that means, my _réligieuse_," said Lady Ingram, -laughing; "you want an excuse for your conscience. Very well, then, -I command you. The coach is here. Come!" - -Celia followed slowly. Lady Ingram had entirely misunderstood -her--in all probability was incapable of understanding her. Any -further explanation, she felt, would merely plunge her deeper into -the mire; so she sat grave and silent until the carriage drew up on -one side of the Place du Carrousel. Lady Ingram gave her hand as -usual to Philip, and Celia followed them in silence. After the -customary passage through suites of rooms, they paused at a door; and -on giving a gentle tap, a gentleman in black came out and bowed low -before them. - -"Madam," said he, "my duty is my duty. I regret unspeakably to be -constrained to inform you that His Most Christian Majesty can receive -no person to-day." - -"I regret it exceedingly also," answered Lady Ingram. "I can -proceed, I suppose, to visit the ladies?" - -"Certainly, Madam." - -Lady Ingram turned off through further suites of apartments, and the -gentleman in black, straightening himself up, disappeared again -behind the door. Celia felt relieved. There could be nothing wrong, -she thought, in paying respect to the Queen and Princesses, to whom -she supposed Lady Ingram to refer; and she followed with a lighter -step and heart than before. Her ignorance of the state of the Royal -Family of France was very great indeed. That state, in the summer of -1712, was a strange and lamentable one. There was no Queen, yet the -King was married; there were no Princesses save one, the Duchess de -Berry, yet three of the King's daughters sat round his table every -evening. - -"Now, Celia!" said Lady Ingram, looking back, "we will pay our -respects first to the Duchess de Berry." - -"Who is the Duchess de Berry?" Celia inquired softly of Philip. - -"The wife of the King's grandson," he whispered in reply. - -The Duchess de Berry could receive them, they were told, on asking; -and the gentleman usher opened the inner door, and gave access to a -large and handsome room, wherein about two dozen ladies and gentlemen -were seated at a table, playing cards. A much larger number stood -round the room, close to the walls, watching the players. Lady -Ingram made her way to a very young girl who sat at one end of the -lansquenet-table, and who, Celia thought, was scarcely seventeen. -This surely could be the wife of nobody, she mentally decided. - -The girl certainly looked very young. Celia, on consideration, -doubted if she were seventeen. A soft, bright, innocent face she -had, laughing eyes, and a blooming complexion. She looked up with a -smile as Lady Ingram approached her, and said a few words in a low -tone. Lady Ingram took off her gloves, and sat down quietly at the -lansquenet-table, having apparently forgotten her companions. - -"Are we to remain here?" asked Celia of Philip, in a tone inaudible -to any one but himself. - -"Wait a minute, till I see the result of her first venture," answered -Philip, biting his lip. - -Celia looked back at the card-table. She was accustomed to see -Squire Passmore play cards, but never for money, except when he -received or went into company; and even then, a few half-crowns were -all that changed hands. She gazed with surprise on the piles and -rouleaux of gold which lay upon this table, and the quantity of loose -pieces scattered about. Hands were constantly extended with a dozen -or two of louis in them, and one lady in particular Celia noticed, -who piled up her gold until the tower would go no higher, and each -time staked the heap on a single card. - -"Who is that girl next my Lady Ingram, at the end of the table?" -Celia next inquired of her brother. - -"That is the Duchess de Berry," said he. - -"That the Duchess! Why, Philip! she is scarce more than a child!" - -"She is the mother of two children herself," replied Philip. -"Perhaps you guess her younger than she is--eighteen." - -"She looks so young and innocent," said Celia. - -"Young, yes--but innocent! My dear, this girl of eighteen is already -one of the worst women in France. Deuce-ace--ah! She will go on. We -may go." - -Philip slipped round the table to his mother's side, and whispered a -few words to her, to which she responded without turning her head. -Coming back to Celia, he gave her his hand and led her out of the -room. - -"Is my Lady not coming?" she asked, glancing back. - -"Not when she has thrown deuce-ace," said Philip, dryly. "She -considers that her lucky number, and always goes on playing when it -comes at the first throw. Now come with me for half-an-hour. You -will see a little of Court-life, and you shall go home when you are -tired. We will visit the great drawing-room." - -He led her into a large, handsome room, hung with crimson. Round the -apartment lines of spectators, three or four deep, were standing, and -at a very large table in the midst about forty more were seated. The -game played here also was lansquenet, for such immense losses had -occurred at basset that the King had forbidden the latter game in all -rooms but the private boudoirs of the Princesses. - -"Have we any right here, Philip?" whispered Celia, doubtfully. - -"Yes," said Philip, coolly. "Any person known to the -gentlemen-ushers can enter. Come round a little to the right--there -is more room, and you will see better. I will be your directory. -That gentleman with the blue coat and the orders on his breast, at -the top of the table, is the Duke of Orleans.[24] If the King die -while his heir is under age, as is most likely, that man will be -Regent of France. He is considered a clever fellow." - -Celia looked, and saw a man of middle height, and about forty years -of age. He had bright eyes, a laughing mouth, a florid complexion, -and a thick, flat nose. The hand which held his cards was as small, -white, and delicate as that of a woman. - -"And who are the ladies beside him?" Celia wished to know. - -"On the right, his cousin, the Grand Duchess of Tuscany,[25] and on -the left another cousin,[26] the Princess of Conti. Next to her is -her half-sister, the Duke's wife."[27] - -"I do not quite like the Grand Duchess's face." - -"She is not considered particularly amiable. One of her sisters[28] -was married to the Duke de Guise, which was so marvellous a -condescension that the poor man might never eat his dinner without -his wife's leave. Every day he stood beside her chair, and presented -her dinner-napkin: the cover was laid for her only; and he might not -presume to help himself even to a biscuit until Her Royal Highness -was graciously pleased to command a plate and chair to be brought for -Monsieur de Guise. Then he made a low, grateful bow to his very -superior wife, and might sit down and dine." - -"Is that really true, Philip?" asked Celia, laughing softly. - -"Perfectly true." - -Celia turned her attention to the Princess of Conti. She liked to -look at her fair, quiet face, with its large, soft brown eyes; and -she was wondering what her character was, when suddenly a lady, who -had been staking extremely high, rose from her seat, flinging down -her cards, cursing and swearing in most voluble French. This was the -first time that Celia had heard a woman use such language, and she -hid her face, shuddering. - -"Ruined!" said Philip, coolly. "You had better come away." - -The ladies and gentlemen at the card-table set up a shrill chorus of -laughter. - -"O Philip, take me home!" sobbed Celia. "I cannot bear this!" - -She had heard Squire Passmore swear before now, but it was generally -when he was excited or angry, and was commonly accompanied by a -gentle "Hush, John!" from his wife. Philip led his sister out of the -room to the seats in the recess of the corridor window. - -"Sit down here a minute," he said, "and recover yourself, before I -take you up-stairs. That was an unfortunate accident. If I had -known I should not have brought you here." - -"O Philip, let me go home! No more visits like this, please!" - -"You shall do as you like, my dear," said Philip, kindly; "but the -next visit will be very different from this." - -Celia rose, trying to compose herself; and, afraid of disappointing -her brother, she consented to be taken where he wished. - -"Does Madame de Maintenon receive this afternoon?" was Philip's -question to the usher upstairs. - -"She does, Sir; and His Royal Highness the Duke of Bretagne is with -her." - -"Oh, I don't want to see anybody who will swear!" said Celia, drawing -back. - -"If the Duke of Bretagne have learned to swear," answered Philip, -gravely, "he must be a marvel of juvenile depravity; for he will not -be three years old until next February." - -"A child!" said Celia. "I beg the little thing's pardon; I have no -objection to that." - -"The future King of France, my dear," said Philip. "He will be Louis -XV. (if he live) in a few years, at the utmost. Now, three low -courtesies for Madame de Maintenon." - -In a quiet, pleasant chamber, hung with dark blue, an old lady sat -showing a picture-book to a very little boy who stood leaning against -her knee. She did not look her age, which was seventy-eight. Her -figure was rather inclining to be tall, and she preserved the taste, -the grace, and the dignity which had always characterized her. A -complexion of extreme fairness was relieved by black eyes, very large -and radiant, but the once chestnut hair now required no powder to -make it white. - -"Mr. Philip Ingram?" she said, with a peculiarly pleasant smile; "I -am very much pleased to see you." - -"My sister, Madame," said Philip, as he presented Celia. - -"I did not know that you had a sister," she answered, receiving Celia -very kindly. "Louis, will you give your hand to this lady?" - -The pretty little child[29] addressed trotted forward, and looking -straight in Celia's face with his great brown eyes, presented his -baby hand to be kissed. Resisting a strong inclination to take him -on her knee and kiss him, Celia performed her homage to the future -Sovereign. With much gravity the little Duke offered the same -privilege to Philip, and trotted back to his picture-book. - -"My Lady Ingram is not with you?" asked the old lady. - -"In the Duchess de Berry's saloon at lansquenet, Madame." - -"Ah! Do you play, Mademoiselle?" - -"No, Madame," said Celia. - -"I am glad to hear it," replied Madame de Maintenon.[30] "It is a -great waste of time and temper, which were not given us for such -uses." - -"Turn over!" required the little Prince, authoritatively. - -Madame de Maintenon smiled and obeyed. - -"I hope His Majesty is not ill?" asked Philip. "I hear he does not -receive." - -"Not ill, but not well. One of his troublesome headaches. Neither -men nor women live forever, Mr. Ingram--not even Kings." - -"True, but unfortunate, Madame," was the civil answer with which -Philip took his leave. - -"Now we will go home," said he. "A short visit, but I thought we had -better not interrupt the Duke's reading-lesson. Did you like this -scene better than the other?" - -"O Philip, how different! Is that lady his nurse?" - -"Well, not precisely, my dear. She is--only that she is not called -so--the Queen." - -"The Queen of France?" asked Celia, opening her eyes. - -"The King of France's wife, which I suppose is the same thing; only -that in Madame de Maintenon's case it is not the same thing. There -is a paradox! A strange life that woman has led. She was born in a -prison, the daughter of a Huguenot father and a Catholic mother; -imbibed her father's teaching, and when young was a determined little -Huguenot. Her father died early. Her mother took her to church, and -she turned her back on the altar. Madam d'Aubigné slapped Miss Fanny -and turned her round; but Fanny only presented the other cheek. -'Strike away!' said she; ''tis a blessed thing to suffer for one's -religion!' Her mother now thought there was nothing to be done with -the obstinate little heretic, and gave her up. Next, the house was -burnt--fortunately while they were out of it; but for days Fanny -cried inconsolably. Her mother, who appears to have been a -practical, matter-of-fact woman, when this sort of thing had gone on -for several days, thought it desirable to treat Miss Fanny to a -slight scolding. 'What a little goose you are!' she said, 'crying -everlastingly for a house!' 'Oh! it isn't the house!' sobbed Fanny; -'it isn't the house--it is dolly!' Well, Madame d'Aubigné died while -Fanny was still a girl, and she was left entirely destitute. In -these circumstances she married, for a home, the ugliest man in -France. He was a comic poet, a poor deformed fellow, of the name of -Scarron. Fanny did not gain much by her marriage, for they were very -poor; but her taste in dress was so exquisite that I have heard -ladies say she looked better in a common gown of lavender cotton than -half the Court ladies in their silks and satins: and her conversation -was so fascinating that clever men used to dine with Scarron just for -the sake of hearing her talk. - -"There is a story told of one such dinner, at which the servant -whispered in Madame's ear, 'Please to tell another story; there is -not enough roast beef.' I have heard these and many other anecdotes -about her from Aunt Sophie, whose mother-in-law knew her well for -many years. When her husband died, she was again thrown on the -world; and for some time she petitioned the King in vain for some -little property or pension to which she was entitled us Scarron's -widow. At last he became perfectly tired of her petitions; but he -had never seen her. 'Widow Scarron!' His Majesty used to say, as he -took up another petition: 'am I always to be pestered with Widow -Scarron?' A short time afterwards he met her somewhere; and her -grace, beauty, and wit made such an impression upon him that he gave -her the appointment of governess to a _posse_ of his children. When -he came to see them, he saw her; and 'Widow Scarron' so grew in his -esteem, that it is supposed about two years after the death of his -Queen, he married her."[31] - -"And why do they call her Madame de Maintenon?" - -"His Majesty gave her the estate of Maintenon, and wished her to bear -the name." - -"And what will become of her when he dies?" - -"Ah, that is just the point! I should think she will go into a -convent." - -"I thought you said she was a Huguenot?" - -"So she was, but she is generally supposed to be a Catholic now." - -"What a pity!" said Celia, thoughtfully. "How much good she might -have done in turning the King's heart towards the Huguenots, if God -had permitted her!" - -"On the contrary, she is thought to have turned him from them. Many -persons say that we may thank her for the revocation of the Edict of -Nantes." - -"I can scarce believe that, Philip!" - -"I hardly do myself." - -"Do you think, Philip," asked Celia, slowly, after a pause, "that -there is one really good man or woman among all your acquaintance?" - -"My dear," replied Philip, in his gravest manner, "I have met with so -many good men and women that I have lost all faith in the article. I -have seen excellent mothers whose children have died from neglect, -excellent husbands who have run away with other people's wives, -excellent sons and daughters who have left a kind mother alone in her -old age, and excellent friends who have ruined their friends' -reputations by backbiting. Never a one of your good men and women -for me, if you please. We are all a bad lot together--that is the -truth; and the best of us is only a trifle less bad than the others." - -"But, Philip, do you really know none who has the fear of God in his -heart?" - -"Yes, I know three people who have it--you, and Ned, and Patient. I -cannot name a fourth." - -"O Philip! I wish you were the fourth yourself!" sighed Celia. - -"So do I, my dear," said Philip, so gravely that Celia looked up into -his face to see what he meant. She was perplexed, and scarcely -satisfied with what she read there. - -"Philip," she asked, dropping her eyes again, "do _you_ play at these -card-tables?" - -"Never. I believe Patient thinks I do, but she is mistaken. I threw -at basset once, and I shall never do it again." - -"Did you lose?" - -"No, I won." - -"Then what made you determine not to do it again?" - -"A remark of Leroy, who was standing near. He said, 'No man ever -loses at the first throw. I never saw one lose. The Devil is too -cunning for that.' I thought that if the habitual frequenters of the -basset-table acknowledged that gentleman for their president, the -less I saw of it the better." - -"I think you were very wise, Philip," said Celia. "Monsieur Leroy! -The man who"--she stopped suddenly, wondering whether Philip were -acquainted with the facts of which she was thinking. - -"'The man who'--precisely: Savarie Leroy. I see Patient has told you -that sad story." - -"Philip," said Celia, very seriously, "I wish I could do something to -help you. If you do _really_ wish to fear God"-- - -"My dear little sister," replied Philip, putting his arm round her, -"have you any idea how much you have helped me already? I am not -quite the Gallio you and Patient think me--caring for none of these -things. Now I will just give you a glimpse into my heart. I always -knew what Patient was--she never concealed her thoughts on the -matter; but there are thirty years between her and me, and I -fancied--perhaps foolishly--that the religion which might be very -good for her would not do for me. I thought many a time, 'If I could -find some one in my own rank, and near my own age, who had not been -brought up with Patient as Ned and I have, and therefore had not -taken the tone of his feelings from her; if this person should think, -feel, and talk in the same way that she does, having derived it from -a different locality and breeding, and all that,--why, then, I should -feel that, whatever else this religion of hers were, at least it was -a reality.' Now this I never could have found in Ned, for two -reasons: as to religious breeding, Patient has brought him up; the -tone and color of his religion he derives from her. And, secondly, -Ned is rather close. Not in the least sternly or unkindly -so--nothing of the sort; but he is not such an open, foolish, -off-handed fellow as I am. It is not natural to him, as it is to me, -to say everything he thinks, to everybody who comes in his way; and -in religious matters particularly, what he thinks and feels he keeps -to himself. Well, then you came. For the first few weeks that you -were here, I watched you like a cat watches a mouse. If you had made -one slip--if I had once seen your profession and practice at -variance--if you had been less gentle and obedient to my mother, when -I could see that she was making you do things which you would much -rather not do: or if, on the other hand, you had allowed her to lead -you into something which I knew that you considered positively -forbidden--if I had seen anything of this, Celia, I should have gone -away more irretrievably disgusted than ever with religion and all who -professed it. - -"Now, my dear, I don't want to make you proud and puff you up, but as -I am telling you all this, I must add that I found not one slip in -you. I cannot understand how you have done it. It seems to me that -you must have a very large amount of what Patient calls 'grace,' that -I, who have been watching you so narrowly, could detect nothing in -you which I thought wrong. Now will you forgive me for the ordeal -through which, unknown to you, I have been putting you? The -conclusion to which it has led me is this:--This thing--this religion -of yours and Patient's--call it fear of God, or what you will--is a -real thing. It is not the disordered fancy of one good woman, as I -for a time imagined that it might be. It is a genuine compact and -converse between God and your souls, and I only wish I were one of -you." - -Rather to Philip's surprise, Celia, who while he spoke had been -earnestly regarding him, with brilliant eyes and smiling lips, put -her head down and burst into tears. - -"My dear!" he said. - -"O Philip, I am so glad!" she said,--"so glad, so thankful--so very, -very glad!" And she sobbed for pure joy. - -"Then I am very glad that I have told you, my dear. And if it gives -you any satisfaction, I will say again what I have said:--from my -soul I wish I were one of you!" - - - -[1] The ugly word "ex-queen" had not yet come into use, and the -English spoke of Maria Beatrice as they would have done if she had -died. - -[2] I must own to having left my heroine's letter defective in one -point. In her day ladies' orthography was in a dreadful state. -Queen Anne usually signed herself the "affectionat freind" of her -correspondents; and it had only just ceased to be the fashion for -ladies to employ the longest words they could pick up, using them in -an incorrect sense, and with a wrong pronunciation. Addison gives an -account of one French lady who having unfortunately pronounced a hard -word correctly, and employed it in the proper sense, "all the ladies -in the Court were out of countenance for her." - -[3] Headache. - -[4] Luke vii. 36. - -[5] Sam. xii. 7. - -[6] Prince Eugene was now besieging Landrécies, a town on the border -between France and Flanders. - -[7] Isaiah ix. 6. - -[8] Acts vii. 58; viii. 1. - -[9] Gal. ii. 12. - -[10] 3 Tim. iv. 14. - -[11] 1 Cor. xv. 22. - -[12] Rom. vii. 18. - -[13] John xvii. 12. - -[14] Acts i. 25. - -[15] 1 Cor. xiii. 1, 2. - -[16] Matt. xxv. 40. - -[17] Mark xvi. 16. - -[18] Titus i. 15. - -[19] Heb. x. 22. - -[20] Heb. ix. 14, - -[21] 1 Tim. - -[22] Isaiah xlix. 4. - -[23] Ibid. 5. - -[24] Philippe, younger son of Louis XIII. and Anne of Austria: born -August 2, 1674; died December 2, 1723. - -[25] Marguerite Louise, daughter of Gaston Duke of Orleans and -Marguerite of Lorraine: born July 28, 1645; married at the Louvre, -April 19, 1661; died in France, September 17, 1721. - -[26] Marie Anne, natural daughter of Louis XIV. and Louise de La -Vallière: born at Vincennes, October 2, 1666; married, January 16, -1680, Louis Prince of Conti; died May 3, 1739. - -[27] Françoise Marie, natural daughter of Louis XIV. and Athenaïs de -Montespan; born May 4, 1677; married February 18, 1692; died 1749. - -[28] Isabelle, daughter of Gaston Duke of Orleans and Marguerite of -Lorraine: born December 20, 1646; married 1667; died March 17, 1696. - -[29] Louis XV.: born February 15, 1710; died at Versailles, of -small-pox, May 10, 1774. - -[30] Françoise, daughter of Constant d'Aubigné and Jeanne de -Cardillac; born at Niort, November 27, 1635; married at Versailles -1685; died at St. Cyr, April 15, 1719. - -[31] All these little anecdotes concerning Madame de Maintenon are -authentic. - - - - -X. - -ANENT JOHN PATTERSON. - - "One Faithful, meek fool, who is led to the burning, - He cumbered us sorely in Vanity Fair." - --MISS MULOCH. - - -"Look out for rocks, Madam Celia," was Patient's enigmatical comment -when she heard what Philip had said. - -"I do not understand you, Patient." - -"Madam, there is nothing harder in this world than humility, because -there is nothing so near to the Lord. There are but two places -wherein He dwelleth--the high and holy Heaven, and the humble and -contrite heart. Paul, you mind, was sent a thorn in the flesh -because of the abundance of the revelations. I have near always -found that when I have had some work to do for the Lord which was -like to make me think well of myself, there has either been a thorn -in the flesh or a thorn in the spirit sent to me, either just before -or just after. Most commonly just before. And it does not need -abundance of revelations, neither, to set up poor fools like us. -Anything can do that. If we are trying to walk close to the Lord, -and give no occasion for stumbling, the Devil can make pedestals of -our very graces whereon to stick us up and cause us to fall down and -worship ourselves. Ay, of our very sins he can! Many's the time -when I have been set up in the forenoon on account of some very thing -which, when I was calmer, had to be laid open and repented of before -the Lord at night. Depend upon it, Jonah was no feeling over lowly -when he thought he did well to be angry.[1] And then, when a little -breeze of repentance does stir the heavy waves of the soul, the Devil -whispers, 'How good, how humble, how godly you are!' Ah, 'his -devices!' Thank God 'we are not ignorant' of them.[2] Look out for -rocks, Madam. I am no true prophet if you find not a keen wind soon -after this." - -"Tell me, Patient, does my brother Edward fear God?" - -"Yes, Madam." - -"You know he does?" - -"I have no anxiety about Sir Edward, Madam. I only wish I were half -as sure of Mr. Philip." - -"Do you think?"-- - -"Madam, the way is rough and the gate strait, and 'few there be that -find it.'[3] And I don't think Mr. Philip likes rough walking. But -the Lord kens that too. If he have been given to Christ of the -Father, he'll have to come--'shall come to Me'[4]--and he'll find no -more to greet over than the rest of the children when we all get Home -to the Father's House. 'Neither shall any man pluck them out of My -hand.'"[5] - - -Lady Ingram did not return from the Palace before eight o'clock in -the evening, and then in an exceedingly bad temper. Fashionably so, -only; she was much too accomplished and polished to go into a vulgar -passion. Thérèse discovered the state of her mistress's mind when -she found that she could do nothing to please her. The new dress, of -which Lady Ingram had expressed her full approbation in the morning, -was declared "_effroyante_" at night; and Thérèse had to alter the -style of her lady's hair five times before she condescended to -acknowledge herself satisfied. At length she appeared in her -boudoir, and after breakfast, instead of paying her usual visit to -Celia's room, sent a message desiring Celia to come to her. - -"Are you not well, Madam?" was Celia's natural query, when she saw -how pale and heavy-eyed Lady Ingram looked. - -"Well! yes, my dear; but I have scarcely slept. I left fifteen -hundred pounds behind me at that horrible lansquenet." - -Celia's eyes opened rather wide. The sum indicated was almost -incredible to her simple apprehension. - -"My dear," said Lady Ingram, pettishly, "you are still only -half-formed. Do not open your eyes in that way--it makes you look -astonished. A woman of the world never wonders." - -"I am not a woman of the world, Madam." - -"Then my lessons have been of very little use to you. I am afraid -you are not, really, and never will be. That reminds me of what I -wished to say to you. I am informed by some one who saw you, that -after you and Philip left me in the saloon of the Duchess, he took -you into the great drawing-room, and that at something you saw there -you burst into tears. Now really, my dear, this is totally -inadmissible. You scandalized those who saw you. Had you heard some -dreadful news, or some such thing, it might have been proper and even -laudable to shed a few tears; but actually to sob, in the sight of -all the world, just as any laundress or orange-girl might have -done,--really, Celia, you must get over this weakness!" - -"I beg your pardon, Madam," replied Celia, timidly, "but really I -could not help it. There was a lady at the card-table who had lost a -great deal--at least Philip thought so--and she began speaking such -horrible words that it terrified me; I could not help it." - -"'Could not help it!'" repeated Lady Ingram, contemptuously. "Cannot -you help anything you choose? Oh, yes! it was the Countess des -Ferrières,--she had lost £30,000 and her estates, every livre she -had, even to the earrings which she wore, so of course she was -ruined. But you quite mistake, my dear--you need not have felt -terrified. You are in error if you suppose that swearing is -interdicted to men, and even women, of quality.[6] Quite the -contrary, it is rather modish than otherwise. A few gentle oaths, -such as"--(and Lady Ingram gave a short list)--"are quite admissible -in such circumstances. You would hear them from the lips of the best -families in France. If it were not modish, of course it would be -highly improper; but you are entirely mistaken if you suppose it so. -Any of those I have mentioned would be quite proper--for you, even. -I have heard much stronger words than those from the Duchess de -Berry, and she is younger than you are. But mercy on us, child! what -eyes you make!" - -They were gleaming like stars. Lady Ingram a words had lighted up a -fire behind them, and every feeling of timidity was burnt up in the -blaze of its indignation. - -"My Lady Ingram!" said Celia, with a dignity in her voice and manner -which her step-mother had never seen her assume, and believed to be -quite foreign to her nature, "I did not come to Paris either to deny -my religion or to outrage my God. In all matters which concern Him -not, you have moulded me at your will. I thought that you took to me -the place of my dead father and mother, and I have obeyed you as I -would have obeyed them. But into the sanctuary of my soul you cannot -penetrate; on the threshold of the temple even you must pause. God -is more to me than father or mother, and at the risk of your -displeasure--at the risk of my life if needs be--I must obey Him. -'The Lord sitteth upon the flood, yea, the Lord sitteth King -forever;'[7] and 'He will not hold him guiltless that taketh His Name -in vain!'"[8] - -Notwithstanding all Lady Ingram's condemnation of feelings, she was -just now overpowered by her own. In the foreground was amazement. -Had her little pug Venus opened its mouth and emitted a moral axiom, -she could hardly have been more astonished. Behind her surprise came -annoyance, amusement, and respect for the strange, new bravery of -Celia; but in the background, beyond all those, was a very unpleasant -and unusual sensation, which she did not attempt to analyze. It was, -really, the discovery of a character which she could not fathom, of a -strength which she could not weaken, of a temple into which she could -not enter. She had always prided herself upon her ability to read -every person's character at a glance: and here was the especial -character which she had set down as simple, and almost beneath -notice, presenting itself in an aspect which it was beyond her skill -to comprehend. She had not, indeed, forgotten Celia's confession at -the outset of their acquaintance; but she had set it down to her -English education, as a past phase of thought which she had succeeded -in dispelling. A little more banter on the one hand, and firmness on -the other, would, she thought, rid Celia of her absurd and obsolete -notions. She had threaded all the mazes, and she meant her speech -just uttered to be the last turn in the path, the last struggle -between herself and her step-daughter. And lo! here, at that last -turn, stood a guarded sanctuary, too strong for her weapons to -attack, into which she knew not the way, of whose services she had -never learned the language. A strange and sudden darkness fell over -her spirit. There was a Power here in opposition to her stronger -than her own. This simple, docile, untaught girl knew some strange -thing which she did not know. And with this conviction came another -and a disagreeable idea. Might it not be something which it -immediately concerned her to know? What if Celia were right--if all -things were not bounded by this life; if there were another, unknown -world beyond this world, guided by different laws? What if God were -real, and Heaven were real, and Hell were real? if there were a -point beyond which prayers were mockery, and penances were vain? A -veil was lifted up for a moment which had covered all this from her; -a dark, thick, heavy veil, which all her life she had been at work to -weave. A voice from Heaven whispered to her, and it said, "Thou -fool!" When moments such as these do not soften and convict, they -harden and deaden. The veil dropped, and Lady Ingram was herself -again--her heart more rock than ever. It was in a particularly cold, -hard voice that she spoke again. - -"Celia, if you do not take care, I shall wash my hands of you. I -will not be braved in this manner by a mere girl--a girl whose -character is wholly unformed, and whose breeding is infinitely below -her quality. Go to your chamber, and remain there until you are -sufficiently humbled to request my pardon for treating me with so -little respect." - -"Madam," was the soft answer, "if I have shown you any disrespect, I -will ask your pardon now. It was not my wish to do so." - -Ah! the thing which Celia had shown Claude Ingram, and at which she -could not bear to look, was her own heart. - -"Will you then retract what you have said?" - -"If I have said anything personally offensive to your Ladyship, I -will retract it and ask your forgiveness. What I have said of my own -relation to God I never can retract, Madam, for it is real and -eternal." - -Lady Ingram was silent for a moment. Then she said, in her hardest -voice and coldest manner, "Go to your chamber." Celia, courtesying -to her step-mother, retired without another word. Left alone in her -own boudoir, again that cloud of dread darkness rolled over Claude -Ingram. The presence of the accusing angel was withdrawn, but the -accusations rankled yet. She sat for some time in silence, and at -length rose with a sudden shiver and a heavy sigh. Opening with a -little silver key a private closet, richly ornamented, a shrine was -disclosed, where a silver lamp burned before an image of the Virgin. -Here Lady Ingram knelt, and made an "Act of Contrition" and an "Act -of Faith."[9] The repetition of vain words put no more contrition -nor faith into her heart than before she uttered them. Only the soul -was lulled to sleep: and she rose satisfied with herself and her -interview. - - -"Do you think I did wrong, Patient?" asked Celia, sadly, of her sole -_confidante_, at the moment when, at the other end of the house, Lady -Ingram was finishing her devotions. - -Patient replied in a measured and constrained voice, "'He that loveth -father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me.'"[10] - -"Yes, I know; but I am so very anxious not to be wanting in respect -to her--not to put any obstacles in her way." - -"The more obstacles in her way the better, Madam; for it is the broad -road that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in -thereat."[11] - -Celia sighed heavily, but made no answer. - -"Ah, poor blind soul!" continued Patient. "If only we would look -more at all men and women in one light, and measure them by one -test--friends of Christ, or enemies of Christ--I think we would -behave different from that we do." - -Patient stitched away without saying more, and Celia sat looking -thoughtfully out of the open window. From some cause unknown to -herself, there suddenly rose before her a vision of the great laurel -at Ashcliffe, and the stranger blessing her in the name of the -Virgin. She exclaimed, "Patient!" in a tone which would have -startled any one less unimpressionable than the placid woman who sat -opposite her. - -"Madam!" replied Patient, without any change of manner. - -Celia told her the circumstance of which she was thinking, and added, -"Can you guess who it was, Patient?" - -"What manner of man was he, Madam?" - -Celia closed her eyes and tried to recall him. - -"A tall, thin, comely man, with a brown skin, and no color on cheeks -or lips: dark hair somewhat unkempt, bright dark eyes, and a very -soft, persuasive tone of voice. His clothes had been good, but were -then ragged, and he looked as if he had been ill, or might become so. -I always wondered if it could be my father; but as he died when I was -but a child, that is not possible." - -"And what was the day, Madam?" - -"Some day in November, 1710." - -"I think I can guess who it was, Madam Celia. No, it could not have -been your father; and I know but one who answers to that description, -yet I knew not that he had been in England so late as that. It was -my husband, Gilbert Irvine." - -"Patient!" exclaimed Celia, interested at once. "Had he been ill?" - -"Nay, Madam, 'twas the other way: he fell ill afterward. He died -about twelve months thereafter." - -"Poor Patient!" - -"Do not pity me, Madam. I had nought but what I deserved." - -"I am afraid I should not like to have all I deserve, Patient. But -what do you mean?" - -"Madam, do you mind the Israelites under Joshua, which accepted the -Gibeonites because of their spoiled victuals and clouted shoon, and -asked not counsel at the mouth of the Lord? That was what I did. I -was a plain, portionless maid, having nought but my labor, and he was -my Lady's gentleman-usher, in a better place than I, and a rare hand -at talking any one over to what he had a mind to--ay, he was that! -And so I took him because of his comely face and his flattering -tongue, and such like, and asked not counsel at the mouth of the -Lord. And 'tis mine experience, Madam, that while the Lord never -faileth to bring good out of evil for His people in the end, yet that -oft for a time, when they be obstinately bent on taking their own -way, He leaveth them to eat of the fruit of it. I say not how 'tis -with other believers; but this I know, that my worst troubles have -ever been them I have pulled on mine own head. There is a sort of -comfort in a trouble by Divine ordinance, which it lacks when 'tis -only by Divine permission, and you know you are yourself to blame for -it. And little comfort I had with Gilbert Irvine. I've envied -Isabel Paterson in the cave with her guidman--ay, many and many a -time! And I have asked the Lord to do more than a miracle for -me--for to turn Gilbert's heart would have been on the thither side -of a miracle, I'm thinking,--more wonderful yet. You mind, Madam," -added Patient, suddenly, as if afraid of being misunderstood on this -point, "Gilbert was no a Papist when I and he were wed. I should -have seen my way through _that_, I think, for all the blind fool that -I was; but it was no for five years thence. He professed the Evangel -then, and went to the preaching like any Christian. The Lord forgive -him--if it be no Papistry to say it: anyhow, the Lord forgive _me_!" - -"There are no miracles, now, certainly," said Celia, reflectively. -"I can quite fancy what a comfort it must have been to live in the -days of miracles. But who was Isabel Paterson, and what cave did she -live in?" - -"Are there no miracles now, Madam?" asked Patient. "Ah, but I'll be -long ere I say that! If the Lord wrought no miracle for John -Paterson--ay, and twice over too--I little ken what a miracle is. -But truly he was a godly man above many. 'Tis mostly Elijahs that be -fed by angels and ravens, though I'm no saying that, if it pleased -the Lord, He might not work wonders for you and me. 'Tis ill work -setting limits to the Lord." - -"But who was Isabel Paterson, and who was John Paterson?" urged Celia -again. - -"I'll tell you, Madam. John Paterson--he was Isabel's guidman--was a -small farming-man at Pennyvenie, but at one time he dwelt for a -season no so far from Lauchie. 'Twas when I was a young maid that -these things happened. I knew Isabel Paterson, and many a crack I've -had with her when I was a lassie, and she a thriving young wife with -wee weans about her. Well, John, her guidman, was a marked man to -King Charles's troopers, and many a time they set out to hunt him -down. He could no dwell in his own house, but was forced to seek -sleeping-room on the Crag of Benbeoch, between two great rocks, only -visiting his own home by stealth. The first of these times the -dragoons came on him as he was coming down from Benbeoch to the -little white farmhouse below, and Isabel was watching his coming from -the window. As he was crossing the moor they saw him, and he saw -them. John, he turned and ran, and they galloped after. He heard -them coming over the moor, and leaping the stone wall that girdled -Benbeoch Crags, and he thought, 'Ah! sure 'tis all over with me now!' -For only that week had Claverhouse hanged Davie Keith at his own -door, and he was sib to Paterson. John he ran, and the troops they -galloped: he crying mightily unto the Lord to save him for His Name's -sake. And while the words were yet in his mouth, and the dragoons -were so near him that he could hear their speech to one another, all -at once his feet caught at a stone, and down he fell. He gave -himself up for lost then, for the horses were right on him. 'But -where am I going?' thinks he. Through the heather he fell, through -the grass, through the very solid earth aneath him. Madam, the Lord -made a new thing, and the earth opened her mouth and swallowed him -up, rather than he should fall into the hands of his enemies. When -he came to himself--for he was a bit bruised and stunned by the -fall--he felt that he was in some wide dry cavern, many a foot -across, and he heard overhead the troopers cursing and swearing that -they could not find the hole where, quoth they, the fox had run to -earth. And John down aneath was kneeling and giving thanks to the -Lord, enjoying, as he told afterwards, the blessedest hour of -communion with Him that ever he had. After a while the troopers gave -it up as a bad job, and off they went. And when John dared to climb -up out of the hole, and pop up his head through the long grass and -heather, there was nought but the green grass and the purple heather, -and God's blue sky over all. After a time he ventured forth, and -hearing a wail of a woman's voice, found Isabel mourning on the -hill-side, seeking his dead body, never doubting that the troopers -had slain him. He helped her into the cave, and there they knelt -down together and praised the Lord again. And by degrees, after a -while, they carried bedding and household goods such as could be -spared to this safe shelter which the Lord had provided for them, and -not only John, but others of the brethren, hid there for many a day -after, when Claverhouse was known to be in the country." - -"Patient, is that really true?" - -"True as Gospel, Madam. I had it from Isabel her ain sel'." - -"But the cave must have been there before, surely." - -"Maybe, Madam, or maybe not," said Patient, a little obstinately. -"We ken little of what goes on in the heart of the earth. Anyhow, it -had never been found before, though there were shepherds who knew -every inch of Benbeoch Crags: and there it was ready when John -Paterson fell in need of it." - -"And what was his second escape, Patient?" - -"That, Madam, was well-nigh as strange, for the Lord made choice of a -poor silly beast as his deliverer. 'Twas indeed the earlier -deliverance of the two. It began just like to the other:--John was -running over the moor afore Claverhouse's troops, a meeting in the -Black Glen having been broke up on the rumor of their coming. But -this time the men had dogs with them. John, he ran as long as he -could over Longstone Moss, calling on the Lord for deliverance as he -ran. All the way across the bog he kept pace with them, for the -horses being heavier, and the troopers armed, they had ill work to -get on through the bog. But he, knowing that the Moss once passed, -they would be far swifter than he on the hard ground, looked around -earnestly for some safe hiding-place. Coming upon a deep furrow of -moss and long grass running across the bog, he lay down in it, scarce -hoping that it could be enough to hide him, but for just what men -call a chance. Hitherto he had seen only the troopers, and had not -noticed the dogs; but all at once, as he lay in this long grass, he -heard their deep bay come across the moor. 'That sound,' quoth he, -'struck upon my heart like a death-knell. That sense of smell which -God had given them was sure and unerring; and these men were now -using it to hunt God's children to the death.' Straight and sure -came the hounds rushing upon him. He cried once more unto the Lord, -and then was about to rise lest the dogs should tear him. When, all -at once, he heard among the long grass at his head a whirring sound, -and a fox dashed close past him. Ay, but that was a scurry! Horses, -dogs, and men, away they set after the fox, and they never came back -that day.[12] So again the Lord delivered him." - -"But you don't think, Patient, that He made the fox on purpose?" - -"Madam," said Patient, a little dryly, "I am not in the Lord's -counsels. I should fancy that He guided a common fox to do the -thing; but I cannot presume to say that the bit beastie was not -created there and then. We are too apt to limit the Lord, Madam." - -"But God has given over creating, Patient." - -"Has He so, Madam?" asked Patient, dubiously. "Is it no new creation -when the buds spring forth, when the grass groweth up, and 'He -reneweth the face of the earth'?[13] 'God did rest the seventh day -from all His works;'[14] but the Scripture doth not tell us what He -did on the eighth. Moreover, saith our Lord that 'the Father -worketh.'[15] This I know--that if the purpose of the Lord were to -preserve John Paterson by means of a fox, that fox should sooner have -been brought from the Indies as on dry land than that His purpose -should fail. 'He will work, and who shall let it?'"[16] - -"I say!" observed Mr. Philip Ingram at the door, "what have you been -doing, or saying, or something, to my mother? I have not seen her in -such a state I don't know when." - -"I am afraid I have displeased her," said Celia, "but I could not -help it. If I had it to do over again, I must say just the same -thing in substance." - -"Have you been running a tilt with her, my pugnacious warrior?" asked -Philip, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. - -"Something like it, I am afraid." - -"Ah! I thought as much when I was desired, just now, to talk upon -some subject more agreeable than you. I said I did not know any, and -departed; doubly willing to do so as I found that she had the -megrims." - -"I thought she looked poorly," said Celia, compassionately. - -Philip indulged in a peal of laughter. - -"My sweet rustic innocence! I thought I told you that megrims stood -for Père Letellier. He is closeted with her Ladyship, assisting her -to mourn over your lamentable departure from the faith and the mode. -I should not very much wonder if you were treated to a visit from his -reverence." - -"Oh dear!" said Celia, involuntarily. - -"He isn't such a formidable being," said Philip. "He used to confess -me when I was about the height of that table, and order me a certain -quantity of sugar-plums for penance--I know it was two for squalling, -and four for stamping and kicking. I lost my temper with tolerable -frequency under that discipline." - -Patient sighed and shook her head slowly. - -"Now how much wisdom lies in a shake of some people's heads! -Patient, my dear creature, you could not have conveyed your meaning -half so well in words." - -"I am doubtful if you know my meaning, Mr. Philip." - -"Know your meaning! Why, it was written on your head in that shake! -Did it not say, 'Philip Ingram! your education was awfully bad, and -you are what might be expected from it'?" - -"Nay, Sir, scarce that. I was thinking rather of that word, 'I am -against the shepherds,'[17] and yet more of that other word of John, -'Therefore shall her plagues come in one day, ... for strong is the -Lord God who judgeth her.'"[18] - -"Spare me, please!" exclaimed Philip, springing up. "You never quote -from the Revelation without a sermon after it. Urgent business -requires my presence down-stairs. Mrs. Celia Ingram, your servant!" - -And he shut the door, laughing; but the next minute he opened it -again to say, "If Père Letellier should take it into his head to come -here, send for me to keep you in countenance. You will find the bear -in its den--Patient knows where." - - -"But, Philip, what do you expect people to do?" - -It was not the advent of Père Letellier, but his own want of -occupation, which, to use Philip's elegant simile, had drawn the bear -out of its den. Père Letellier was gone some hours before, and Lady -Ingram had shut herself up, desiring Thérèse to tell any one who -asked for her that she had the vapors, and could see nobody; and -Philip, thus thrown back on his own society or his sister's, had -selected the latter as the pleasanter of the two. - -"But what do you expect people to do?" was Celia's natural reply to -Philip's remark that good people never did anything. - -"Well, my dear, I can only say that if I were one of you good folks, -I could not live as you do. If I believed--really, honestly -believed--that all the people, or not all, say one-half, say -one-tenth of the people around me, in this city alone, were going to -perdition as fast as they could travel, and that I knew of something -which would save them, if I could only persuade them to take -it,--why, my dear Celia, I could never sit quietly on this sofa! I -should want to go out instantly 'into the highways and hedges, and -compel them to come in.'[19] It would be as cruel as helping oneself -to an extra slice of plumcake in the presence of a starving wretch -who had lived for a week on a handful of potato-parings." - -"Philip, I am sure you have been reading the Bible. You have quoted -it several times lately." - -"I told you I had read it," answered Philip, shortly. - -"Mr. Philip," said Patient, very gravely, "you have given me somewhat -to meditate upon. Your words are very exercising. We do scarce -follow sufficiently that word, 'Consider your ways.'[20] You are -quite right, Sir, more shame for us!" - -"Very well, then, you agree with me," said Philip. "Well, and here -are all the good, charitably-disposed Catholics shutting themselves -up in convents and telling their beads; and all the good, -charitably-disposed Protestants sitting on sofas, reading their good -books, and mourning to each other over the wickedness of the world. -Now, is that really the best thing that either party can find to do?" - -"Mr. Philip, I hope you don't mean to go to compare the poor blind -souls of Papists, worshipping idols in those wicked monasteries, with -enlightened Christian believers either in Scotland or England?" -objected Patient, with a shade of rising indignation in her tone. - -"I do not mean to say that the 'believers,' as you call them, may not -be doing more good to their own souls than the monks and nuns: but if -they sit still on their sofas, what more good are they doing the -world than the monks are? Is it not the same thing under another -name? Are they helping to lessen by one grain the heap of wickedness -they mourn over?" - -"I am afraid you are right, Philip," said Celia, thoughtfully. - -"That is just the failing of you good folks," resumed he. "You hear -of a poor family, shockingly destitute, and steeped in all manner of -sin and wickedness; and you say to each other, 'Isn't it dreadful?' -You talk them over--perhaps you pray them over; but at the best, you -do anything but put on your hat and go and try to lift them out of -the mire. Oh dear no! They are far too dirty and disagreeable for -your delicate fingers. I am without, as you know; and on the -principle that 'lookers-on see most of the game,' those things show -more plainly to us than to you. Look at the men in our prisons. -They are beyond you now. But was there no time when they were not -beyond you? Did they pass, do you think, in five minutes from little -children saying the Paternoster at their mother's knee, to the -hardened criminals to whom you would not dare to speak? You should -talk to Colville. He would put everything before you far better than -I can." - - -A few days after this conversation, Celia made the acquaintance of -her brother's solitary friend. Lady Ingram's reception took place on -the Thursday subsequent; and that lady, who had not yet resumed her -usual graciousness to Celia, nevertheless intimated her pleasure that -her step-daughter should be present. As Celia sat quietly in her -corner, moralizing to herself on the scene, Philip's voice beside her -said-- - -"Celia, my dear, allow me to introduce you. Mr. Colville, Mrs. -Ingram. Mrs. Ingram, Mr. Colville." - -Celia lifted her eyes with much curiosity. Her first impression was -that Philip's friend was a very thin long man, with very light hair -and eyes of the palest blue, a stoop in the shoulders, and a -noticeable nose. He and Philip remained standing by her chair. - -"An interesting scene this," observed Mr. Colville, in a deep, hollow -voice. "Pleasant to see men and women enjoying themselves. Life is -short, and death certain. Let us be happy while we can." - -"After death the judgment.'"[21] The words came suddenly from -Celia's lips, and almost without her volition. - -Mr. Colville smiled condescendingly. - -"You are one of the old-fashioned thinkers," he said. "I shall be -happy to show you how mistaken such a notion is. I always take a -pleasure in disabusing young minds." - -"Very generous of you," said Philip--Celia was not sure whether -seriously or ironically. - -"'Mistaken!'" she exclaimed, lifting her clear eyes to her -opponent's, and thinking that her ears must have made some strange -mistake. "'Tis a passage of Scripture." - -"A fable, Madam," returned Mr. Colville, coolly. "Quite inconsistent -with the character of God, who is a perfect Being; and most injurious -to the minds of men. The soul, I assure you, is a mere quality of -the body; it has no substance, yet is entirely material, and perishes -with the body of which it is a quality." - -"Sir, how can God's revelation be a fable?" was Celia's very grave -reply. "And, without that revelation, what can we know of the -character of God?" - -"My dear Madam," replied Mr. Colville, with his pitying, patronizing -smile, "these are quite obsolete, disproved notions. There can be no -such thing as revelation; 'tis impossible. And there are no means of -any kind by which man can understand the character of God. We know -from nature that God is infinitely powerful, and infinitely wise. Of -His moral character we can have no idea, except that He is a perfect -Being. Whatever, therefore, is inconsistent with perfection, is -inconsistent with God." - -"Inconsistent with your notions of perfection, you mean," said -Philip. "Doesn't it require a perfect creature to imagine -perfection?" - -"Then," pursued Mr. Colville, taking no notice of Philip, "you -suppose that all Scripture is of Divine original. This is another -mistake. The Gospel is of Divine original, and perhaps some portions -of the Old Testament; but the Pentateuch was compiled by a most -ignorant and unphilosophical man, a repellent, sanguinary -law-giver--and the Epistles are the product of heated brains. Paul -was a cabalistic Rabbi, a delirious enthusiast; Peter, a poor -ignorant fisherman.[22] What could you expect from such persons? -Entirely human, Madam, these parts of Scripture!" - -"And you, Mr. Colville," said Celia, warmly, "dare to sit thus in -judgment upon God! You presume to lay your human hand on different -portions of His Book, and to say, 'This is from God, and this is from -man!' Sir, at His bar you must one day stand, and by that Book you -will have to be judged." - -"Believe me, I quite honor your warmth and kindly feelings. Youth is -enthusiastical--given to hero-worship. 'Tis a pity to set up for -your hero a mere dead book. But perhaps you misunderstand me. I do -not reject all Scripture. For the words and character of Jesus I -have great respect. He was unquestionably a true philanthropist, and -an enlightened man--a very excellent man. But"-- - -Celia had risen and stood before him. She forgot all about the -lighted rooms and the crowds who might be watching and listening. -"And no more?" she said, in a voice of suppressed intensity. - -"More?" answered Mr. Colville. "What could you wish me to say more?" - -"Mr. Colville, your words, complimentary as they might be if you were -speaking of a man, are but an insult--an insult to Him in whom is -life,[23] and who is the brightness of the Father's glory.[24] I -cannot bear them!" - -She would have passed on, but Colville detained her. - -"My dear Madam, you entirely mistake. Suffer me but to show you"-- - -"Sir, I shall speak with you no more. 'He that biddeth you God-speed -is the partaker of your evil deeds.'"[25] - -And Celia made her way through the rooms and gained her own boudoir -without another word to any one. But she had not been there for five -minutes before Philip followed her. - -"Upon my word, Celia!" said he, laughing, "I had no idea what an -amount of undeveloped soldiery there was under that quiet manner of -yours. You have fairly rendered Colville speechless--a state of -things I never saw before. I beg to congratulate the successful -general on the victory!" - -"Philip, how can you like that odious man?" - -"Well, my dear," responded Philip, "I am beginning rather to wonder -at it myself. He has become insipid latterly. I used to think him a -very ingenious fellow; I am beginning to suspect that he is only a -showy donkey!" - -"He is an Atheist," said Celia, in a tone of horror. - -"Scarce that, my dear," answered Philip, quietly. "He does believe -in a sort of God, but 'tis one of his own making." - -"Will that deliver him in the day of the Lord's wrath?"[26] asked -Celia in a low tone. "Philip, I hope I said nothing wrong. I did -not mean to speak uncourteously or unchristianly. I hope I did not -do it." - -"My dear little scrap of scrupulousness! Do you suppose that a -soldier in the heat of battle says 'Pray excuse me!' to the opposite -man before he fires at him?" - -"Ah! but the weapons of my warfare ought not to have been carnal.[27] -St. Paul says, 'Speaking the truth in love.'[28] I am afraid there -was not much love in what I said to-night." - -"No, dear Celia, the truth was so hot that it burnt it up," said -Philip, laughing. "Don't make yourself miserable. Colville will -hardly break his heart over it. Indeed, I am not certain that he -keeps one. Are you not coming down again? Well, then, good-night." - -On questioning her counsellor Patient in a similar manner, Celia -found her unable to see any error in her act. Perhaps the old fiery -Covenanter spirit was too strong in her to temper the words which she -spoke. That which to Celia was merely carrying out the apostolic -injunction, "Be courteous,"[29] was in Patient's eyes "conferring -with flesh and blood."[30] - -"Nay, Madam," said she, "if Paul himself could say, 'If any man -preach any other Gospel unto you than that ye have received, let him -be accursed,'[31] are we to mince our words and dress the truth to -make it dainty to the world and the Devil? Is it not written, 'If -any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema -Maran-atha'?"[32] - - -"You retired early last night," said Lady Ingram to Celia, as she -sipped her chocolate on the following afternoon. "You were tired, I -suppose?" - -"No, Madam," said Celia, honestly; "I was angry." - -Lady Ingram gave her usual sign of surprise or perplexity--a very -slight elevation of her chiselled eyebrows. - -"With whom, my dear?" - -"With Mr. Colville, Madam." - -"A very good family, child," said Lady Ingram, gravely. "A younger -branch, it is true, but still an old family--allied to the Colvilles -of Bassingbourne. They can trace their descent to the eleventh -century." - -"Madam, Mr. Colville and I were not disputing the length of our -descent." - -"When you do, my dear, remember that you are of a still older family -than he. Hubert de Ingeramme went over to England with William the -Conqueror, and before that his line had been seated at Gournay and -Ingeramme from the days of Rollo. You must be careful to remember, -child, that if there be no high titles in your house, you are very -ancient indeed; and that, after all, is the real thing. There are -many families in France who are merely Counts or Barons in respect of -title, but whose lines are as old as the Crown itself. '_Familles en -velours rouge cramoisi,_'[33] that is what some call them. And -yours, my dear, is a crimson velvet family. Pray don't allow any one -to dispute that." - -"I am not in the least likely, Madam," was Celia's amused reply. - -"That is right, my child!" resumed Lady Ingram, condescendingly. "I -am rejoiced to see that you appreciate the importance of the subject. -By the way, has Philip told you that he has received a commission -from His Majesty?" - -"Yes, Madam," said Philip's sister, sighing. - -"My dear," answered his mother, "there is nothing to sigh about. -'Tis high honor to receive a commission from King James. The troops, -I learn, march for Landrécies on the 19th--next Monday; and are to -oppose Prince Eugene there about the 10th of next month. I propose, -therefore, to travel to Landrécies, where I shall take -apartments--small and inconvenient, I fear they will be: but I -suppose you can put up with that? And then Philip can come and see -us from time to time while the troops are there; and I shall be able -to see that he powders his hair properly, and does not neglect the -tying of his cravats. 'Twould never do that an Ingram should be -unmodish, even in battle. Only think, if he were to go into action -in a Steenkirk![34] I should never forgive myself. And he is far -too careless in that respect." - -"I can put up with anything that you can, Madam," said Celia, -answering only one clause of her step-mother's speech. - -"Very good, my dear. Then order Patient to be ready." - -"Is Patient to go, Madam?" - -"My dear!" said Lady Ingram, "do you think I mean to travel like a -_bourgeoise_? Of course Patient will go. And be careful that you do -not take too few gowns with you. I have to spur you, my -_réligieuse_, or I really think you would scarce know the difference -between silk and camlet. What a pity you were not born a Catholic! -I will give the orders to Patient myself, that will be best. She is -little better than you in such matters. I suppose, in her case, it -arises from her being a Scotch-woman, and of no family. But how it -ever came to be the case with you, an Ingram of Ingram, I really -cannot understand. Those things generally run in the blood. It must -be the people who brought you up. They did not look as if they knew -anything." - -"You think so much about family, Madam," said Celia, stung in the -affections by this contemptuous notice of her dearest friends; -"pardon me for telling you that the Passmores have dwelt at Ashcliffe -for eight hundred years." - -"My dear, you astonish me!" said Lady Ingram, with a faint glimmer of -interest. "Then they really are respectable people! I assure you I -am quite rejoiced to hear it. I did think there was something a -little superior in the manner of the eldest daughter--something of -repose; but you English are odd--so different from other people. -Eight hundred years, did you say? That is quite interesting." - -And Lady Ingram dropped another lump of sugar languidly into her cup -of chocolate. Repose! thought Celia. Truly in Isabella's manners -there was repose enough; but it had never occurred to the simple -Passmores to regard it as enviable. On the contrary, they called it -idleness in plain Saxon, and urged her by all means to get rid of it. - -"Quite interesting!" repeated Lady Ingram, stirring up the sugar in a -slow, deliberate style which Isabella would have admired. "Really, I -did not know that the Passmores were a respectable family. I thought -they were quite nobodies." - - - -[1] Jonah iv. 9. - -[2] Cor. ii. 11. - -[3] Matt. vii. 14. - -[4] John vi. 37. - -[5] John x. 28. - -[6] Sarah Duchess of Marlborough once called on a lawyer who happened -to be from home. "I don't know who she was, Sir," said his clerk in -informing him of the visit, "but she swore so dreadfully that she -must be a woman of quality!" - -[7] Ps. xxix. 10. - -[8] Exod. xx. 7. - -[9] Act of Contrition--"I most humbly entreat Thy pardon, O my God, -for all the sins which I have committed against Thine adorable -Majesty: I grieve for them bitterly, since Thou art infinitely good, -and sin offendeth Thee. I detest these sins with all my heart, with -the resolution to forsake them by the help of Thy grace." - -Act of Faith--"My God, I firmly believe all the truths which the -Church proposes to us, because it is Thou who hast revealed them." - -[10] Matt. x. 37. - -[11] Matt. vii. 13. - -[12] These are true anecdotes. - -[13] Ps. civ. 30. - -[14] Gen. ii. 2. - -[15] john v. 17. - -[16] Isa. xliii. 13. - -[17] Ezek. xxxiv. 10. - -[18] Rev. xviii. 8. - -[19] Luke xiv. 23. - -[20] Hag. i. 5. - -[21] Heb. ix. 27. - -[22] The majority of Mr. Colville's expressions are taken _verbatim_ -from Lord Bolingbroke. The Modern Rationalist arguments are mere -_réchauffés_ of those which did duty a hundred and fifty years ago. - -[23] John i. 4. - -[24] Heb. i. 3. - -[25] 2 John 11. - -[26] Zeph i. 18. - -[27] 2 Cor. x. 4. - -[28] Eph. iv. 15. - -[29] 1 Pet. iii. 8. - -[30] Gal. i. 6. - -[31] Gal. i. 9. - -[32] 1 Cor. xvi. 22. - -[33] Madame Duplessis-Guénégaud thus described the House of Adhémar, -from one branch of which the Princes of Orange were descended, while -another was the stock of the Counts de Grignan. - -[34] The Steenkirk, a peculiar twist of the ends of the cravat rather -than a tie, is said to have taken its rise from the Duke of -Monmouth's going hastily into action at the battle of Steenkirk with -his cravat twisted out of his way in this manner. It was quite out -of fashion in 1712, except among country people. - - - - -XI. - -HOW PHILIP CAME BACK. - - "The hour we see not, when, upsurging full, - Our cup shall outflow. God is merciful." - - -"Disengaged, Madam? I have just half an hour to spend with you. -Positively the last time before I don my regimentals. And then -hurrah for Landrécies! O Ned, I wonder where you are! I wish you -would come back!" - -"Do you travel with us, Philip?" - -"No, thank you, Madam. That would be rather too spicy." - -"You go with your regiment?" - -"I have that honor." - -"Mr. Philip," said Patient, as she noiselessly entered, "I have done -your packing, and"-- - -"What a darling of a Covenanter you are, to take that off my hands!" - -"And I have put a little Bible, Sir, along with your linen. Will you -please to promise me, Mr. Philip, to read it?" - -"Dear Patient," answered Philip, letting his lightness slip from him -like a cloak, "I will read it. I have read it so much lately that I -should feel almost lost without it, I assure you." - -"Have you done aught but read it, Mr. Philip?" asked Patient, -earnestly. - -"As how?" queried Philip. - -"Sir, I can conceive of none so awfully far off God and good as he -that handles the bread of life but never eateth of it, he that -standeth just outside the gate of the fold and never entereth -therein. Have you felt it, Mr. Philip? have you believed it? have -you prayed over it?" - -There was no lightness about Philip's tone or manner as he answered, -"I think, Patient, I have." - -But Patient was not satisfied yet. - -"Mr. Philip, my bairn," said she, "I do think that what you do, -you'll do thoroughly--not half and half. I think you will know -whether you do mean to follow the Lord or not. But 'tis one thing to -mean to go, and another to set out on your journey; 'tis one thing to -think you can leave all without trying, and another to leave all. -And I'm no so sure, my dear bairn, whether you ken your own self, and -whether you can leave all and follow Him. 'Tis rougher walking in -the narrow way than on the broad road. It takes sore riving to get -through the gate with some. Can you hold on? Can you set the Lord -always before you, above all the jeering and scoffing, all the -coldness and neglect of the world? For until the Lord is more to you -than any in this world, you'll scarce be leaving all and following -Him. Don't be deceived--don't be deceived! and oh, laddie dear, -dinna deceive your ainsel'!" - -"My dear old friend!" said Philip, looking up lovingly into Patient's -face. "I will tell you the honest truth about myself. Celia, do you -remember what I said to you the first time that I saw you?" - -Celia remembered that well. It had pained her too much to be lightly -forgotten. - -"Well, that has all passed away. I believe that there is a God, and -that the Bible is His revelation to man. Colville's philosophy -merely disgusts me now. (I must say for him, though, that he was -talking unusual nonsense the other night; he generally has something -better to say than that.) Well, then, I believe, if I know what -believing means, in Jesus Christ. Perhaps I _don't_ know what -believing means; I shall not feel astonished if you tell me so. I -believe that He died to save sinners, that is, instead of sinners; -but instead of what sinners I don't quite know. For I cannot help -seeing that while all mankind are sinners, there is one class of -sinners, called saints, who are quite different from the rest. My -puzzle at present is what makes the difference. We all believe that -Christ died for sinners, yet it seems to be only some of us that get -any good from it. If you can explain this to me, do so." - -"I must go back to eternity to explain that," said Patient. "Sir, -ages back, ere the world had a beginning, the Lord God, who alone was -in the beginning, Father, Son, and Spirit, covenanted the redemption -of man.[1] Certain persons, whose names were written in the Book of -Life,[2] were given of the Father to the Son,[3] unto whom, and to -none other, the benefits of His redemption were to be applied.[4] -'No man,' quoth our Lord, 'can come to Me except the Father which -hath sent Me draw him;[5] and also, 'All that the Father giveth Me -shall come to Me.'[6] Therefore"-- - -"Stop, stop!" cried Philip. "Let me take all that in before you go -on to secondly. Do you mean to say, Patient, that God, the loving -and merciful God, who says He wills not the death of any sinner,[7] -selected a mere handful of men whom He chose to save, and -deliberately left all the rest to perish? Was that love? Was that -like God?" - -"Sir, we can only know from the Word what is or is not like God. He -ruleth over all,[8] and who shall say unto Him, 'What doest Thou?'[9] -And when all were sunk in sin, and He might justly have left all to -perish, shall we quarrel with Him because He in His sovereign grace -and electing love decided to whom the merit of His work, the free -gift of God, should be applied?" - -"That is Covenanting doctrine, I suppose," said Philip, dryly. - -Celia saw breakers a-head. - -"Dear Patient," she said, very gently, "are you not trying to feed -Philip with rather too strong meat? Remember what our Lord said to -His disciples, 'I have many things to say unto you, but ye cannot -bear them now.'"[10] - -"Speak you, then, Madam Celia," said Patient. "I have but one -speech." - -"Oh! you good folks don't always agree!" observed Philip, as if he -had made a discovery. - -"We quite agree," answered Celia. "I believe just what Patient does, -but I don't think it is suited for you. She is trying to make you -spell words of three syllables before you can say your alphabet -perfectly; and I think it will be better to help you over the -alphabet first. Dear Philip, those whom Christ saves are those whom -He makes willing to accept His salvation. Are you willing?" - -"Go your own way, Madam," said Patient, in a dissatisfied tone; "go -your own way. But don't account me in agreement with the teaching of -Arminius." - -"My dear Patient, I know nothing about Arminius--neither who he is -nor what he teaches," replied Celia, simply. "Does not God make His -elect willing to accept His salvation?" - -"Surely, Madam, surely," answered Patient, a little mollified. "But -you spake of _will_, Madam. Now I never can accept the free-will -views of that heretic Arminius." - -"Fire away, Patient!" cried Philip, from the sofa; "I will lay five -pounds on you. Well, really! I am rejoiced to find that the saints -can quarrel like sinners! It makes a fellow feel himself less of an -isolation." - -This was exactly the sentiment which Celia was most unwilling to -foster in Philip's mind. She paused a moment, and sent up a prayer -for wisdom before she spoke again. - -"Dear Philip, the saints after all are only a few of the sinners. -Patient and I are both human, therefore open to sin and error. Don't -take what we say, either of us; take what God says. He cannot -mistake, and we may. Patient, you will not disagree with me in this?" - -"Not a whit, Madam. And I ask your pardon if I spake unadvisedly -with my tongue." - -"And if I did," responded Celia, softly. "Least of all should we do -it on such a subject as this." - -"You did not," answered Philip. "It was the old bird that was the -fighting cock!" - -"Well, dear Philip," said Celia, turning to her brother, "this is the -great question for you and me: Are we willing to accept Christ's -work, and to place no reliance upon our own works? He will be all or -nothing. We cannot save ourselves either wholly or in part. Our -salvation is either done, or to do; and if it be yet to do, it can -never be accomplished." - -"Then what place do you find for good works in your system?" - -"No place, as the efforts of the slave to set himself free;[11] every -place, as the endeavor of the child to show his love to the -reconciled father."[12] - -"Well," said Philip, reflectively, "I found long ago that your view -was the soil which grew the finest crop of them. Don't look at me -so, Patient. Let me talk as I think; it is natural to my mind to -express itself as I do. I don't mean anything wrong." - -"The Lord will have that out of you, Mr. Philip, if you be His." - -"Well," replied Philip, gravely, "I suppose He knows how." - -"Ay, He knows how," answered Patient, sadly. "But don't you give Him -more work in that way than you can help, Sir. The surgeon's knife -may be very necessary, but it never can be otherwise than painful." - -Celia did not quite agree with Patient here; but it was a secondary -point, and she said nothing. Philip looked at his watch, and, -declaring that he could not stay another minute, kissed Celia and -Patient, saying, "_A Landrécies!_" as he left the room. - -"I see a long, weary walk for Mr. Philip, Madam," remarked Patient, -when he was gone. "If he be to reach the good City at all, 'twill -sure be by a path of much affliction." - -Celia was rather disposed to think the same. - -Lady Ingram's expectation that she would be able to procure only -small rooms at Landrécies was verified. The apartments to be -obtained were both small and few. Lady Ingram and Celia occupied the -same bed-chamber. Until this happened, Celia had no idea what a very -artificial flower her handsome, stately step-mother really was. She -now found that the fourth part of her hair, and nearly three-fourths -of her bloom, were imparted. Every morning Lady Ingram sat for two -hours under the hands of Thérèse, who powdered her hair, rouged her -cheeks, applied pearl-powder to her forehead, tweezers to her -eyebrows, and paint to her neck, fixing in also sundry false curls. - -"My Lady," asked Patient, in her quietest manner, the first evening -at Landrécies, which was the 12th of July, "if the Prince Eugene take -us prisoners, what will become of us, if you please?" - -"Prisoners!" repeated Lady Ingram. "Absurd, Patient! You speak as -if you thought a defeat possible. The armies of the _Grand Monarque_ -and those of King James together to be routed by one Savoyard! -Preposterous!" - -"They were put to flight at Malplaquet, Madam" (which place Patient -pronounced to rhyme with jacket); "and 'tis not so many days since -the Prince took Le Quesnoy."[13] - -"Patient Irvine, you are no better than a fool!" said Lady Ingram, -turning round to give effect to her sentence. - -"Very like, Madam," was the mild reply of Patient, who was employed -in giving the last fold to her young lady's dress. "Indeed, 'tis but -the act of a fool to reason beforehand. The Lord will dispose -matters." - -"Celia! I shall find you another attendant, now that you can speak -French, and send Patient back to her sewing. Does she speak in this -canting way to you?" - -"Pray don't!" was Celia's alarmed reply to the first part of Lady -Ingram's remark. "No more than I do to her, Madam," she answered to -the second. - -"I see!" said Lady Ingram, sarcastically. "A nice choice of an -attendant I made for you! It was unavoidable at first, since she was -the only woman in my house, except Thérèse, who could speak English; -but I ought to have changed her afterwards. I might have known how -it would be. When we return to Paris, I will provide you with a -French woman." - -"You will do the Lord's will, Madam," observed Patient, calmly. - -"I will do my own!" cried Lady Ingram, more angrily than was her wont. - -"Madam," was Patient's answer, "the Lord's will _will_ be done; and -in one sense, whether you choose it or not, you will have to do it." - -"Leave the room! You are a canting hypocrite!" commanded her -mistress, in no dulcet tones. - -"Yes, my Lady," answered Patient, meekly, and obeyed. - -"Now, if that woman had had the least spirit, she would have answered -me again. A little more rouge here, Thérèse." - -And Lady Ingram settled herself peacefully to her powderings, leaving -Celia in a state very far from peace. She felt, indeed, extremely -rebellious. - -"Cannot I have my own choice in this matter?" she thought to herself. -"Am I never to have my own way? Must I be forever the slave of this -woman, who is neither my own mother nor one of the Lord's people? -Shall I calmly let her take from me my only friend and counsellor? -No! I will go back to Ashcliffe first; and if I break with Lady -Ingram altogether, what matters it?" But the next minute came other -thoughts. Patient had told her words of her grandfather's which she -remembered,--"A soldier hath no right to change his position." And -how could she put such an occasion to fall in her brother's way? -Perhaps the Lord was drying up all the wells in order to drive her -closer to the one perennial fountain. Ah! poor caged bird, beating -against the cage! She little knew either how near she was to -freedom, nor by what means God would give it to her. - - -The 21st of July dawned. Lady Ingram had risen a little earlier than -usual, for she expected to see Philip, and had been grumbling all the -previous evening at his non-appearance. He came in, dressed in full -regimentals, about eleven o'clock, when his mother had been down for -about an hour, and Celia for several hours. - -"Good-morning and good-bye in one," he said, speaking hastily, and to -both at once. "I have but ten minutes to stay. Marshal Villars has -found a weak place in Prince Eugene's intrenchments at Denain, and he -is going to draw his attention by an attack this morning on the -Landrécies side, while we come up the other way and storm Denain this -afternoon. Villars himself will be with us. Bentinck defends Denain -with seventeen battalions and fourteen squadrons, mostly Dutch.[14] -By the way, Le Marais has heard that Ned is in camp, but I have not -come across him. You are sure to see him before long, if he be here." - -"Philip!" said his mother, suddenly, "the tie of your cravat is quite -a quarter of an inch on one side!" - -"A quarter of a fiddle-stick, my dear Mother!" said Philip, laughing. -"What do you think it will look like when I have been an hour in -action! I hope they will let me head a charge. I expect to be made -a Prince of the Empire at the very least! Good-bye, Mother." - -"Adieu, my son," responded Lady Ingram, a little less languidly than -usual. "Don't go into danger, Philip." - -"What admirable advice to an officer of His Majesty's army!" returned -Philip, kissing her. "Good-bye, little Celia. I have something to -tell you when I come back." - -Celia looked up from Philip's kiss into his eyes to see what it was. -They were deeper and softer than usual, but she read nothing there. - -"Good-bye, dear Philip. God keep you!" she said. - -"And you--both," replied Philip, in a softened tone. "Adieu!" And -he was gone. - -All that day Celia could do nothing. She wondered to see Lady Ingram -sit quietly knotting, as if the day of the battle of Denain were no -more to her than other days. But the day passed like other days; -they dined and drank chocolate, and the dusk came on, and Lady Ingram -ceased knotting. She had been out of the room a few minutes when -Patient put her head in at the door. - -"Madam," she said, in her quiet, unmoved voice, "Sir Edward is below, -and a strange gentleman with him. Will you speak with him while I -find my Lady?" - -Celia rose and went down into the dining-room, very curious to make -the acquaintance of her unknown brother. But it was not the unknown -brother upon whom her eyes first fell. She saw merely that he was -there--a tall, dark, grave-looking man; but beside him stood a -fair-haired man, a little older than himself, and with a cry of -"Harry! dear, dear Harry!" Celia flew to him. Harry's greeting was -quite as warm as Celia's, but graver. - -"Who has won?" was her first question. She wondered afterwards that -it should have been so. - -"The allies," answered Harry, quietly. "I am Sir Edward's prisoner." - -"A prisoner whom I yield to my sister, to be disposed of at her -pleasure," said Edward, coming forward; and Celia, turning from -Harry, greeted and thanked the real brother cordially, though a -little shyly. - -"Have you seen Philip?" she asked of both. Her apprehensions were -beginning to subside. - -We rarely know the supreme moments of our lives till they are past. -We open laughing the letter which contains awful tidings; we look up -brightly to see the unclosing of the door-- - - "Which lets in on us such disabling news, - We ever after have been graver."[15] - - -It was with a lightened heart, and almost a smile, that Celia asked -if her brothers (as she considered both) had seen Philip; and full of -apprehension as her heart had been all day, she did not guess the -answer from the dead silence that ensued. - -Harry was the first to speak, and he addressed himself to Sir Edward. -"You, or I?" was his enigmatical question. - -"You," answered Edward, shortly. - -"Celia, darling!" began Harry, looking back at her with deep -compassion in his eyes; and he got no further. And then she knew. - -"O Philip, Philip!" broke in a bitter wail from the lips of the -sister who had learned to love Philip so much. "Are you sure? Have -you seen him?" she asked, turning first to Harry and then to Edward, -hoping against hope that there might be some mistake. - -"I have seen him," replied Edward; and her hope died away. - -"Celia," resumed Edward, "listen, dear sister. I have seen Philip; -there can be no mistake on that score. He will be brought here soon. -But I have seen also something else, for which, knowing him as I do, -I thank God so much that as yet I have hardly begun to grieve at all. -He lies just where he fell at the head of his troops, after one of -the finest and bravest charges that I ever witnessed in my life: his -face turned to God and the foe. But this lay close to his heart. -Look at it." - -Celia took from her brother's hand the little book which he held out -to her. She saw at once that it was a Testament, but the leaves were -glued together with a terrible red, at which Celia shuddered as she -tried to open them. - -"The first leaf," was Edward's direction. - -She recognized Philip's well-known hand as she turned to it. At the -head of the fly-leaf Lady Ingram's name and address were faintly -pencilled; and below were a few lines in darker and fresher lead. -Celia dashed the intrusive tears from her eyes before she could read -them. - -"'Wherefore He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto -God by Him, seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them.'[16] -'Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief.'"[17] - -The little book trembled in Celia's hand, and she broke into a fresh -shower of uncontrollable weeping. Her companions allowed her to -indulge her sorrow for a few moments in silence. Then Edward said -gently, "Who shall tell his mother?" - -"I will," she answered, ceasing her tears by a violent effort; and -she left the room, and went up-stairs at once. Lady Ingram was -seated at her knotting. - -"Where have you been?" she asked, without looking at her -step-daughter, for just then the knotting was at a difficult point, -and required all her attention. - -Instead of answering, Celia knelt down by her, and uttered one -word--a word she had never used to her before. - -"Mother!" - -Lady Ingram dropped her work, and looked into Celia's face. - -"My dear," she said, her voice slightly trembling, "you have bad news -to tell me. At once, if you please--I do not like things broken -gradually." - -At once Celia told her: "Philip is killed." - -With a wild shriek which rang through the house, Philip's mother -flung up her arms--as Celia remembered that, once before in her life, -Claude De L'Orient had done--and then fell back heavily and silently -in her chair. Celia, ignorant and terrified, threw open the door and -called for Patient and Thérèse. They came in together, the former -quiet and practical, the latter screaming and wringing her hands. - -"Eh, my faith! Madam is dead!" shrieked Thérèse. - -"'Tis but a dwawm, Madam," was the decision of Patient. "Please to -open the window. Thérèsa, cut her Ladyship's lace[18] whilst I fetch -her water." - -"But, my dear friend," remonstrated Thérèse, with an invocation in -addition, "that will spoil her figure!" - -"Go down-stairs and fetch a glass of water," said Patient, with a -spice of scorn. "That's all _you_ are fit for. Madam, will you -please to hold her Ladyship's head while I get at her lace and cut -it?" - -Patient's remedies applied, Lady Ingram partly recovered herself in a -few minutes. Edward was by her side when she again opened her eyes. -They rested for an instant on him and on Celia, and closed again with -a long tremulous sigh which seemed to come from her heart. - -"If you will please to give me orders, Madam," said Patient, quietly, -to Celia, "I think her Ladyship will be best in her bed, and she -scarce seems knowledgeable to give orders herself. Will I and -Thérèsa lay her there?" - -Celia spoke to Lady Ingram, but received no answer, and she gave -Patient the order. So Patient and Thérèse undressed the still figure -and laid her to rest. Lady Ingram continued to sleep or swoon, -whichever it were; she seemed occasionally sensible to pain, but not -to sound, nor did she appear to know who was about her. - -About ten o'clock, Celia, seated at her step-mother's bed-side, heard -a regular tramp of soldiers' feet below, and knew too well what they -must be bringing. A few minutes afterwards her brother softly -entered the room. - -"Celia, they have brought Philip here. Will you come and see him?" - -She hesitated a minute, half for Lady Ingram, and half for herself. - -"There is nothing painful or shocking, dear; I would not ask you if -there were. Would you like to see him again or not?" - -Celia rose and gave Edward her hand. He led her silently down to the -dining-room, leaving her to go in the first by herself and kneel -beside the still, white clay which only five hours earlier had been -Philip Ingram. - -Ah! if she only could have known, what might she not have said to -him! Had she said enough? Had she done her duty?--her utmost? Had -she pressed Christ and His salvation on him as she ought to have -done? Where was Philip now? - - "Oh, that _had!_ how sad a passage 'tis!"[19] - - -Oh, that _might have been!_ how much sadder! - -Edward and Harry came in and stood by her. - -"Can either of you tell me anything more?" she faltered, her eyes -riveted on the calm, fixed, white face which would never tell -anything more to her. - -"I can," answered Harry Passmore, softly. "I heard his last words." - -"O Harry, tell me!" pleaded Celia. - -"I was stationed just opposite," he said, "and it was my regiment -that received the charge. A shot killed the horse of the officer in -command, and he too fell. I knew not whether he had received injury -himself, and I was so much struck by his youth and bravery that I -pressed forward to aid him. But as soon as I saw his face, I found -that the shot had struck more than the horse. At this moment my -adjutant spoke to me, calling me 'Colonel Passmore.' When he heard -that, he saith from where he lay, 'Are you Harry Passmore of -Ashcliffe?' 'Yes,' I said, wondering that he could know me. 'You -are Celia's brother, then,' quoth he, with the ghost of a smile, 'and -so am I. Take this to her. The address is on the fly-leaf.' I was -so amazed that I could but utter, 'Are you Philip Ingram?' 'I am,' -he saith, his breathing now very quick and short. 'Tell my mother -gently. Take care of Celia.' His voice now failed him, and I bent -my head close that I might hear anything more. I heard only as if he -whispered to himself, 'The uttermost!' Then came a long sobbing -sigh, and then all was over." - -"God forbid that we should limit that uttermost!" murmured Edward, -softly. - -"O Edward!" sobbed his sister, "do you think he is safe?" - -"My sister," he replied, very gently, "can I tell you more than God -does? 'To the uttermost'[20] and 'he that believeth.'[21] But if -you had known Philip as I knew him, you would feel with me that -something must have happened to him, which had made an immense -difference between what he was and is. I cannot think that something -anything short of the redeeming love of Christ. God knows, dear, -what are the boundaries of His uttermost. I can scarce think they -are closer than our uttermosts." - -"Yet outside the fold is outside," said Celia, falteringly. - -"I did not mean for one moment to deny that," said he; "I expressed -myself ill if you thought so. But we are told--'According to your -faith be it unto you,'[22] and of what may come from 'faith as a -grain of mustard-seed.'[23] And it seems to me that the words on -that leaf had never been penned by such a hand as Philip's, unless -his faith were at least equal to a grain of mustard-seed. Remember, -dear heart, that in His hand who will not break the bruised reed, nor -quench the smoking flax,[24] are the keys of Death and of Hell.[25] I -can trust Him to do right, even to the brother I loved so well." - - -Lady Ingram returned to consciousness on the following day, but -Thérèse reported that she was very weak and low, and desired to see -no one but herself. On the Sunday morning she suddenly sent for -Celia and Edward. They found her lying propped up by pillows, her -eyes sunk and heavy, and her face very pale. She recognized her -step-children with a faint smile. - -"Come and kiss me, Edward," she said, in a low soft voice: "I have -scarce seen you yet. And Celia, too. You loved him, both of you. -Now listen to me, and I will tell you what I shall do. As soon as my -health and strength admit, I shall take the veil at the convent of -Sainte Marie de Chaillot. I have no more to live for. You are both -old enough to take care of yourselves. And, after all, life in this -world is not everything. I shall make my retreat, and after some -years of penance and prayer, I trust I shall have grace to make my -conversion. You, Edward--do you propose to remain in the army?" - -"I do not think I shall, Mother." - -"You will keep up your estates?" - -"I should prefer living in England." - -"And Celia; what will you do, my dear?" - -"I shall go back to Ashcliffe if nobody want me. If Edward wish me -to live with him I will willingly do so, especially in England; but -even then I should like to pay a long visit to Ashcliffe before -settling anywhere else." - -"I should be very happy to have you with me, dear," said Edward, -quietly, to this; "but I do not wish to be any tie to you. There is -no necessity for your living with me, for I am about to marry. So -pray do which you prefer." - -"Whom are you about to marry, Edward?" asked Lady Ingram, turning to -him with a look of some interest in her languid eyes. - -"None whom you know, Mother. One with whom I met on my travels." - -"I am glad you are marrying," she said, "And how is Celia to return -to Ashcliffe?" - -"Oh! with Harry," replied Celia, quickly. - -"He is not at liberty yet," observed Edward, gravely. - -"But you will set him free to go with me?" entreated his sister. - -"I have nothing to do with it. You will, I suppose. I make you a -present of my prisoner." - -"Oh, thank you! If Harry's liberty depends on me, he shall have it -directly." - -"Edward," said Lady Ingram, "I have a favor to ask from you." - -"Name it, and take it, Mother." - -"Will you see that a small pension is settled on Thérèse; and, should -she wish to continue in her present position, interest yourself in -obtaining for her another situation?" - -"I will attend to her interests as honestly and thoroughly as I think -you would yourself." - -"I do not recommend Patient to you, since she is already rather your -servant than mine, and you will be careful of her, I know. Celia has -a great liking for her: I dare say she will wish to take her to -England." - -"Do you object to that, Madam?" asked Celia. - -"Not in the least," replied Lady Ingram. - -"Do you?" continued Celia, this time addressing Edward. - -"For a time, certainly not. I should not like to part with her -altogether; but, on the other hand, I should not allow you to travel -to England without a woman in your company. Patient shall go with -you, and after my marriage let her return to me, wherever I may -resolve to dwell." - -"Thank you. You will write to me, then?" - -"I will come to you, if you are willing to receive me. We have seen -very little of each other yet." - -"Very little," said Celia, rather sadly. - -"Now, my children, leave me," requested Lady Ingram, faintly. "I am -too weak to converse much. Send Patient to me." - - -Ten days later saw them journeying in company by easy stages to -Paris; and ten days after that witnessed a solemn ceremony in the -convent chapel of Sainte Marie de Chaillot, at which Queen Maria -Beatrice, Madame de Maintenon, and a brilliant crowd of distinguished -persons were present, when Claude Ingram took upon herself the white -veil of a postulant. Edward and Celia were there, the latter with a -slight misgiving whether she were not sanctioning idolatry to some -extent, even by her appearance: a suspicion not laid to rest by the -manifest disapproval and uncompromising speeches of Patient. "'Can a -man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?'"[26] -asked she. But Celia was determined to see the last of Lady Ingram; -and Edward promised to lead her out before anything objectionable -began. To her it was an inexpressibly mournful ceremony. The -different stages of the rites--the shearing off of the glossy hair, -the taking of the vows, the white veil of the postulant--all seemed -to her as so many epitaphs on the grave of a living woman. When the -brother and sister went down to the guest-chamber to take leave of -the novice, Celia was sobbing hysterically. - -Lady Ingram parted from both with a very warm embrace. She appeared -much softened. - -"Farewell, my child!" she said to Celia. "And you will not live -always in England? You will come and see me at least once more? And -when you pray to God in your _prêches_, do not quite forget Soeur -Marie Angélique." - -Celia turned from the convent-gate with a sadder heart than she ever -thought she could have felt at her parting from Claude Ingram. - -Only for three days longer did she remain in Paris. The house was -very painful to her now. In everything Philip lived again for her; -and she became very anxious to get home to Ashcliffe. Of the warmth -and cordiality of her reception there it never occurred to her to -doubt. So on the 14th of August, Celia, Harry, and Patient left -Paris on their way to England, escorted by Edward as far as Havre. - - - -[1] Isa. xlviii. 16; Eph. i. 4. - -[2] Rev. xvii. 8; xxi. 27. - -[3] John x. 29; xvii. 6. - -[4] Matt. xv. 13. - -[5] John vi. 44. - -[6] Ibid. 37. - -[7] Ezek. xxxiii. 2; 2 Pet. iii. 9. - -[8] Ps. ciii. 19. - -[9] Eccles. viii. 4. - -[10] John xvi. 12. - -[11] Rom. xi. 6; Gal. ii. 16. - -[12] Col. i. 10. - -[13] Le Quesnoy was taken on the 3d of July. - -[14] Sismondi, "_Histoire des Français_," vol. xxvii., p. 162. -Lacretelle, "_Histoire de France pendant le XVIII. Siècle_," vol i. -p. 43. The exact day of the battle is disputed. I have followed -Lacretelle. - -[15] Mrs. Browning's "Aurora Leigh." - -[16] Heb. vii. 25. - -[17] Mark ix. 24. - -[18] Staylace-- - - "Oh, cut my lace asunder, - That my pent heart may have some scope to beat, - Or else I swoon with this dead killing news." - --Shakspeare, "Richard III.," act iv., sc. 1. - -[19] Shakspeare, "All's Well that Ends Well," Act i. sc. 1. - -[20] Heb. vii. 25. - -[21] John iii. 36. - -[22] Matt. ix. 29. - -[23] Matt. xvii. 20. - -[24] Isaiah xlii. 3. - -[25] Rev. i. 18. - -[26] Prov. vi. 27. - - - - -XII. - -TRAITORS--HUMAN AND CANINE. - - "Thy way, not mine, O Lord, - However dark it be! - Lead me by Thine own hand, - Choose out the path for me." - --DR. BONAR. - - -The _Naws-Letter_ had just come in, posted from London, and Squire -Passmore sat down in the parlor to read it. It was a warm, but wet, -autumn afternoon. The embroidery frame was covered with a wrapper, -and Isabella and her mother were tying up preserves and labelling -them. Two large trays of them stood on the parlor-table, and Cicely -came slowly in with another. - -"Well, sure, that's main heavy!" said she. "If you please, Sir, is -there aught by the post from Master Harry?" she added, with a -courtesy. - -"Nothing, Cicely, nothing," said the Squire, looking up from his -newspaper. "I don't know what has come to the lad. He did scribble -one line to let us know that he was not killed, but not a word have -we had from him since." - -"Mayhap he's a-coming," suggested Cicely. - -"I wish he were," sighed Madam Passmore. - -A merry laugh outside announced somebody, and the door sprang open to -the united attacks of Pero and Lucy. - -"Anything from Harry?" was her question too, and she received the -same answer. - -And "Anything from Harry?" asked Charley, sauntering in with his -hands in his pockets. - -"These are done, Cicely," said Madam Passmore. "Take them hence, and -fetch another tray; and bid Dolly, if any should come on such a wet -day, to have a care that she brings them not hither, but into the -drawing-room--unless, of course, it were Harry," she added in a -doubtful tone. - -"Oh dear, Mother!" exclaimed Isabella, who had gone to the window, -"here is a coach coming up but now." - -Lucy was at the window in a second. - -"Well, who is coming out?" she soliloquized. "An old woman--at -least, no--she's not old, but she's older than I am"-- - -"You don't say so!" commented Charley, incredulously. - -"Have done, Charley!--and the fattest little yellow dog--oh, such a -funny one!--and--why, 'tis Harry! and Celia! Celia herself!" - -An announcement which sent the whole family to the door at different -paces, Lucy heading them. Celia felt herself obliged to greet -everybody at once. Lucy was clinging to her on one side, and Charley -on the other; Madam Passmore was before her, and the Squire and -Isabella met her at the parlor-door. - -"I am fain to see thee once more, child!" was the Squire's greeting; -"but what a crinkum-crankum that woman has made of thee!" - -"She looks quite elegant," said Isabella, kissing her with a little -less languor than usual. - -"Don't tease her, Charley; she is very tired," said Harry, when he -could get in a word. "We have had a long stage to-day." - -So Celia was established in an enormous easy-chair, and propped up -with cushions, until she laughingly declared that she would require -all the united strength of the family to help her out again; and Lucy -was busy attempting to divest her of her out-door apparel, without -having the least idea how to do it. - -"Shall I take your hat and cloak up-stairs, Madam?" said Patient, -entering with a general courtesy. - -"Celia, what have you done with your yellow dog?" - -"O dear!" cried Celia, in a tone of distress. "I was so taken up -with you that I forgot her. Where is he, Patient?" - -"'Tis a-sniffling and a-snuffling about, Madam," said Patient. - -"Call her," replied Celia. - -"Dog!" summoned Patient--for Patient scorned to pollute her lips with -the heathen name which it had pleased Lady Ingram to bestow upon her -pet. But Venus was accustomed to the generic epithet from Patient, -and came trotting up at her call. Patient shut the little animal in -and herself out. Venus waddled slowly up the room, sniffing at every -member of the family in turn, until she came to Celia, at whom she -wagged her curly tail and half her fat body, and coiled herself in -peace upon a hassock at her feet. - -"Celia," asked the Squire, "did you search all Paris, or offer a -reward, for the ugliest dog that could be brought you?" - -"By no means, Father. The dog is a bequest from my step-mother. It -was her special pet, and I have not the conscience to discard it, if -I had the heart." - -"Is she dead, my dear? I see you are in black for some person," -asked Madam Passmore. - -The glad light died out of Celia's eyes, and her voice sank to a low, -saddened tone. - -"No, Mother; she has taken the veil at Chaillot. I am in black for -Philip--my brother Philip--who died at Denain." - -"Are you then come to us for good, my dear?" asked Madam Passmore, -tenderly. - -"For good, Mother, if you will have me, and I think you will. Only -that I have promised to see my step-mother again, but my visit to her -cannot last above a day, and will not be for some time to come." - -"Have thee, my dear child!" murmured Madam Passmore, as if the -reverse were the most preposterous notion of which she had ever heard. - -"Do widows make nuns of themselves?" asked Charley. "I thought they -were always girls, and that they walled them up alive when they had -done with them!" - -"And your woman, my dear?" - -"I want to plead with you for her, Mother. She has been the best -friend I have had--except Philip: and she is but lent to me for a -time. She was my brother Edward's nurse, and when he wants her again -he will come and fetch her. I thought you not mind my bringing her -with me." - -"What should I mind, my dear? If you have found her a true and -faithful waiting-woman, and love her, let her by all means abide with -you and serve you. Such are not to be picked up everywhere." - -"My dear," asked the Squire, uneasily, "I hope they have not made a -Tory of you, Celia?" - -"I don't know, really, Father," was the answer. "I scarce think -there is much difference between Whigs and Tories. They all seem to -me devoid of honesty." - -The Squire looked horror-struck. - -"Nobody has made a Papist of me, if that be any consolation to you. -I return as true a Protestant as I went." - -"Is this woman a Tory?" gasped the Squire. - -"Patient? No, Father," replied Celia, smiling, "she is a little on -the other side of you. She calls Oliver Cromwell 'His Highness the -Lord Protector,' and won't allow that King Charles was a martyr." - -"Celia, child, thou hast been in ill company!" solemnly pronounced -the Squire. - -"I was afraid you would think so. But I thought I was bound to obey -my step-mother in all things not wrong"-- - -"Surely, child, surely!" assented Madam Passmore. - -"Therefore, Father--I hope you will forgive me, but I cannot in -honesty keep it from you--I did not refuse her wish that I should be -presented to Queen Mary." - -The Squire gasped for breath. "Presented!" was the only word he -could utter. - -"I was afraid that it would vex you, when you came to know, dear -Father," said Celia, very gently; "but you see, I was placed in such -a position that I could not help vexing either you or my step-mother; -and I thought that perchance I ought to obey that one in whose charge -I was at the time. I did not like to go, I assure you; but I wished -to do right. Do you think I did wrong, Father?" - -"Now, John," said Madam Passmore, before the Squire could speak, "I -won't have the child teased and made unhappy, in particular when she -has only just come home. She meant to do right, and she did right as -far as she knew. You must pocket your politics for once." - -"Well, well, child," confessed the Squire at last, "we none of us do -right at all times, I reckon, and thou art a good child in the main, -and I forgive thee. I suppose there may be a few Tories who will -manage to get into Heaven." - -"I hope so," replied Celia, gravely. - -"So do I, child--so do I; though I am a crusty old Whig at the best -of times. But I do think they will have to leave their Toryism on -this side." - - -When Celia went up-stairs, to give a longer and fuller greeting to -old Cicely Aggett than she had the opportunity of doing before, she -heard the unusual sound of voices proceeding from Cicely's little -room. She soon found that Cicely and Patient were in close converse -on a point of theology, and paused a moment, not wishing to interrupt -them. - -"Well, truly, I ben't so much troubled with pride as some other -things," Cicely was saying. "You see, Mrs. Patient, I hasn't got -nothing to be proud of. That's where it is. If I was a well-favored -young damsel with five hundred pounds in my pocket, and a silk gown, -and a coach for to ride in, well, I dare say I should be as stuck-up -as a peacock. But whatever has an old sinner like me to be proud of? -Why, I'm always doing somewhat wrong all day long." - -"I am afraid I am a greater sinner than you, Mrs. Cicely," said -Patient Irvine's quiet voice in answer. "You have nothing to be -proud of, and you are not proud. I have nothing to be proud of, and -I am." - -"Well, surely, a white devil is the worst devil," responded Cicely. - -"Aye, he is so," answered Patient. "If He was 'meek and lowly in -heart'[1] which 'did no sin, neither was guile found in His -mouth,'[2] what should we be who are for ever sinning? I tell you, -Mrs. Cicely, some of the worst bouts of pride that ever I had, have -been just the minute after I had been humbling myself before the -Lord. Depend upon it, there is no prouder man in all the world than -the man who is proud of his humility." - -There was no audible answer from Cicely. Celia came softly forward. - -"Eh, my dear!" cried old Cicely, looking up at her. "I am so fain to -see you back as never was! Sit ye down a bit, Mrs. Celia, dear -heart, and tell me how it has gone with you this long time." - -"Very well, dear Cicely, as concerns the Lord's dealings with me, and -very ill as concerns my dealings with Him." - -"That's a right good saying, my dear. Ah! the good between Him and -us is certain sure to be all on His side. We are cruel bad, all on -us. And did you like well, sweetheart?" - -"That she did not," said Patient, when Celia hesitated. "She has not -had a bit of her own way since she left you." - -Celia laughed, and then grew serious. "My own way is bad for me, -Patient." - -"I never knew one for whom it was not, Madam, except the few who were -so gracious that the Lord's way was their way." - -"Well, I'd lief be like that," said Cicely. "The King couldn't be no -better off than so." - -"So would I," Celia began; "but I am afraid that if I say the truth, -it will be to add 'in everything but one.'" - -"Now, my dear young lady," said Patient, turning to her, "don't you -go to grieve in this way for Mr. Philip, as you have been doing ever -since. I had no thought till then how he had twined himself round -either your heart or mine. Do you think, my bairn, that the Lord, -who laid down His life for him, loved him so much less than we?" - -"O Patient! if it were only my loss!" - -"Whose then, Madam?" - -"I mean," said Celia, explanatorily, "if I could be sure that it was -his gain." - -Patient did not reply for a moment. "I ask your pardon, Madam," she -said at length; "I did not know the direction in which your fears -were travelling. The less, perhaps, that I had none to join them." - -"I am surprised to hear you, Patient!" said Celia. "Only the last -time that we saw him before he bade us adieu, you seemed to feel so -doubtful about him." - -"That was not the last time that I saw him, Madam. The next morn, -ere he set out, I heard him conversing with Mr. Colville. They were -on the stairs, and I was disposing of your linen above. Now I knew -that all his life long the one thing which Mr. Philip could not bear -was scorn. It was the thing whereof I was doubtful if he would not -stand ill, 'and in time of temptation fall away.'[3] And that morn I -heard Mr. Colville speaking to him in a way which, three months -earlier, would have sent his blood up beyond anything I could -name;--gibing, and mocking, and flouting, taunting him with listening -to a parcel of old women's stories, and not being man enough to -disbelieve, and the like--deriding him, yea, making him a very -laughing-stock. And Mr. Philip stood his ground; John Knox himself -could have been no firmer. He listened without a word till Mr. -Colville had ended; and then he said, as quietly and gently as you -could yourself, Madam,--'Farewell, Colville,' saith he; 'we have been -friends, but all is over now betwixt you and me. I will be the -friend of no man who is the enemy of Christ. He is more to me than -you are--yes, more than all the world!' Madam, do you think I could -hear that, and dare to dispute the salvation of a man who could set -Christ above all the world? Now, you understand why I had no fear -for Mr. Philip." - -"He never said so much as that to me," replied Celia, with her eyes -moist and glistening. - -"He would have done so presently, Madam." - -"But, Patient, it was so short a time after he had spoken so -differently!" - -"Ah, Madam! doth that offend you? The Lord can ripen His fruit very -fast when He sees good, and hath more ways than one to do it. He -knew that Mr. Philip's time was short. We can scarce tell how -sweetly and surely He can carry the lambs in His bosom until we have -been borne there with them." - - -The next morning Isabella brought forward her embroidery-frame, -occupied just now by a brilliant worsted parrot and a couple of -gorgeous peacocks, the former seated on a branch full of angles, the -latter strutting about on a brown ground. The most important shade -in the parrot's very showy tail was still wanting. - -"Have you any work for me, Mother?" asked Celia. "I do not wish to -sit idle." - -"I can find you some, my dear. Here is a set of handkerchiefs and -some cravats for Father, which all want hemming, and I have been -obliged to work at them myself till now: Lucy scarce does well -enough, and Bell is too busy with yonder birds." - -"I will relieve you of those, Mother." - -And Celia took the basket and established herself near the window. - -"Mr. John Rowe to speak with Madam," was Dolly's announcement -directly afterwards, and Madam Passmore left the room. - -Charley and Lucy were learning their lessons. In other words, -Charley was sitting with his Æneid and the Lexicon open on the table -before him, bestowing his attention on everything in the room except -those two volumes; while Lucy, seated at the window on a hassock, was -behaving in much the same way to a slate. - -"What a constant plague that man is!" said Isabella, as she sorted -her wools. "There is no doing anything for him. I do believe he has -been here every day for the last fortnight." - -"Oh, I say!" commented Charley; "take that _cum grano salis_, Celia. -I think he has been three times." - -"Don't dispute with Bell, Charley; it doesn't signify." - -"My dear, he won't dispute with me," observed Isabella, calmly, -selecting different shades of scarlet. "I never dispute--it is too -much trouble, takes my attention from my work." - -She went on comparing her scarlets, and Charley, on receiving this -rebuke, buried himself for five minutes in the adventures of Æneas. -For a time all was silence except for the slight sound of Celia's -needle and Lucy's slate-pencil. - -"Where is Father?" inquired Madam Passmore, coming into the room with -a rather troubled look. - -Charley was up in a second. "He is in the stable; I saw him go. -Shall I run and fetch him?" - -"Ask him to come to me in the dining-room." - -And both Charley and his mother disappeared. - -"What is the matter now?" asked Lucy; but as nobody answered her, she -went back to her arithmetic. - -In about half an hour more, Madam Passmore entered, looking grave and -thoughtful. - -"Isabella, my child," she said, "I have something to tell thee." - -Isabella looked up for a moment, and then went back to her wools. -"Well, Mother?" she queried, carelessly. - -"My dear, I will not disguise from thee that John Rowe's visit -concerneth thee. He hath asked leave of thy father and me in order -to his becoming thy servant. Now, dear child, neither I nor thy -father desire to control thy choice; thou shalt speak for thyself. -What sayest thou? Wilt thou marry John Rowe, or not?" - -"My dear mother!" responded Isabella, still busy with the wools, "he -will come to the wedding in a blue coat and a lilac waistcoat and -lavender small-clothes!" - -"I dare say, if thou art so particular, that he will dress in what -color thou wouldst," said Madam Passmore, smiling. "But what is thy -mind, child? Dost thou like him?" - -"I don't care anything about him, but I cannot abide his suits," -returned the young lady, comparing the skeins. - -"Mother isn't asking you to marry his clothes, Bell!" exclaimed -Charley. - -"My dear, I am not asking her to marry him," said Madam Passmore; "I -only wish to know her mind about it. If thou dost not care about -him, child, I suppose thou wilt wish us to refuse his addresses?" - -"No, I don't say that exactly," replied Isabella, undoing one of her -two skeins. - -"Then what dost thou wish, my dear?" inquired Madam Passmore, looking -rather puzzled. - -"Oh! do wait a minute, till I settle this red," said Isabella. "I -beg your pardon, Mother--yes, that will do. Dear, 'tis quite a -weight off my mind! Now then for this other matter." - -"Child, the other matter imports rather to thee, surely, than the -colors of thy worsteds!" - -"I am sure it does not, Mother, asking your pardon. I have been all -the morning over these reds. Well, as to John Rowe, I don't much -mind marrying him if he will let me choose his suits, and give me two -hundred pounds a year pin-money, and keep me a coach-and-pair, and -take me up to London at least once in ten years. I don't think of -anything else. Please to ask him." - -"Don't much mind!" repeated her mother, looking dissatisfied and -perplexed. "Bell, dear child, I fear thou dost not apprehend the -import of that thou dost. 'Tis a choice for thy whole life, child! -Do think upon it, and leave thy worsteds alone for a while!" - -"If you want a downright answer, Mother, you shall have it," returned -Isabella, with the air of one ending an unpleasant interruption. "I -will marry John Rowe if he will keep me a coach-and-pair, and give me -two hundred a year pin-money, and take me to London--say once every -four years--I may as well do it thoroughly while I am about it--and -of course let me drive in the Ring, and go to Ranelagh and Vauxhall, -and see the lions in the Tower, and go to St. James's, and all on in -that way. There! now that is settled." - -Madam Passmore looked scarcely more satisfied than before, but she -said, "Well, my dear, if that be thy wish, thou hadst better go and -speak with John Rowe, and let him know thy conditions." - -"O Mother! with all these worsteds on my lap!" deprecated Isabella, -raising her eyebrows. - -"Put them here, Bell," interposed Celia, holding her apron. - -Isabella reluctantly disposed her worsteds and rose. - -"I wish John Rowe were far enough!" she said, as she left the room. - -"Dear, dear, child!" murmured Madam Passmore, looking doubtfully -after her daughter. - -"She is very like my step-mother," said Celia, quietly. "She reminds -me of her many a time." - -"Now then!" said Isabella, triumphantly re-entering. "I have sent -him away, and told him he must not come teasing when I am busy. When -I had just found the right shade of red! Look at this bracelet he -has given me--pretty, is it not? He has promised all I asked, and to -give me a black footman as well. I shall not repent marrying him, I -can see." - -"Is that happiness, my dear Isabella?" - -"Happiness!" replied Bell, stopping in her business of transferring -the wools from Celia's apron to her own. "Of course! Why, there are -not above half a dozen families in the country that have black -servants! I wonder at your asking such a question, Celia." - -"I say, Bell," queried Charley, just before taking himself and Virgil -out of the room, "I wonder which of you two is going to say the -'obey' in the service?" - -"That boy's impertinence really gets insufferable," placidly observed -Isabella, seating herself at the frame. "Now to finish my parrot's -tail." - - -The wedding of John Rowe and Isabella Passmore was celebrated in the -following spring. Thanks to the bride's taste and orders, the -bridegroom's attire was faultless. The black footman proved so -excessively black, and rolled the whites of his eyes to such an -extent, that Lucy declared she could not believe that he was no more -than an ordinary man. At the end of the summer, the absentees -returned to Marcombe, and Isabella came over to Ashcliffe in her -carriage, attended by her black Ganymede, in order to impress her -relatives duly with a sense of her importance: herself attired in a -yellow silk brocade almost as stiff as cardboard, with an embroidered -black silk slip, and gold ornaments in her powdered hair. And once -more Celia was vividly reminded of Lady Ingram. - -"I am going to have the black baptized," the young lady languidly -remarked. "I shall call him"-- - -"Othello," suggested Charley. - -"Cassibelaunus--O Bell! do call him Cassibelaunus!" - -"Nonsense, Lucy. I shall call him Nero." - -"Then he is a Christian, my dear?" asked her mother. - -"I don't think he knows anything about it," replied his mistress, -with a short laugh. "But you know 'tis scarce decent to be attended -by an unbaptized black; and he will be a Christian when 'tis done." - -"I am not so sure of that, Bell," said Madam Passmore, quietly. - -It was the first time that Madam Passmore had been known to express -any individual opinion upon religious subjects. - -"All baptized people are Christians," answered Mrs. John Rowe, a -little more sharply than was respectful. - -"All baptized are called Christians," corrected her mother. "I -scarce think, Bell, that if thou hast left thy black completely -untaught in matters of religion, that pouring a little water on his -face will cause him to become suddenly learned. And whether it will -suddenly cause anything else of a deeper nature may be to be -questioned." - -Celia listened with the greater interest because the tone of Madam -Passmore's observations was alike unexpected and unprecedented. - -"But, Mother," said Isabella, a little more deferentially as well as -reverently, "the Holy Ghost is always given in baptism?" - -"I was taught so, my dear. But I am come to feel unsure that God's -Word saith the Holy Ghost is always given in baptism. And, Bell, I -am not sure that He was so given to all my children." - -"You mean me, I suppose, Mother?" asked Isabella, returning to her -former tone. - -"I fear so, my child," responded Madam Passmore, so sadly and so -tenderly that Isabella could make no scornful answer. "I have -feared, indeed, for months past that I have taught you all wrong. -God amend it! Indeed, I hope He is Himself teaching some of you. -But I did not mean thee only, Bell. I have as much fear for all of -you, except Celia, and, perhaps, Harry. Have we feared God, child, -as a family? Hath there not been mere form and habit even in our -devotions? Have we not shown much unevenness, and walked unequally? -Have we cared to serve or please Him at all? Ah, my children! these -are grave questions, and I take bitter shame to myself to have lived -as many years as I have, and never thought of them. God forgive -you--and me!" - - -"Aye, to be sure, my dear!" said old Cicely upstairs, afterwards. -"To be sure, Madam, she's a-coming home to the Lord. I see her -reading the Book at odd times like, making a bit of a secret of it, -very soon after you went; and by and bye, a little afore you came -back, she came to make no secret of it; and since then I've seen many -a little thing as showed me plain where she was a-going. And Master -Harry, my dear, he reads the Book too--he does, for sure! Can't say -nothing about Master, worse luck! Then Miss Lucy and Master Charley, -you see, they're young things as hasn't got no thought of nothing. -But as for Mrs. Bell"-- - -Celia quite understood, without another word. "O Cicely!" she said, -many thoughts crowding on her mind, "surely I shall never distrust -God again!" - -"But you will, Madam," said Patient, looking up from her work. "Aye, -many and many a time! 'Tis a lesson, trust me, that neither you nor -I have learned yet. We are such poor scholars, for ever forgetting -that though this very lesson be God's a-b ab, for us, we need many a -rod to our backs ere we can spell it over. Aye, Madam, you'll not be -out of school for a while yet." - - -"Celia," asked Madam Passmore that evening, "when do you expect your -brother, my dear?" - -"I don't know, indeed, Mother," replied Celia. "I expected him ere -now. I know not what is keeping him. Surely he will be here before -summer!" - -Edward Ingram was not at Ashcliffe before summer. - -The summer passed, and he did not come. The winter passed, and he -did not come. Nay, the whole spring, and summer, and autumn, and -winter of another year passed, and the third summer, of 1714, was -fading into autumn--still Edward did not come. - -But when the dusk was gathering on the 5th of August in that year, a -horseman galloped into Ashcliffe village with news which he was -carrying post-haste to Tavistock and Launceston--news which blanched -in my a cheek and set many a man looking to his aims--which called -forth muffled peals from the church-towers, and draped pulpits and -pews in mourning, and was received with sadness and alarm in -well-nigh every English home. For the one thread was snapped on -which England's peace had hung--the one barrier standing between -England and anarchy was broken. The last Stuart whom the nation -acknowledged lay dead in Kensington Palace. - -So long as Queen Anne lived, the embers of discord had been only -smouldering. The Jacobites felt a half-satisfaction in the thought -that the old line still held the sceptre; the Whigs rejoiced in their -Whig and Protestant Queen. Not that the private political views of -the Queen were very Whiggish ones. On the contrary, granted one -thing--her own personal rule--she was at heart a Tory. For all the -years of her reign she had been growing more and more a Tory. She -would never have abdicated the sceptre; but very little indeed was -wanted to make her say, when the cold grasp of the Angel of Death was -laid upon her, "Let my brother succeed me." Such a speech would have -given the Jacobites immense vantage-ground. For in 1714 the State -was still the Sovereign, and "_La Royne le veut_" was sterling yet in -England. This the partisans of the exiled family knew well; and to -their very utmost, through their trusted agents, of whom Abigail Lady -Masham was the chief, they strove to induce the Queen to utter such -words. Her decease now was the signal for the division of the -country into two sharply-defined parties. The Tories strove for King -James, triennial Parliaments, removal of Popish disabilities, peace -with France, free trade, and repeal of the union with Scotland. The -Whigs battled as fiercely for King George, septennial Parliaments, -Test and Corporation Acts, war with France, protection, and -centralization. - -A dreadful struggle was expected between these two parties before -George Louis, Elector of Hanover, could seat himself on Anne Stuart's -vacant throne. His character and antecedents were much against him. -All who knew him personally were aware that he was a man of little -intellect, and less morality. Moreover, from both demoralized -parties there was a cry for money, and hands were eagerly stretched -out to the Elector, less for the purpose of welcoming him than for -the hope of what he might put into them. George Louis gave not a -stiver. He had not many stivers to give; but what he had he loved -too well to part with them either to Whigs or Tories. He sat quietly -at Hanover, waiting for Parliament to vote him supplies, and for his -disinterested supporters to secure his unopposed landing. -Parliament--from a Whig point of view--did their duty, and voted -liberal aids within a week or two after the Queen's death. James was -up and doing at St. Germains, while George slumbered in his arm-chair -at Herrenhausen. At length, on the 18th of September, the gentleman -of doubtful, or rather undoubtful, morals, who was facetiously styled -the Hope of England, condescended to land upon our shores. He formed -his Cabinet, allowed himself to be crowned, dissolved Parliament, and -leaving the country to take care of itself, returned to silence and -tumblers of Hock. - -The English people in the main were irreparably disgusted with the -man of their choice. They were ready to welcome the grandson of -their "Queen of Hearts," Elizabeth of Bohemia, but they looked for a -royal Prince, a true Stuart, graceful and gracious. And here was a -little stupid-looking man, who cared nothing about them, and was a -stranger alike to their language, their customs, their manners, and -their politics. A new edition of Charles II.'s vices, deprived of -all Charles II.'s graces--this was their chosen King. Neither Celtic -Cornwall nor Saxon Lancashire could bear the disappointment. West -and North rose in insurrection. There were riots throughout England, -and many a Dissenting chapel was levelled by the mob. The Riot Act -was made perpetual, the Habeas Corpus Act suspended; a price of -£100,000 was set upon the head of King James's exiled son; and his -Hanoverian Majesty, meeting his Parliament on the 21st of September -1715, civilly requested the arrest of six Tory members of the House -of Commons. - -While all this was doing in England, in a quiet corner of Scotland a -little cloud was rising, which had increased to goodly proportions by -the 6th of September, when Lord Mar unfurled in Braemar the standard -of King James the Third. On the 13th of November were fought the -battles of Sheriffmuir and Prestonpans; and on the 22nd of December, -a little group of seven men landed at Peterhead, one of whom was the -royal exile, now generally known as the Chevalier de St. George. On -the 7th of January 1716, he reached the ancient Palace of his -forefathers at Scone; but by the 30th his cause was lost, and he -retreated on Montrose, whence, on the 4th of February, quitting his -native land, he returned to France. - -The vengeance taken was terrible. Head after head fell upon the -scaffold, and the throne of the House of Hanover was established only -in a sea of blood. - - -On the evening of the 8th of March, the family at Ashcliffe were -gathered in the parlor. The Squire was playing draughts with Harry, -the ladies working, and Charley and Lucy engaged in the mutual -construction of an elaborate work of art. - -"Sea-coal any cheaper yet, Mother?" asked the Squire. - -"Not yet," said Madam Passmore. - -"Monstrous dear, is it not?" inquired Harry. - -"Nothing to what it was in my young days," answered his father. -"Forty or fifty years ago, at the time of the Dutch war, charcoals -went up to one hundred and ten shillings the chaldron, and those were -lucky who could get them even at that price." - -"Was not that about the time of the Great Plague?" - -"Yes--two or three years later." - -"Then you remember the Plague, Father?" - -"Remember it!" said the Squire, leaning back in his chair and -neglecting his draughts. "Men don't forget such a thing as that in a -hurry, my lad. Aye, I remember it." - -"But there was no plague here, was there?" - -"Not just in this village; but well-nigh all communication was -stopped between Tavistock and Exeter, and in the King's highway the -grass was growing. It was awful at Tavistock. The town was shut up -and declared in a state of siege, and none allowed to approach nearer -than three miles. Watchmen were appointed, the only men permitted to -hold communication with the infected town; and when any provisions -were needed, they made proclamation, and the neighboring villages -brought such things as they asked to the high ground above Merrivale -Bridge, where the cordon was drawn." - -"And how did they pay for their provisions?" - -"A pitful of vinegar was dug there, in some hole in Dartmoor,[4] and -the money dropped into it. None in healthy places were allowed to -touch money coming from infected places without that provision." - -"Surely money could not carry the infection?" - -"Money! aye, or anything else. You have scarce a notion how little -would carry it. Harry, lad, throw another log on the fire; 'tis -mightily cold." - -Harry obeyed orders, resumed his seat, and the game between him and -his father proceeded for a few minutes in silence. - -"Hark!" cried Madam Passmore, suddenly, "what was that?" - -"I heard nothing," said Lucy. - -"What was it, Mother?" asked Harry, looking up. - -"Some strange sound, as if one were about on the terrace," she -answered in a suppressed voice. "There again! I am sure I hear a -footstep on the gravel." - -Charley rushed to the window, and endeavored to see through the -darkness. - -"'Tis as dark as pitch; I can see nothing at all!" observed that -young gentleman. - -"I will go out and see what it is," said Harry rising. - -He took his sword from where it lay, and left the room. - -"Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow!" said Venus, running after him, as her -contribution to the family excitement. - -Harry opened the front door, desiring Charley to guard it till his -return, and Venus, after sniffing under it, rushed out of the house -with him, barking loudly on the terrace, in a state of great -perturbation. Harry came back after an absence of twenty minutes, -during which the Squire had several times "wondered what on earth was -keeping the boy." - -"All right," he said, laying down his sword; "there are no robbers -about." - -"It has taken you a precious time to find it out," growled his father. - -Harry sat down again to his game. "I walked round the terrace to -make sure," he said. - -"Which you might have done in five minutes," grumbled the Squire -again. "Now then, 'tis your move." - -Harry placed one of his three kings in dangerous proximity to his -adversary's forces. - -"Thank you, Sir," said his father, satirically, capturing the -imperilled potentate. - -Harry tried to retrieve himself, and succeeded in placing the second -king in the same position. - -"Harry, lad, what has come to you?" asked the Squire, looking at him. -"You were playing better than usual till just now, but your walk -round the terrace seems to have destroyed your skill." - -"I beg your pardon, Sir," answered Harry, uncomfortably. "I will -endeavor to play better." - -And he carried out his attempt by placing in imminent peril his last -remaining piece. - -"Nay, nay," said his father, leaning back in his chair, "'tis no use -going on, lad. Did you see a ghost on the terrace?" - -"I did not, Sir, I assure you," returned Harry. - -"Well, I wonder what is the matter with you," said the Squire. -"Here, Lucy, come and let me see if you can do any better." - -Lucy took her brother's vacated seat. - -"Celia," said Harry, a quarter of an hour afterwards, turning to her, -"would you mind bringing your needle and thread up-stairs? I want -you to help me with something which I cannot well bring here." - -"Oh yes, Harry, I will come with you," answered Celia, re-threading -her needle, and following Harry out of the room with it in her hand. - -Harry led her up-stairs, motioned her into her own room, and, much to -her surprise, locked the door, and pocketed the key. - -"Harry, something is the matter," she said. - -"Something _is_ the matter, Celia," repeated Harry. "I have brought -you here to tell it you." - -"What did you see on the terrace?" she asked, fearfully. - -"Sir Edward Ingram," was the answer. - -"Harry! where is he? why did you not tell me?" - -"Nobody must know, Celia, except you and me--and, perhaps, Patient. -But I would rather not tell even her if we can avoid it. Sir Edward -is in hiding, having fled from Sheriffmuir, and a party of men have -been riding him down, he says, since last night. They know he is -somewhere in the neighborhood, and will most likely be here to search -the house in an hour or less. I will readily risk my life for the -man who saved it at Denain; and I know his sister will help me." - -"But where can we hide him?" faltered Celia. - -"Here," was Harry's short answer, opening the closet-door. - -"In the closet? O Harry! that is not safe enough. They would find -him in a minute." - -"My dear little Celia, you don't know half the secrets of your own -chamber. Look!" - -A touch of the secret spring caused the panel-door to spring outward, -and Celia's eyes to open very wide indeed. - -"I never knew there was such a place!" she cried. - -"I believe no one knows but myself, and now, you. I discovered this -room five years ago, but I did not wish to alarm you, for I had -reason to believe it was then inhabited. 'Tis one of the old -priests' hiding-holes. Now, watch how the door is opened, and then -contrive as best you can to procure food for Sir Edward. He says he -is well-nigh famished. While you are with him, I will go to the -outlet, where a passage leads to the garden, and remove the logs -which I put at the door five years since, as silently as I can. Make -haste, every minute may be priceless." - -Celia ran down-stairs, feeling utterly bewildered by the position in -which she was suddenly placed. Entering the larder, she possessed -herself hastily of a large loaf and a jug of milk,--making some -excuse--she scarcely knew what--to Patient, whom she found there; and -discovered Harry and a lamp waiting for her at the closet-door. He -had some carpenter's tools in the other hand. A hurried greeting was -exchanged between Edward and Celia, who conversed in whispers until -Harry returned, announcing that the passage was now open to the -garden, and that, to avoid suspicion, both had better go down again -to the parlor. - -"You must talk in the night," he said. - -Harry and Celia went back to the parlor. The latter sat down to her -work, hardly seeing a stitch she set. They had not been down-stairs -many minutes, when Lucy sprang up, triumphantly exclaiming that she -had won the game; at the same moment the sound of horses' feet was -audible outside, and a loud attack was made on the great bell which -hung in front of the house. - -"Open to His Majesty's troops!" - -The cry could be distinctly heard in the parlor. - -"Goodness me!" gasped Madam Passmore, dropping her work in terror. - -The Squire had recourse to stronger language than this. Harry, whose -composure seemed quite restored, went to the door and opened it with -every appearance of haste. - -"Oh!" said he, in a cordial tone, "how do you do, Wallace? Pray come -in, my father will have infinite pleasure in making your -acquaintance. Father, here is an old comrade of mine." - -"Your servant, Mr. Passmore," said Captain Wallace, bowing, with his -hat in his hand; "yours, ladies. I am very sorry for the ill errand -I come on. There is a Jacobite hiding in this neighborhood, a -Colonel in the rebel army, and a man of rank and influence--one Sir -Edward Ingram. I am in charge to search all the houses hereabouts, -and I am sure you will not take it ill of me if I ask leave not to -omit yours, though the loyalty of Mr. Passmore of Ashcliffe must ever -be above suspicion." - -"Jacobites be hanged!" burst from the Squire. "Sir, you do me great -honor. No Jacobites in my house--at least not if I know it. Pray -search every corner, and cut all the cushions open if you like!" - -"Thank you, Mr. Passmore. Only what I expected from a gentleman of -your high character. I may begin at once?" - -"By all means!" - -Captain Wallace called in one of his men--leaving the others to guard -the house outside--and after an examination of the parlor, they -proceeded up-stairs, Harry loyally volunteering to light them. In -about an hour they returned to the parlor. - -"Mr. Passmore," said Captain Wallace, "'tis my duty to question every -person in the house, to make sure that this rebel has not been seen -nor heard of. You do not object? A form, you know--in such a case -as this, a mere form." - -"Question away," said the Squire; "_I_ have neither seen nor heard of -him, and don't want to do either. Now for the ladies." - -Madam Passmore answered the question with a quiet negative. - -"It can scarcely be necessary to trouble the young ladies," gallantly -remarked the Captain. "But if they please to say just a word"-- - -"We have seen and heard nothing at all, Sir," said Lucy, innocently -replying for both; and the Captain did not repeat his question, -neither he nor the Squire apparently noticing the suspicious silence -of the elder sister. - -"I must, if you please, ask leave to examine the servants." - -Madam Passmore rang the bell, and ordered all the household up. They -assembled in wonder, and each in turn responded to the Captain's -queries by a simple denial of any knowledge on the subject. Patient -stood last, and when Captain Wallace came to her, he accidentally put -his first question in a different form from before. - -"Do you know Sir Edward Ingram?" - -"Ay do I," said she. - -Celia listened with a beating heart. The innocent ignorance of -Patient might work them terrible harm, which she would be the last -person in the world to do wittingly. - -"You know him?" repeated the Captain, in surprise. - -"Do you think I shouldna ken the bairn I nursed?" - -"Oh! you are his nurse, are you?" - -"I was so, twenty-five years back." - -"When did you see him last?" - -"Four years past." - -"Where?" - -"At Havre, in France." - -Celia breathed more freely - -"Have you heard anything of his movements of late?" - -"What do you mean?" inquired Patient, cautiously. - -"Well, did you hear that he was likely to come into this -neighborhood, or anything of that sort?" - -"I cannot say I havena heard that," was the quiet answer. - -"When did you hear that?" - -"He was expecting to come four years past, but he didna come; and I -heard a short space back that he might be looked for afore long." -Patient spoke slowly and thoughtfully. - -"Who told you that?" - -"My kinsman, Willie M'Intyre." - -"Are you a Scots woman?" - -"Ay," said Patient, with a flash of light in her eyes. - -"Humph!" muttered the Captain. "Difficult folks those mostly to get -round. When did you see Willie M'Intyre?" - -"An eight days or two since." - -"Cannot you tell me the day?" - -"I dinna keep a diary book," responded Patient, dryly. - -"Whence had he come?" - -"Whence should he come but from Scotland?" - -"Where was he going?" - -"I didna ask him." - -Patient's information appeared to have collapsed all at once, and her -Scotticisms to increase. - -"What is Willie M'Intyre?" - -"A harper." - -"How long was it since he left Scotland?" - -"You are a learned gentleman, Sir; ye ken better nor me how many days -it would take." - -"What else did he tell you about Sir Edward Ingram?" - -"He told me he was looking unco sick when he saw him." - -"Anything more?" - -"I have na mair to say, Sir, without you have." - -"You are a clever woman," involuntarily admitted the Captain, passing -his hand across his forehead as if in thought. "Well, and when did -he tell you to expect Sir Edward?" - -"He didna tell me to expect him." - -"What did he say about him?" - -"The twa things I've told you." - -"When did he say he was coming?" asked the Captain, impatiently. - -"Afore lang." - -"But _when_?" - -"He didna name ony day." - -Captain Wallace was no match for Patient, as might be seen. - -"Have you seen Sir Edward since you saw M'Intyre?" - -"No, Sir." - -"Have you heard of his being here since then?" - -"Being where?" - -"Anywhere in this neighborhood." - -Patient's answer came slowly this time, as if she were considering -something before speaking. But it was, "No, Sir." - -"Are you telling me the truth?" asked Captain Wallace, knitting his -brows. - -"I couldna tell ye aught else," answered Patient. "'Tis no lawful to -do evil that good may come. But no good will come, Sir, of your -hunting a man to death to whom Christ hath given power to become one -of the sons of God." - -"Oh dear! a Puritan!" murmured Wallace--"a Covenanter, for aught I -know. Mr. Passmore, these are the most impracticable people you ever -meet--these Puritans; particularly when they are Scots. There is not -much loyalty among them; and what little there is is sacrificed to -their religion at any moment." - -"I'm loyal, Sir," said Patient, softly--"to any covenanted King: but -needs be to the King of Kings the first." - -"I fear you are a dangerous character," said Captain Wallace, -severely. "I am surprised to meet with such an one in this house. -However, you won't lie to me, being a Puritan--that is one good -thing. They never tell lies. Now listen! Do you know where Sir -Edward Ingram is at this moment?" - -The "No Sir," came readily enough this time. - -"Well, I suppose you can go," said Captain Wallace, doubtfully. "But -I am not at all satisfied with you--mark that! Your witness is very -badly given, and very unwillingly. I may want you again. If it -should be needful to search the house a second time, I certainly -shall do so. You have only just escaped being put under arrest now." - -"I've told you the truth, Sir," said Patient, pausing. "I will tell -you the truth any day. But if it were to come to this--that my dying -could save you from finding my bairn Sir Edward, I wouldna haud my -life as dear as yon bittie of thread upon the floor!" - -She courtesied and departed. - -"Ah! that shows what the woman is," said Captain Wallace, carelessly. -"An enthusiast--a complete fanatic. Well, Mr. Passmore"-- - -"Sir," said the Squire, energetically, "I am by no means satisfied -with this. The house shall be searched again, if you please, and I -will join the party myself. Harry, fetch a longer candle--fetch two! -That woman may have hidden the fellow anywhere! I'll have every -corner looked into. There shall be no question of any hiding of -Jacobites in my house. Charley, go and get a candle too. You girls -have a lot of gowns and fallals in that closet in your room. Go and -bundle them all out! Make haste!" - -"Oh, I say, what fun!" remarked Charley, to whom any connection -between the hunted man and his favorite sister never occurred. - -Lucy left the room laughing to execute her father's behest, and Celia -dared not but follow, lest her absence should be remarked. The two -girls went hastily up-stairs, and at the top they found Patient -standing. - -"I'll help you, Mrs. Lucy," said she. And as Lucy passed on,--"You -ken something, Madam Celia. Don't let those bloodhounds read it in -your eyes, as I do. And be calm. The Lord reigneth, my bairn." - -"Yes, dear Patient, I know," was Celia's faltering answer: and she -went quietly into her own room. - - - -[1] Matt. xi. 29. - -[2] 1 Pet. ii. 22. - -[3] Luke viii. 13. - -[4] In the sunken circle which marked one of the habitations of the -ancient Iberii, the aborigines of Britain. One of their villages -stood above Merrivale Bridge, with a long avenue of stones (still -visible), intersected here and there by circles, and at a little -distance is a monolith. - - - - -XIII. - -LADY GRISELDA'S RUBY RING - - "He looketh upon us sweetly, - With His well-known greeting, 'Peace!' - And He fills our hearts completely, - And the sounds of the tempest cease; - But we know that the hour is come, - For one of us to go home." - --B.M. - - -Celia found Lucy already engaged in emptying the closet. Patient -came in and helped her until the bed was covered with cloaks and -dresses. They heard the searchers coming slowly toward them on the -other side of the passage, the Squire especially urging that not the -smallest corner should be left unsearched. At length they tapped at -the door for admittance. Charley came in first, holding his candle -high above his head, as if his mission were to explore the ceiling. - -"You be off!" said the Squire roughly, as soon as he saw Patient. - -"Why, Father!" interposed Lucy, "she has only been helping us to move -these things. You told us to make haste." - -Lucy was unconsciously proving a useful ally. - -"Wow!" came in a little smothered bark from somewhere, and Venus -waddled from under the valance and the dresses overhanging it. - -"Go down, Veny!" said Celia, adding apologetically, "she will get in -the way." - -She felt a terrible secret fear lest Venus should prove a more able -searcher than any other of the party. - -"I'll carry her out of the way,"--and suiting the action to the word, -Lucy caught up the little dog and shut her outside. - -A close examination was made of the room. Charley got into the -closet, and held his candle up. - -"Nothing there, thanks to the young ladies," said Captain Wallace, -laughing, as he looked in. - -"No--he'd be a clever fellow who could hide there," added the Squire, -in blissful ignorance. - -"Why, here's a nail," said Charley, "close to the wall. You'll tear -your gowns on it. I'll pull it out." - -Celia's very heart sank. - -"Leave it just now, Charley," said Harry, coolly; "we shall want you -and your candle." - -Charley sprang down and rejoined the searching party. Outside the -door they were also joined by Venus, who followed them into the next -room, which had been the bed-chamber of Isabella. She picked out -Captain Wallace, and followed close at his heels, paying no attention -to anybody else. The room was searched like the others, the last -thing which the Captain did being to look up the chimney. No sooner -did he approach the fireplace than Venus gave an angry growl and made -a futile attempt to bite him through his thick boots. - -"What is the brute growling at?" demanded the Squire. - -"I don't know, indeed," said Harry. - -The growling continued so long as Captain Wallace was near the -chimney, but nobody except Venus knew why. As soon as the party -turned from Isabella's room to Henrietta's, which was the next, Venus -trotted back to Celia. At the close of the inspection, both Captain -Wallace and Squire Passmore were forced to acknowledge that no trace -of any hidden fugitive could be discovered. They went down-stairs. - -Five minutes later Harry came lightly up again, and called to Celia, -who was helping Lucy to replace the dresses in the closet. She found -him in Isabella's chamber. - -"Let us look at this chimney, Celia," he said. "It must be very near -the hiding-place. What made Veny growl?" - -He had brought a small ladder from the housemaid's closet, with which -he mounted as far as he could go inside the wide old chimney. When -he came down, he looked pale and excited. - -"Celia, we must get him out of the house. If either Wallace or my -father should think of returning to see the cause of Veny's growling, -he will infallibly be discovered. The chimneys join, and every sound -from one room can be heard in the other. Venus is wiser than we are. -The dog knew, though I did not, that there was a shorter passage to -the concealed chamber from Bell's chamber than from yours." - -"What shall we do?" whispered Celia. - -"Go down-stairs, and fetch from the buttery such provisions as you -can take to Sir Edward, of any portable kind. Converse with him if -you will, but let it be in the lowest tones; and if you hear any -noise in this chamber be as mute as mice. I will go down and set my -father and Wallace at some game, and get my mother to prepare -Henrietta's chamber for him, as it is too late for him to think of -leaving to-night now. Then I shall go and have a horse ready saddled -as near as is safe. When the clock strikes nine, lead Sir Edward -down to the well door. You cannot miss it, if only you keep going -down. I will meet you with a lantern at the well, at nine or as soon -after as possible." - -"Is the well low enough, with all this rain?" - -"Water up to the ankles, but he will not care for that." - -Harry and Celia left the room softly, departing on their several -errands. - -"Wallace," said the former, coming into the parlor, "do you think it -is necessary to keep your men on guard outside? 'Tis a bitter cold -night, and if they may come into the kitchen, the poor fellows would -be none the worse for a hot supper." - -"I do not think it is necessary," said the Captain. - -Captain Wallace having called the men in, Harry took them to the -kitchen, and desired Molly the cook-maid to give them as good a -supper as she could, with hot ale, for which Robert was despatched to -the cellar. This done, Harry went up-stairs to his own room. -Silently opening his window--which, fortunately for his project, was -at the north-east corner of the house, away from both parlor and -kitchen--he climbed down the lime-tree which stood close beside it, -and took his way noiselessly to the stable. Meanwhile Celia, who had -concealed in her pocket and by means of the dressing-gown over her -arm, two standing pies, came back to her own room, and descended to -the concealed chamber. - -"See what I have brought you!" she said to the fugitive. "The troops -are here, and have searched the house twice, and Harry thinks that we -must get you away to-night. He will have a horse ready for you, and -will meet you at the well at nine o'clock. Do you mind going through -a foot of water?" - -"I should be a Sybarite if I did," smiled Edward in reply. "Celia, I -am bringing you into danger, and I am very sorry for it. I begin to -think now that it was but a cowardly act to seek shelter here; yet -when a man is riding for life he scarce pauses to choose his course." - -"You have brought me into no danger, dear, into which I did not -choose to be brought," she answered. "But if they found you, Edward, -what would they do to you?" - -"What they did but a few days since on Tower Hill to my friend Lord -Derwentwater,"[1] he said, gravely. - -Celia shuddered as the agony and ignominy of that horrible scaffold -came up before her eyes. - -"They will not do it without the Lord's permission," added he, -quietly. "Celia, I am in grave doubt whether I have done right in -this matter. Not that I could ever see it right to fight against -King James, nor that I doubt which would have been the right side to -take at the time of the Revolution. I cannot quite see--what I know -would be Patient's view, and is the view of many good men--that we -had no right to fight for a Popish King. I do not judge those who -thought so--to our own Master we all stand or fall. But I see the -matter in another light. It was not that King James, being a Papist, -was made King out of his turn, but that, being heir to the throne, he -became a Papist. I see an immense difference between the two. God, -not we, made him our King; God made the present King James his son, -knowing that he would be brought up a Papist. What right had we to -cast him off? Now the case is altered; he is cast off; and, -considering the danger of Popery, have I, _now_, any right to bring -him in again? This is my difficulty; and if I can leave England in -safety, I do not think I shall draw my sword in the Jacobite cause -again, though I never could take the oath of allegiance to any other -King. I will never dare to attempt the prevention of the Lord's -will, if only I can be certain what the Lord's will is in this -matter." - -"Well, I do not see the question quite as you do. It seems to me -that they were right to cast off a Popish King. But we have no time -to discuss politics to-night. You will leave England, then, at once?" - -"There is no hope of life otherwise. The Elector of Hanover and his -Ministers can have no mercy for us who fought at Sheriffmuir." - -"And when am I likely to see you again, Edward?" - -"When the Heavenly Jerusalem descendeth out of Heaven from God," he -answered, softly. - -"No sooner?" responded Celia, tearfully. - -"God knoweth," he said. "How do I know? I have a fancy sometimes--a -foreboding, if you will--that my life will not be long. So much the -better. Yet I do not wish to be longing selfishly for rest ere the -Lord's work for me is done. Look here, Celia! Look well at this -ring, so that you will know it again in any place after any lapse of -time." - -He drew the ring from his finger and passed it to her. It was an -old-fashioned gold ring, set with a single ruby. Inside it was -engraved in obsolete spelling, a "posy"-- - - "In thys my chance - I doe rejoyce." - - -"I shall know this again," said Celia, returning the ring after a -close inspection. "'Tis an old jewel." - -"A family heirloom," said Edward. "Our mother was married with that -ring. It came into out family as the wedding-ring of Lady Grissel -Fleming, our grandmother. I will endeavor to contrive, dear Cicely, -that by some means this ring shall reach your hands after my death. -When you next see it in the possession of any but myself, it will -signify to you that I have entered into my rest." - -"Edward, where is your wife?" asked Celia, suddenly. - -A spasm of pain crossed Edward's face. - -"I have no wife," he said. "The Lord had more need of my Flora than -I had, and two summers past He said unto her, 'Come up higher.' I am -almost glad now that she was spared this. I saw her but twice after -I parted from you at Havre. And I do not think it will be long now -ere I shall see her again." - -"You seem to like the prospect, Edward," said Celia, remonstratingly. - -"Have I so very much to live for, my sister? I can do no good to -you, especially now that we must be parted; and my sole object in -life is to do and suffer all the will of God. Do you wonder if I -wish at times that it would be the Lord's will to summon me home?" - -There was a short pause, broken by Edward's sudden exclamation, -"Celia!" - -She looked up to see what was coming. - -"How long have you known of this chamber?" - -"Harry said he had known of it for five years; I never heard a word -about it before to-night." - -"Did he suspect that it was occupied?" - -"I think he said it was, or had been, shortly before he discovered -it." - -"Would you like to know by whom?" - -"Very much. Why, Edward, how do you know?" - -"There is not time to explain that; but I can tell you that Father -Stevens, a Jesuit priest, was in hiding here for some time, and for -about two months, Gilbert Irvine." - -"What were they doing here? and how did they get their provisions?" - -"What Stevens was doing I cannot say; but Gilbert's object was you. -He was sent here by my mother to make himself acquainted with you by -sight, and to discover all he could about you and your friends here. -As to provisions, he catered for himself in the village and -elsewhere; but on two or three occasions, when he dared not venture -out, and was very hard bestead, he supplied himself from Mr. -Passmore's larder." - -"How did he get there?" - -"Through your room." - -"Edward!" - -"It was a bold move, and might have cost him dear if you had awoke." - -"Do you mean to say that he did it while Lucy and I were sleeping in -the room?" - -"Yes," said Edward, with his grave smile. - -Celia sent her memory back to the time, and a dim vision gradually -revealed itself to her of one winter night when, awaking suddenly, -she had fancied she heard mice in the wainscot, and the next morning -the black cat had suffered at the hands of Molly for the absence of a -partridge and a cold chicken from the buttery. - -"But how came my step-mother to know anything about this hidden -chamber?" - -"Through Stevens, who at one time was among her confessors. Oh! the -priests know their old hiding-places, though the owners may have lost -the tradition of them." - -"Have you seen my Lady Ingram of late?" - -"Within the last six months." - -"How does she at Chaillot?" - -"The nuns say she is killing herself with austerities, and she looks -as though she might be. She has her salvation to make, you see." - -"What a dreadful delusion!" sighed Celia. - -"One of man's hundred usurpations of the prerogative of God. If man -may not save himself wholly, he will save himself in part; he will do -anything rather than let Christ do everything. 'Tis just the world, -the flesh, and the devil, in a peculiar shape, and of a very fair -color. 'Puffed up by his fleshly mind,'[2] saith St. Paul of this -manner of mortifying of the flesh. The subtlest serving of the devil -lies, I think, in this kind of renouncing of the world. And the -world, in whatever shape, 'passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he -that doeth the will of God abideth forever.'"[3] - -As Edward spoke the last word, the old clock in the hall struck nine. -Both rose, and Edward, drawing Celia to him, kissed his last farewell. - -"God be brother and sister to you, dear," he said, "and keep thee in -all thy ways;[4] set thee in the secret place of the Most High, that -thou mayest abide under the shadow of the Almighty.[5] Christ be -with thee! Amen!" - -They went softly down to the door opening into the well, outside of -which was Harry with a ladder. There was another figure there beside -Harry's, but the moonlight was not sufficient to show who it might be. - -"Say farewell to Patient for me," said Edward. "I wish I could have -seen her. Adieu!" - -In another minute Edward was safely landed. As soon as he touched -the ground, the second figure came forward and threw its arms round -his neck. - -"Eh, my bairn! my bairn!" sobbed a voice which both Edward and Celia -knew well. "I could never bear to let you go but a word. The Lord -bless thee and guide thee! My ain bit laddie, that I nursed!" - -Edward returned the embrace very warmly. Patient had always been far -more of a mother to him than Lady Ingram. He seemed disposed to -hesitate for a moment, but Harry urged him away, and motioned to -Celia to return. She left the three on the outside of the well. -Harry and Edward hastening to the place where the horse waited, and -Patient, silent and motionless, watching her darling pass from her -sight. - - -Celia was early down-stairs the next morning. Harry met her in the -hall, and contrived to whisper along with his morning kiss, "All -right." Further communication was impossible, for the Squire was -just behind them, and the three entered the parlor together. They -found Captain Wallace looking out of the window. - -"Good-morning, Captain," said the Squire. "I suppose you have heard -nothing of your man?" - -"Nothing whatever, Mr. Passmore." - -"Well, I'll have the house searched again by daylight. First thing -after breakfast"-- - -"Your energy is most laudable, Mr. Passmore; but really, after two -previous searches--is it necessary?" - -"Necessary or unnecessary, it shall be done, Sir," said the Squire, -warmly. "No man on earth shall have the shadow of reason for -suspecting any concealment of rebels in Ashcliffe Hall. You will do -me the favor to accompany me, and Harry and Charley shall come too." - -"I shall be most happy, Sir," responded Harry. - -"'Tis splendid fun!" commented Charley. "I only wish we could find -him!" - - -The search took place, and not a corner was left an examined, except -only the undiscovered hiding-place, which alone needed examination. -The Squire pressed Captain Wallace to be his guest for another day, -and so, for a different reason, did his eldest son. Captain Wallace -accepted the offer, after a decent show of reluctance to save his -conscience. Harry no longer pressed him to stay after the following -morning, and he left the next day. - -"Father," said Harry, in the evening, "I fear I am about to draw your -displeasure upon me, but I have done what I thought right, and I must -bear it. Sir Edward Ingram left this house at nine o'clock yesterday -evening." - -"Left this house!" cried the Squire and Madam Passmore, in a -breath--the former adding some very powerful language, which shall -not be reproduced here. - -"Left the house," Harry repeated, calmly. - -The Squire exploded a second time, telling his son, among other -equally pleasant assertions, that he was a disgrace to his family and -his country, and would come to the gallows before he was much older. - -"Father," was Harry's dignified reply, "I am sorry for nothing, -except that I have angered you. This man whom Wallace was seeking is -a gentleman and a Protestant, and at the battle of Denain he saved my -life, and gave me my liberty without ransom. Would you, as a man of -conscience and honor, have advised me to give him up after that?" - -The Squire growled something inaudible. - -"Father!" said Celia, rising in her turn, very white and trembling, -"this was my brother whom we concealed in your house last night. I -will take half, or more than half, of whatever blame is due. Harry -concealed him, but it was in my bed-chamber, and I brought him food, -and assisted in his escape. Could I have delivered up my brother to -death--the only brother I have left? Father, have you the heart to -say so?" - -"No, my dear!" said Madam Passmore, pouring a little oil upon the -turbulent waters; "no, I am sure he never would--never!" - -Madam Passmore's gentle deprecation of his wrath appeared to set the -Squire free to explode a third time. - -"Lucy!" he exclaimed, turning to his wife, in one of the severest -tones he had ever used to her, "I am a Whig, and my father was a Whig -before me, and my grandfather fought for King Charles at Edgehill and -Naseby: and I have brought up these children to be Whigs, and if they -aren't, 'tis a burning shame! A murrain on the day that sent my Lady -Ingram here after our Celia! But, hang it all! how can I help it?" -said the Squire, suddenly breaking down. "If this fellow be Celia's -brother, and have saved Harry's life, as a man of honor I could not -bid them do otherwise than try to save his--no, not if he were the -Pope himself! 'Tis not nature for a man to take sides against his -own children. Botheration!" he concluded, suddenly veering round -again; "that isn't what I meant to say at all. I intended to be very -angry, and I have only been an old fool--that's what I am!" - -"You are a dear old father, who can't be cross when he thinks he -ought to be--that's what you are!" said Lucy, coaxingly. - -"Get along with you, hussey!" returned the Squire, shaking his fist -at her in a manner which Lucy very well knew was more than half -make-believe. "And pray, Colonel Passmore, after allowing me to -search the house three times and find nothing, I should like, if you -please, to know where you hid your refugee?" - -"You shall see that, Father," said Harry, rising. - -And he led the way to the hiding-place, followed by the whole family, -Cicely bringing up the rear when she heard the noise they made. Each -member expressed his or her amazement in a characteristic manner. - -"Oh, my buttons! isn't that capital!" said Charley. "I wish I had -known last night! It would have been ten times better fun!" - -"I think you enjoyed yourself sufficiently," returned his brother, -gravely. - -"What a horrid, dark hole, Harry!" said Lucy. - -"I never knew of such a place here!" exclaimed his mother. - -"Well, Mr. Henry Falkland Passmore, you are an uncommon cool hand!" -asserted his father. "And who helped you to get your Jacobite safely -away, I wonder?" - -"Celia and Patient Irvine." - -"Did Patient know where he was, Harry?" asked his mother, gravely. - -"Not when Wallace questioned her. I told her afterwards." - -But the astonishment of the whole group faded before that of old -Cicely Aggett. - -"Well, I do declare!" was what she said. "If ever anybody did! No, -nobody couldn't never have guessed the like of this--that they -couldn't! I've lived in this house three-and-thirty years come -Martlemas, and I never, never did see nor hear nothing this like in -all my born days! Only just to think! And them things I took for -rats and ghosteses was Papishes? Eh, but I'd a cruel deal rather -have a hundred rats and mice nor one of them wicked Papishes, and -ghosteses too, pretty nigh! Well, to be sure, my dears, the Lord has -preserved us wonderful! and 'tis uncommon thankful we'd ought to be." - - -"You will sleep to-night, Madam, I trust," said Patient, that -evening, as she bound up Celia's hair. - -"And you, my poor Patient!" said Celia. "I fear you slept not much -last night." - -"No, Madam," answered Patient, quietly; "I watched unto prayer." - -"Well, I hope Edward is quite safe by this time," sighed Celia. - -"You will never see him again, Madam," said Patient, solemnly. - -"Patient!" exclaimed Celia, in sudden terror lest she might have -heard some bad news. - -"Best, my bairn," said Patient, reading her thought in her face. "I -have heard nothing. But 'tis borne in upon me--'tis borne in upon -me. The Lord hath said unto me, 'He shall surely die.'" - -Celia listened in awe and wonder. "Patient, you are not a -prophetess!" she said. - -"Ah, Madam! I think more than one of us hath been a prophet where -our heart's beloved are concerned. Was it not revealed unto -Alexander Peden that he should die in Scotland? And did he not say -unto the captain of the ship appointed to carry him unto the American -plantations, 'The ship is not launched that shall carry me thither?'" - -"And where did he die?" - -"In Scotland, Madam, as the Lord had showed him; and they laid his -dust on the Gallows' Hill of the city. I reckon the Lord can see it -as easily there as in the kirkyard. It is a kirkyard now. One after -another came and laid their dead beside Peden, and from a gallows' -hill 'tis become a burying-place.[6] It was said, indeed, that Mr. -Renwick saw further than many, but he was not known unto me, and I -can say nought thereanent. But that, 'The secret of the Lord is with -them that fear Him'[7] may be a deeper word than we ken. And as to -George Wishart, all knew that he was called to be a prophet of the -Lord, and John Knox likewise; but there were giants in their days. -We be smaller men now. Yet the Lord is the same now as then, and He -doeth whatsoever He will. 'Tis not the worthiness nor holiness of -the man that maketh a prophet, but the breath and Spirit of the Lord -within him. And I, being less than the least of all His, do know of -a surety that I shall never see Master Edward any more." - -Patient's lips quivered, and some seconds passed ere she could speak -again. - -"Ay, the will of the Lord be done!" she said, presently. "'He -knoweth them that are His,'[8] and He will not let us fail of a -meeting in our Father's house. Rest, my bairn; you need it!" - - -Two months afterwards came a letter to Squire Passmore, bearing -neither date nor signature. Though Edward's hand was unknown to her, -Celia claimed the precious paper at once. - -"DEAR SISTER,--Last night I landed at Corunna. I shall be safe for -the present, and the Lord is ever with me. Thank better than I could -all who helped me. You will know from whom this comes. Love to both -of you. God keep you!" - -Celia carried the paper to Patient, whom she guessed to be included -with herself in the "both of you." - -"Thank you, Madam!" said Patient, when she had read it. "'Tis a -comfort to hear that he is in safety. Yet I cannot forget that the -Lord hath showed unto me that he shall die in the flower of his age." - - -The 5th of June 1721, was Celia's thirtieth birth-day. She was -seated at work in the parlor with Madam Passmore and Lucy, when a -ring at the great bell summoned Robert to the front door, and was -followed by his announcement of "Mr. Colville." Celia looked up in -surprise to see if Philip's friend had sought her out. No; this was -certainly not her pantheist adversary. He was a smaller and slighter -man, with a much pleasanter expression of face than his namesake, yet -with the same pale blue eyes and flaxen hair, and some resemblance in -the features. - -"Mrs. Ingram?" he asked, a little doubtfully, with a smile and a low -bow. "Mrs. Celia Ingram?" - -Celia rose to receive him, wondering all the time who he was and what -he wanted with her. - -"That is my name, Sir," she said, a little timidly. "I once knew a -Mr. Colville in Paris"-- - -"Who was my brother," said the visitor, in explanation. "It was -Arthur Colville whom you met in Paris. I am David Colville. I have -been commissioned to give something into your hands, and none -other's, the signification of which I believe you know. I received -it at Barcelona on the 18th of January last." - -And he drew a pocket-book from his breast-pocket, out of which he -took and held forward to Celia something which brought a pang to her -heart and a cry of pain to her lips. It was the Ingram heirloom, -Lady Griselda's ruby ring, which was to be the signal to Edward -Ingram's sister that he had entered into his rest. - -"When was this?" she faltered at last. - -"At Barcelona, on the 18th of January," David Colville repeated. "I -had met him, for I also was journeying in Spain, three weeks before. -I saw the end was near, and I stayed with him and tended him till he -died." - -"Where is he buried?" - -"The Spaniards allow no burial to heretics, Madam--not more than they -allow to a horse or a dog. He lies in a quiet meadow near the inn at -Barcelona. I took care of that." - -"Thank you!" murmured Celia; "but no burial-service--O Edward!" - -The soft answer from David Colville almost startled her--"'Thy -brother shall rise again.'"[9] - -"Yes, I know," she said. "And you, Mr. Colville--you do not share -your brother's philosophical views?" - -"God forbid!" was the uncompromising reply. "I have yet hope that -Arthur may see the error of his ways." - -"May I ask if Mr. Arthur Colville is well?" - -"I have not seen him for many years," said David. "Madam, may I ask, -in my turn, if Patient Irvine be yet here? I think she would -remember me as an old playmate of Ned and Philip, in the days long -ago when we were all boys at Paris." - -Patient received David Colville very affectionately, and his news -very quietly. - -"I knew it would be so," she said. "'With Christ, which is far -better.'"[10] - -David Colville left an agreeable impression of himself on the minds -of both Celia and Patient when he shook hands with them at parting. - -There was sore mourning for Edward Ingram at Ashcliffe. - -"If it would please the Lord to ask me also!" sighed Patient. - -"No, dear Patient! I want you," said Celia, lovingly. - -"So long as you really want me, Madam, I shall be kept here; but the -Lord knoweth better than you what you need, and our work is done when -He calleth us. Yet so much, there! My father, my mother, Roswith, -Mr. Grey, and Lady Magdalene, and Mr. Philip, and now my ain bairn -Maister Edward"--and Patient broke down. - -"Now, Patient, my dear!" said Cicely, from her chair, for she was -infirm now--"now Patient, my dear, don't you go to fret over the -Lord's mercies. Can't you see, child, that He is but taking all your -jewels to keep them safer than you can, and that He'll give them all -back to you up yonder? 'Tis such a short time here--such a short -time!" - -"Ay, I ken that," said Patient; "but you're a deal further on than I -am, Cicely." - -"Why, my dear, if you mean I shall die sooner, I don't know who told -you; and if you mean that I know more about the Lord than you, I'm -sure 'tis the first time I've heard of it. Maybe, children, we can't -tell which of us is the furthest--the Lord knows. The one nearest -Him is the furthest on." - -"And we are always straying from Him," said Celia, sighing. "It -scarce seems in us to keep always near Him." - -"When you were a little babe, my dear," said Cicely, "I remember, if -you were frighted at aught, you used to make-believe to throw your -bits of arms about my neck, and cling close to me; but after all, it -warn't your clinging as kept you from falling, but me holding of you. -We are all as babes in the Lord's arms, my clear. 'Tis well, surely, -for us to keep clinging to Him; but, after all, it ben't that as -holds us--'tis His keeping of us. It ben't always when we are -looking at Him that He is closest to us. He may be nearest when we -can't see Him; and I'm sure of one thing, child,--if the Good -Shepherd didn't go a-seeking after the lost sheep, the lost sheep -would never turn of itself and come home to the Good Shepherd;--it -would only go farther and farther in the great wilderness, until it -was wholly lost. 'He calleth His own sheep by name'--ben't that -it?--'and leadeth them out.'[11] Deary me! what was we a-talking -about? It seems so natural like to get round to Him." - -Celia smiled sadly as Philip's remark occurred to her--"There you -come round to your divinity!" - - -For eleven years longer George Louis of Hanover sat on the throne of -England. Every year he sank lower and lower in the estimation of his -subjects. When he first landed, in 1714, in tones more deep than -loud, England had demanded her Queen, and had no answer. Now, -through these thirteen years, she had seen her King, chosen out of -all the Princes of Europe, living apart from every member of his -family, and keeping up a Court which only the complete demoralization -of her nobles made them not ashamed to visit. And though very dimly -and uncertainly, yet reports did reach England of a guarded prison in -Hanover, and of a chapel in it where, every Communion Sabbath, a -white-robed prisoner knelt down before the holy table, and, laying -her hand upon it, solemnly protested in the presence of God that she -had done no wrong deserving of that penalty. And England began to -wonder if she had spoken well in summoning to her helm the husband -and gaoler of this woful, white-robed captive. If the grand question -of Protestantism had not been at stake--if she could have retained -that and yet have had back her old line--the throne of George Louis -would have trembled and fallen under him. Not "The Fifteen," nor -"The Forty-five," brought so near a second Restoration as the evil -and miserable life of that crowned sinner from Hanover. - -So early as 1716, George had persuaded Parliament to repeal that -clause of the Act of Settlement which made obligatory the perpetual -residence of the Sovereign: and no sooner had the clerk[12] said _Le -Roy le veut_ to the repeal, than George set out for Hanover, with -extreme delight at his release. After that, he spent as little time -in England as was possible. - -On the 7th of June 1727, George Louis landed from England on the -Dutch shores. He was travelling onwards towards Osnabrück, when, on -the night of the 11th, an unknown hand threw a letter into his -carriage. The King, who was alone, opened it in the expectation of -seeing a petition. There were only a few lines in the letter, but -they came from the dead, and were written as with fire. What met his -eyes was a summons from Sophia Dorothea of Zelle, written on her -death-bed in the preceding November at Ahlden, calling on him in -God's name to meet her before His tribunal within a year and a day. -The King was intensely superstitious. What more happened in that -carriage where he sat solitary, holding in his hand the open letter -from his dead wife, none ever knew: but when the carriage stopped at -the gates of the Palace of Osnabrück, George Louis was dead. - -There were no mourners. Least of all could England mourn for the man -who had so bitterly disgraced her, and had made her feel ashamed of -her choice before all the world. On the contrary, there were -bonfires and bell-ringings and universal rejoicings for the accession -of George Augustus, whom England welcomed with hope in her heart that -he would restore the honor which his father had laid in the dust. - -A vain hope, and a groundless joy. - -It is on that summer day, the 11th of June 1727, that I take leave of -the Passmores. A quiet family party--Lucy growing into another and a -livelier Celia; Charley toning down into a second Harry; Isabella, -when she condescends to shine upon Ashcliffe in her glories of -carriage and Nero, being the only discordant element. She and John -Rowe get on very well, by reason of the lady being mistress, and John -her obedient servant. Squire and Madam Passmore have grown more -white and infirm; and on one quiet summer night in the preceding -year, without sound or forewarning, the angels of God came down from -heaven to bear Cicely Aggett home to the Father's house. But Patient -lives on, for her work is not yet over. - -On that afternoon Celia and Harry had rung the bell at the gate of -Sainte Marie de Chaillot, and had asked for an interview with Soeur -Marie Angélique. And in the guest-chamber there came to them a pale, -slender, worn-looking woman in a nun's garb, who assured them, as she -had done before on several occasions, that she was making her -salvation; that she trusted she had by this time nearly expiated all -her sins, and that a very short time in Purgatory would suffice to -purify her. Only once during the interview did her stoic calmness -give way, and that was when she said of the Purgatory she -anticipated, "And there I shall see Philip!" And Celia felt that -nearly all she could do was to pray earnestly that this wandering -sheep might see Philip elsewhere. Then they took leave of Claude -Ingram, and she went back to the convent chapel, and tried to make a -little more of her salvation by kneeling on the cold stones and -repeating interminable Litanies and Ave Marias. So we leave her to -her hard task--hardest of tasks in all the world--to stand before God -without a Mediator, to propitiate the Judge by the works of the law. -For "without shedding of blood is no remission."[13] - -The summer evening is drawing to a close, as outside the convent -Harry and Celia pause to watch the sunset. - -"How beautiful God has made this world!" says one of the travellers. -"How much more beautiful it must be in that other land very far -off,[14] the Heavenly Jerusalem, where is no need of the sun,[15] for -the Lord is their everlasting light."[16] - -And the answer, associated to her with the dead lips of Edward, comes -in Celia's quietest and softest tones-- - -"For 'the world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth -the will of God abideth forever.'"[17] - - - -[1] James Ratcliffe, Earl of Derwentwater, eldest son of Francis, -first Earl and Lady Mary Tudor, natural daughter of Charles II.; -beheaded on Tower Hill, February 24, 1716. - -[2] Col. ii. 18. - -[3] 1 John ii. 17. - -[4] Ps. xci. 11. - -[5] Ibid. 1. - -[6] A fact. - -[7] Ps. xxv. 14. - -[8] 2 Tim. ii. 19. - -[9] John xi. 23. - -[10] Phil. i. 23. - -[11] John x. 3. - -[12] George Louis of Hanover was the first who resigned to a mere -official the grandest act of the royal prerogative. Before his -accession, the Kings of England "sceptred" every Act of Parliament, -and the royal assent was really given, every bill being solemnly -presented to the Sovereign in person, seated on the throne. Anne -Stuart was the last Sovereign who dared on her own personal -responsibility to say, _La Royne s'avisera_. - -[13] Heb. ix. 22. - -[14] Isaiah xxxiii. 17. - -[15] Rev. xxi. 23. - -[16] Isaiah lx. 20. - -[17] 1 John ii. 17. - - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ASHCLIFFE HALL *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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