"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 andennuyélook 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 theGrand 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. Theruelleplayed 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.
"Thou art not weary, O sweet heart and glad!Ye are not weary, O ye wings of light!Ye are not weary, golden-sandalled feetAnd 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! sinceWhen 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 atmyusual 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 notyourmother."
"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 behovedHimin 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;thereforeye 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 lieIn pastures green: He leadeth meThe 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 evermoreMy 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'schâteauin 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 myownbrother."
"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 forexecuted.
[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.