"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 forthat?" 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 theGazette."
"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 theGazette'soffice."
"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 theJournal—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 theFlying Postas 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 ofRobinson 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'sJournal, 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 thePostboy; wandering on, turned into another (Tory) coffee-house, which he frequented every Tuesday afternoon, and called for a glass of usquebagh and theSt. 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 thePostboy, 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 thePostboyin 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 thePostboywas 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 thechâteauis?"
"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 notthat!" 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 apirouettein 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 theGazette; 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 ofher? 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? Ihada 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 fatherLa 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 aréligieuse. 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—Arewein?"
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 theLondon Review, June 4-11, 1864, and inNotes 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 (néeRachel 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.
"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,May15, 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."