ASHCLIFFE HALL (continued 3)

"Patient! do you mean my mother?"

"Yes Madam. I ask your pardon for calling her such a name, but it ever sounds more natural to mine ear. She was my Lady Ingram for so short a time, and I knew her as Miss Magdalene when she was but a wee bonnie bairn."

"What was her name?"

"Magdalene Grey, Madam. She was the Minister's daughter at the Manse of Lauchie, where my father and I dwelt."

"Then she was a Scottish lady?"

"Yes, Madam, at least she was born in Scotland, and her mother was Scottish. Her father, Mr. Grey, was English by descent, though his fathers had dwelt in Scotland for three generations afore him."

"And where did my father meet with her? He was not Scottish?"

"He was not, Madam. And I will tell you all the story if it please you; but will you not dress now?"

"You can tell me while I comb my hair, Patient. I want to know all about it."

"May I do it for you, Madam? I can speak now, if that be your pleasure; but 'tis almost necessary that I tell mine own story in hers."

"Will it pain you, Patient?" asked Celia, kindly.

"No, Madam; I am far past that," answered Patient, in her calm, passionless voice.

"Then please to let me hear it."

"My father's name, please you," Patient began, "was Alexander Leslie, and he dwelt on Lauchie Farm, near to the Manse. And sith Mr. Grey, our Minister, wedded Mrs. Jean Leslie, of the same clan, it fell out that Miss Magdalene and I were somewhat akin, though in worldly goods she was much beyond us. For Mr. Grey was not one of our poor ministers of Scotland, but a rich Englishman, who made his way into what the English deemed our wild valleys, for no cause but only the love of Christ. Miss Magdalene being an only bairn, without brother or sister, it so fell that I and Roswith were called up whiles to the Manse to divert her."

"You and who?"

"Roswith, my sister."

"What strange names your father gave his daughters!"

"Ay, that was a strange name, and all said so. It came out of an old chronicle that he had, a very ancient book, and he deemed it a fair name, and gave it in the baptizing to his youngest-born. Those were evil days, Madam, on which we fell. Yet why should I call them evil, when they were days of growing in the truth, and of the great honor of suffering for the Lord's sake? Mr. Grey, your grandfather, Madam, was a very gracious man, and did preach most savory discourses. Wherefore, he was one of the first on whom the blow fell. And when King Charles sent his troopers into our parts, under command of Claverhouse,[1] bidding them hunt and slay all that would not conform unto his way, they came, one of the first places, into our valley. Many an humble and honest husbandman, that feared God, was hung up at his own door by the wicked Claverhouse and his troopers, and many a godly man and woman was constrained to dwell in caves and dens of the earth until this enemy was overpast. I could tell many a tale of those days that would stir your blood, Madam, if it pleased you to hear it. We were amongst those whom the Lord was pleased to honor by permitting them to suffer for His name's sake. Mr. Grey refused to fly. He was dragged down, one Sabbath morn, from the pulpit in Lauchie Kirk, Claverhouse himself being at the door. He had been preaching unto us a most sweet, godly, and gracious discourse of casting care upon the Lord, and standing firm in the truth. And just when he was speaking that great and precious promise of the Lord, 'Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world,' the troopers burst in. Then the whole kirk thronged around our Minister, and sought to free him from the evil men. Mine uncle Jock Leslie, fell, thrust through with the swords of the troopers, and many another. But at length they had their wicked will, and bound us, men, women, and children, two and two, with one strong rope, like a gang of slaves going to the market-place. I was greatly honored to have the next place to Mr. Grey, hand in hand with whom walked Miss Magdalene, a sweet young maid of scarce fourteen years. His godly wife was bound, just before, with Janet Campbell, an old wife of nigh eighty. So we were marched down eleven miles to the shore. Ah! but my heart ached for Miss Magdalene and Roswith ere we reached it! It was a grand comfort to find Roswith bound with me, for she was but a wee wean of eight years, and I a grown maiden of twenty. Doubtless this was the Lord's mercy. When we came to the sea, we saw a great ship lying afar off, and we were all thrust into boats to carry us thither. When we were aboard, the troopers, some of whom came with us, did drive us below, and shut down the hatches upon us: which, it being summer time, was hot and painful, and many women and children fell sick therewith. Whither we were to go we knew not, only Mr. Grey surmised that they thought either to sell us for slaves in Barbary unto the heathen there, or else to convey us unto the King's plantations in Virginia or those parts; though if they were bound unto Virginia he knew not wherefore they should set sail from the eastern part of the kingdom. For three days and nights we were thus kept under hatches, to our much discomfort, and the ship sailing northwards with all the speed the sailors could make. During which time we were greatly comforted with the thought of Christ our Lord, and the three days and three nights which He was in the heart of the earth. Likewise Mr. Grey did oft exhort us, and prayed us to bear all that should come upon us meekly and bravely, and as unto the Lord. Then some of us which were mighty in the Scriptures did say certain parts thereof for the comfort of the rest; in particular, old Jamie Campbell, Janet's guidman, and Elsie Armstrong, his sister's daughter. So passed these three days until the Wednesday even. And then arose a great and mighty tempest, with contrary winds, driving the ship down, so that, notwithstanding all the skill of the shipmen, she lost in one day and night more than she had gained in all the three. Verily she fled like a mad thing afore the violence of that wind. And on the Thursday night, a little on the hither side of midnight, she flying as thistledown afore the wind, we felt a mighty shock, and suddenly the water came in at our feet with a great rush. Mr. Grey said he thought the ship must have lighted on some rock, and that a hole was driven in her. Then the shipmen opened the hatches, and in dolorous voices bade us come up on deck, for we were all like to drown. Wherefore we ascended the ladders, thirty-five in all our company, I alway holding tight the hand of my wee sister. When we were upon deck, we found from the words of the shipmen that they were about to loose the boats. So when all the boats were loosed, the troopers filled two of them and the seamen the third, and no room was left for the prisoners. Then in this time we thought much on Paul and his shipwreck, and how the seamen were minded to kill the prisoners lest any should escape: and we marvelled if they counselled to kill us, seeing there was no room for us in the boats."

"O Patient! surely they laid no hands on any of you?"

"No, Madam; they left that to the wind and the sea. The three boats cast off, and we prisoners stood alone on the deck of the sinking ship. We had neither wit nor material to make any more boats nor rafts. And when we saw our death thus before us—for our ship, like Paul's, was stuck fast in the forepart, but the sea beat freely on the hinder—we stood like men stupid and amazed for a short season. But then above all the noise of the storm came Mr. Grey's voice, which we were used to obeying, saying, 'Brethren, in a few hours at most, perchance in a few minutes, we shall stand before God. Let our last hour be employed in His worship.' Then we gathered all around him, on that part of the ship which was fast on the rock, and he led the exercise with that Psalm:[2]

"After the Psalm there was an exhortation. Our Minister bade us remember that we were the Lord's freedmen—doubly so now, since our enemies had cast us away from them, and we were left only on the mercy of our God. Moreover, he recalled that of David, saying in his strait, 'Let me fall into the hand of the Lord, for His mercies are great.'[3] Then he prayed with us; and while the exercise yet lasted, and Mr. Grey was still praying, and entreating the Lord to deal with us in his mercy, whether for life or for death,—but if it should be death, as there seemed no other, to grant, if it so pleased Him, an easy dying unto the little children in especial—while he prayed, the ship parted asunder with a great crash, and the waves, leaping up on that part which stuck fast, swept every soul of us out into the boiling sea."

"O Patient, what a dreadful story! And how many were saved?"

"Four, Madam."

"Only four out of thirty-five!"

"Ah, Madam! the thirty-one were happier than any of the four!"

"Who were saved, Patient?"

"Miss Magdalene, and wee Jamie Campbell—old Jamie's grandson—and Roswith, and me.'

"And not one of the others?" said Celia, pityingly.

"Not one. They were carried by the angels into the rest of the Lord, and He would not grudge them the crown of martyrdom."

"And how did you get ashore?"

"That, Madam, I never knew. I mind falling into the water, and sinking down, it seemed to me, far and low therein; and then I was buoyed up again to the top, and I tried to make some little struggle for life. But the waters closed over me again, and I knew no more. The next minute, as it felt, I was lying with mine eyes shut, methought, in my little bed at Lauchie. I thought I had dreamed a bad dream, sith I felt stiff, and sore, and cold, and wet, all over: but as I awoke, I felt it was truly so: and at last I oped mine eyes and strove to sit. Then I saw that I sat on the sea-sand, and above me the blue sky, and I all alone: and an exceeding bitter cry rose to my lips as it came back upon me what had been. When I fancied I heard a bit groan no so far from me and I struggled up on my feet, and crept, rather than walked, wondering I had no bones broken, to a cleft of the rocks whence methought the groan came. And there was Jamie Campbell, lying sorely bruised and hurt; and when I stooped to him he lifted up his eyes, and saith, 'O Patient! I thought all were drowned, and that there was none here but God.' I said, 'Are you sore hurt, my poor bairn?' 'Yea,' quoth he, 'for I cannot move nor sit, and methinks I have some bones broke.' Poor laddie! he was in a sad way indeed. I tare mine own clothing to bind up his bruises, and promising to return to him, I set out to see if any other might have been saved from the wreck, ever hoping to find my father, my mother, or Mr. Grey. I walked upon the sand to the right hand, and saw no sign of any soul: then I turned to the left hand, and passing Jamie, walked far that way. Not a soul did I see, and I was about turning again in despair, accounting that he and I were the only two alive, when all at once I fancied I heard Roswith's voice. I stood and hearkened—sure enough it was Roswith's voice, for I never could mistake that. I could not hear whence it came, and so weak was I become with sorrow and weariness and fasting, that methought she was speaking to me from Heaven. Then I called, 'Roswith!' and heard her cry as in joy, 'Patient! O Miss Magdalene, Patient is alive! here is Patient!' And before I knew aught more, her little arms were around me, and Miss Magdalene, white and wan, stood at my side."

"How had they been saved?"

"They knew that no more than I did, Madam. Truly, Roswith, like a bit fanciful lassie, said she thought the Lord sent an angel to help her, and talked of walking over some rocks. I had not the heart to gainsay the bairn, and how did I know that the Lord had not sent His angel? Well, we all got back to Jamie Campbell, but what little I could do for him was no good; he died that forenoon. Then I said we would set forth and seek some house, for it was eleven hours gone since we had eaten food. But afore we could depart, the tempest, which was somewhat lulled, washed up two bodies at our feet, Mr. Grey's and Elsie Armstrong's. We poor weak maids could do nought for their burying; but Miss Magdalene cut off a lock of her father's hair, and kissed him, and wept over him. Then we set out to try and find some house near. When at last, after two hours' good walking, we reached a cot, we found to our sorrow that they spake a strange tongue. Miss Magdalene was the only one of us that could speak their speech, and she told us that the country where we were thus cast was the North of France."

"Patient! Patient Irvine, where are you?"

"Here, Sir," answered Patient to the voice without. "Your brother, Madam, Mr. Philip Ingram."

Celia was half-way across the room before she remembered that one side of her hair was still floating on her shoulders.

"I will take him into your closet, Madam," said Patient, as she left the room.

The colloquy outside was audible within.

"Mr. Philip, will you wait a few minutes? I have not ended dressing Madam's hair, but by the time you have changed your boots she will be ready to see you."

"Pray what is the matter with my boots?"

"They are splashed all over, Sir. My Lady would not allow you to come into Madam's closet with such boots as those, which you know."

"Leather and prunella! Never mind my boots nor my mother neither!"

"Sir!" responded Patient, in a tone which admitted of but one interpretation.

"Well, come, I don't mean——you are always making me say something I don't mean, you dear old tease!"

"Sir, I must obey my Lady's orders."

"Must you, really? Well, then, I suppose I must. Eh! Madam Patient?"

"If you will please to change your boots, Mr. Philip," quietly repeated Patient, "Madam will be ready to receive you in a few minutes."

"Very well, Madam Patient. I will obey your orders."

And the boots were heard quickly conveying their owner down the corridor. Celia's hair was soon put up, for she was very wishful to make the acquaintance of her half-brother; and she was in the boudoir waiting for him before Mr. Philip Ingram had completed the changing of his objectionable boots.

"Come in!" she said, with a beating heart, to the light tap at her door.

"Are you my sister Celia? I am very glad to see you—very glad. I must congratulate dear old Patient on having finished you sooner than I expected."

The first greeting over, Celia looked curiously at her half-brother. He was not like what she had anticipated, and, except for a slight resemblance about the eyes, he was not like Lady Ingram. He looked older than his years—so much so, that if Celia had not known that he was her junior, she would have supposed him to be her senior by some years. Philip Ingram was of middle height, inclining rather to the higher side of it, slenderly built, thin, lithe, and very active in his movements, with much quickness, physical and mental. He had dark glossy hair, brilliant dark eyes, and a voice not unmusically toned.

"Well, Madam!" he said at last, laughingly; "I hope you like me as well as I do you."

Celia laughed in her turn, and colored slightly. "I have no doubt that I shall like my new brother very much," she said. "Whom do you think me like?"

"That is just what I cannot settle," said Philip, gravely, considering her features. "You are not like Ned, except about the mouth; you have his mouth and chin, but not his eyes and forehead."

"Am I like my father?"

"Don't recollect him a bit," said Philip. "He died before I was three years old."

"Edward is not here, is he?"

"No; he is on his travels."

"Where has he gone?"

"The stars know where! He did not ask me to go with him, and if he had done, my Lady-Mother would have put an extinguisher upon it. I wish he were here; 'tis only endurable when he is."

"What is it that you dislike?"

"Everything in creation!" said Philip, kicking a footstool across the room.

"You speak very widely," replied Celia, laughing, and thinking of Charley Passmore.

"I speak very truly, as you will shortly find, Madam, to your cost. Wait until you have been at one of her Ladyship's evening assemblies."

"I am not to go until she is better satisfied with my manners," said Celia, simply.

Philip whistled. "You will not lose much," he answered.

"Don't you like them?"

"What is there to like?" asked Philip, dissecting the tassel of the sofa-cushion. "A thousand yards of satin and lace, or the men and women under them, whose hearts are marble and their brains sawdust! Celia Ingram, don't let my mother spoil you! From the little I see of you now, I know you are not one of them. Indeed, I guessed that from what my mother told me. She said you were absolutely without a scrap of fine breeding—which she meant as a censure, and I took as a compliment. I know what your grand ladies are, and what their fine breeding is! And I hope you are a true English girl, with a heart in you, and not one of these finnicking, fussy, fickle, faithless French-women!"

Philip let the sofa-cushion go when he had relieved his feelings by this burst of alliteration.

"I hope I have a heart, dear Philip," replied Celia. "But can you find no friends anywhere?"

"Just one," said Philip, "that is, beside Ned. You see, when Ned is here, he is master; but when he is away, I am not master: her Ladyship is mistress and master too."

"But surely, Philip, you do not wish to disobey your mother?"

"Disobey my mother!" answered Philip, reflectively, and resuming the sofa-cushion. "Well, Madam, I never get much chance of doing that. You don't know the sort of game my mother can play sometimes!"

"What do you mean, Philip?"

"I will tell you what I mean. Celia, there is a very, very pleasant prospect before you. Imprimis, Madam, you will be converted; that is, if she can manage it; and if she can't, it will show that you are a clever hand. In the latter case, the probability is that she won't think you worth the waste of any more time; but if she succeed in converting you, she will then proceed to form you. She will turn your feet out, and pinch your waist in, and stick your head up, and make you laugh when you are angry, and cry when you are pleased. She will teach you to talk without interruption for an hour, and yet to have said nothing when the hour is over. You will learn how to use your eyes—how to look at people and not see them, and who to see, or not to see. I can give you a hint about that, myself; a man who wears no orders is nobody—you may safely omit seeing him. A man of one order is to be treated with distant civility; a man of two, with cordiality; but a man who wears three is to be greeted with the most extreme pleasure, and held in the closest friendship."

"But if I don't like the man, I cannot make a friend of him," said Celia, in a puzzled tone.

"My dear, that doesn't come into consideration. You will have to learn never to look at the man, but only at his coat and decorations. A man is not a man in genteel society; he is a Consul, a Marquis, or a nobody. Never look at nobodies; but if a Duke should lead you to a chair, be transported with delight. You have a great deal to learn, I see. Well, after you have got all this by heart—I am afraid it will take a long while!—my mother will proceed with her work. The last act will be to take your heart out of you, and put instead of it a lump of stone, cut to the proper shape and size, and painted so as to imitate the reality too exactly for any one to guess it an imitation. And then, with a lot of satin and velvet and lace on the top, Mrs. Celia Ingram, you will be finished!"

"Oh dear! I hope not," said Celia involuntarily.

"So do I," echoed Philip, significantly.

"But, Philip, I want to ask you one thing—are you not a Protestant?"

"I?" asked Philip, with a peculiar intonation. "No."

"You are a Papist?" said Celia, in a very disappointed tone.

"No," said Philip again.

"Then what are you?" asked she, astonished.

"Neither—nothing," he answered, rather bitterly. "I am what half the men of this age are, Sister Celia;—nothing at all. I call myself a Catholic, just to satisfy my mother; and when I see her becoming doubtful of my soundness in her faith, I go to mass with her half a dozen times, to quiet her conscience—and perhaps my own. But, Catholic as I am—so far as I own to anything—I do not believe you have read more Protestant books, or heard more Protestant preaching, than I have. I have tried both religions in turn, and now I believe in nothing. I have lost all faith, whether in religion, in morality, in man, or woman. I see the men of this city, Protestant and Catholic, either bent on pursuing their own pleasures, or on seeking their own interests—thinking of and caring for themselves and nothing in the world else; and I see the women, such as I have described them to you. I find none, of either faith, any better than the rest. What wonder, then, that the fire of my faith—the old, bright, happy trust of my childhood—has blackened and gone out?"

"But, Philip, dear Brother," pleaded Celia in great pain, "surely you believe in God?"

"I believe in nothing," said he, firmly.

Celia turned away, grieved at her very heart.

"Listen to me, Celia," resumed Philip, now quite serious. "You will not betray me to my mother—I see that in your eyes. You see I can believe in you," he added, smiling rather sadly. "There was a time when I believed all that you do, and more. When I was a little child, I used to think that, as Patient told me, God saw me, and loved me, and was ready to be my Friend and Father. All that I noticed different from this in the teaching of my other nurse, Jeannette Luchon, was that she taught me to think this of the Virgin Mary, my patron saint, and my guardian angel, as well as of God. Had I been struck deaf, dumb, and blind at that time, I might have believed it all yet. Perhaps it would have been as well for me. But I grew up to what I am. I watched all these highly religious people who visit here. I heard them invoke the Virgin or the saints to favor—not to forgive, mind you—but, before its committal, to prosper—what they admitted to be sin. I saw my own mother come home from receiving the Eucharist at mass, and tell lies: I knew they were lies, I was taught that it was very wicked in me to tell lies, and also that, in receiving the Eucharist, she had received Christ Himself into her soul. How could I believe both the one and the other? I was taught, again, that if I committed the most fearful sins, a man like myself, sitting in a confessional, could with two words cleanse my soul as if I had never sinned. How could I believe that, when from that cleansing I came home and found it no whit the cleaner? I turn to Protestantism. I hear your preachers tell me that 'Without holiness no man shall see the Lord;' that God has 'purer eyes than to behold sin;' and many another passage to the like effect. The next week I hear that one of the pastor's flock, or perhaps the very preacher himself, has been guilty of some glaring breach of common honesty. Does the man mean me to believe—does he believe himself—what he told me from the pulpit only a few days earlier? Romans and English, all are alike. I find the most zealous professors of religion in both communions guilty of acts with which I, who profess no religion at all, would scorn to sully my conscience. I have seen only one man who seems to me really honest and anxious to find out the truth, and he is about where I am; only that his mind is deeper and stronger than mine, and therefore he suffers more."

"But Edward!"

"Oh, Edward! He is a Protestant after your own heart. But he could not enter into my feelings at all. He is one of your simple, honest folks, who believe what they are taught, and do not trouble themselves about the parts of the puzzle not fitting."

"Philip, I do not know what to say to you," answered his sister, candidly. "I do not think we ought to look at other people, and take our religion from what they do, or do not do, but only from God Himself. If you would read the Bible"—

"I have read it," he interrupted.

"And do you find nothing to satisfy you there?" asked Celia, in surprise.

"I will tell you what I find. Very ancient writings, and very beautiful language, which I admire exceedingly; but nothing upon which I can rely."

"Not in God's Word?"

"How do I know that it is God's Word? How can I be sure that there is a God at all?"

Celia was silent. Such questions had never suggested themselves to her mind before, and she knew not how to deal with them. At length she said—

"Philip, I believe in one God, who is my Father, and orders all things for me; and who gave His Son Jesus Christ to die for me, instead of my dying for my own sins. Is this so difficult to believe?"

"I believe that you believe it," said Philip, smiling.

"But you do not believe it yourself?" she asked, with a baffled feeling.

"I have told you," he said, "that I believe nothing."

"Philip," she answered, softly, "I do not understand your feelings, and I do not know what to say to you. I must ask my Father. I will lay it before Him to-night; and as He shall give me wisdom I will talk with you again."

So she closed the subject, not knowing that the quiet certainty of conviction expressed in her last words had made a deeper impression upon Philip than any argument which could have been used to him.

"Come in!" said Lady Ingram, that afternoon, in reply to Celia's gentle tap at her door. "I thought it was you, ma chère. I am glad you are come, for I have something to say to you."

"Yes, Madam," responded Celia, resigning herself to another lecture.

"When you have taken dancing-lessons for a month, so that your deportment is a little improved, I wish you to be present at my first assembly for this year. Do not be alarmed—I require nothing more of you than to dress well and sit still. I shall present you to my particular friends, saying that you do not yet speak French, and none of them will then address you but such as are acquainted with English. You must remain in a corner of the room, where your awkward manners will attract no notice; and I shall put you in Philip's charge, and desire him to tell you who each person is, and so on. You will then have the opportunity of seeing really fine breeding and distinguished manners, and can help in the formation of your own accordingly, as you will then understand what I require of you."

"Yes, Madam," said Celia again.

"I have ordered stuffs for you, and they are now in the house. My assembly will be on Thursday week. There is quite time enough to make you one dress; and you will not appear again until you are formed—at least, that is my present intention. Thérèse will take your measure this evening, and cut out the dress, which Patient can then make. I wish you to have a white satin petticoat and a yellow silk bodice and train, guarded with lace; and I will lend you jewels."

"Thank you, Madam," answered Celia, giving herself up to all her step-mother's requirements.

"When you feel tired—I dare say you are not accustomed yet to late hours—you may slip out of the room and retire to you own apartments. Nobody will miss you."

"No, Madam," meekly responded Celia again, to this not very flattering remark.

"I think that is all I need say," pursued Lady Ingram, meditatively. "I do not wish to encumber and confuse your mind with too many details, or you will certainly not behave well. I will instruct Patient how you must be dressed, and I will look at you myself before you descend to the drawing-room, to be sure that no ridiculous mistake has been made. Thérèse shall dress your hair. Now help yourself to the chocolate."

"Patient! will you bring your work into my closet? I want to hear the end of your story."

"If you please, Madam. I must try the skirt on you in a little while, by your leave."

So Patient and the white satin petticoat came and settled themselves in Celia's boudoir.

"You had just landed in France when you left off, Patient. I am anxious to know if you found friends."

"'Twould make it a very long tale, Madam to tell you of all that we did and suffered ere we found friends. It was a hard matter to see what we should do; for had I sought a place as woman to some lady, I could not have left Roswith alone; and no lady would be like to take the child with me. So I could but entreat the Lord to show me how to earn bread enough for my wee sister and myself. The woman of the house who took us in after the shipwreck was very good unto us, the Lord inclining her heart to especial pity of us; and she greatly pressed us to go on to Paris, where she thought we should be more like to meet with succor. Therefore we set out on our way to Paris. The Lord went with us, and gave us favor in the eyes of all them whom we had need of on our road. Most of the women whom we met showed much compassion for Roswith, she being but a wee bit wean, and a very douce and cannie bairn to boot. It was in the month of October that we arrived in Paris. Here the Lord had prepared a strange thing for us. There was an uncle of Miss Magdalene, by name Mr. Francis Grey, who was a rich gentleman and a kindly. He had been on his travels into foreign parts, and was returning through this city unto his place; and by what men call chance, Miss Magdalene and I lighted on this gentleman in the Paris street, we returning from the buying of bread and other needful matters. He was as if he saw her not, for he afterward told us that he had heard nought of the harrying of Lauchie, nor of our shipwreck. But she ran to him, and cast her arms about him, calling 'Uncle Francis!' and after a season he knew her again, but at first he was a man amazed. When he heard all that had come upon us, and how Miss Magdalene was left all alone in the world, father and mother being drowned, he wept and clipped[4] her many times, and said that she should come with him to his inn, and dwell with him, and be unto him as a daughter, for he had no child. Then she prayed him to have compassion upon us also, Patient and Roswith Leslie; who, as John saith, had continued with her in her tribulation, and, it pleased her to say, had aided and comforted her. Mr. Francis smiled, and he said that I, Patient, should be in his service as a woman for her; and for Roswith, 'She,' quoth he, 'will not eat up all my substance, poor wee thing! So she shall come too, and in time Patient must learn her meetly unto the same place to some other lady.' Thus it was, Madam, that at the time when we seemed at the worst, the Lord delivered us out of our distresses."

"Then you went back to Scotland?"

"No, Madam, we never went back. For when Mr. Francis heard all, of the harrying of Lauchie, and the evil deeds of the King's troopers, and the cruelty of Claverhouse, he said there could be no peace in Scotland more, and sent word unto his steward to sell all, and remit the money to him. He bought a house at Paris, and there we dwelt all."

"It was in her uncle's house, then, that my mother met my father?"

"There, Madam. Sir Edward took her to England, for they married in January, 1687, while King James yet reigned; and Sir Edward was great with the King, and had a fine land there. Her son, your brother, Madam, that is Sir Edward now, was born in London, in the summer of 1688."

"Patient, what kind of man was my father?"

"He was a very noble-looking gentleman, Madam, tall, with dark eyes and hair."

"Yes, but I mean in his mind and character?"

"Well, Madam," answered Patient, rather doubtfully, "he was much like other men. He had good points and bad points. He was a kindly gentleman, and open-handed. He was not an angel."

"You scarce liked him, I think, Patient."

"I ought not to say so, Madam. He was alway a good and kind master to me. Truly, he was not the man I should have chosen for Miss Magdalene; but I seldom see folks choose as I should in their places. Yet that is little marvel, since, fifteen years gone, Patient Leslie made a choice that Patient Irvine would be little like to make now."

Patient's dry, sarcastic tone warned Celia that she had better turn the conversation.

"And where was I born, Patient?"

"Well, Madam, you know what happened that summer your brother was born. He that was called Prince of Wales was born in the same month;[5] and in October King James fled away, sending his wife Queen Mary[6] and the babe to France. When King William landed, it was expected that he would seize all belonging to the malignants;[7] this was not so entirely, yet so much that Sir Edward was sore afeared to lose his. He kept marvellous quiet for a time, trusting that such as were then in power would maybe not think of him. But when King James landed in Ireland, he was constrained to join him, but he left my Lady behind, and me with her, at his own house in Cheshire. After the battle of Boyne Water,[8] whereat he fought, it happed as he feared, for all his property was escheated to the Crown. At this time Mr. Francis Grey came back into the country, and for a time Sir Edward and my Lady abode with him at a house which he had near the Border, on the English side: but Sir Edward by his work on the Boyne had made the place too hot for to hold him, and he bethought himself of escaping after King James to France. So about March, 1691, we began to journey slowly all down England from the Border to the south sea. Sir Edward was mortal afeared of being known and seized, so that he would not go near any place where he could possibly be known: and having no acquaintance anywhere in the parts of Devon, made him fix upon Plymouth whence to sail. It was in the last of May that we left Exeter. We had journeyed but a little thence, when I saw that my Lady, who had been ailing for some time, was like to fall sick unto death. I told Sir Edward that methought she was more sick than he guessed, but I think he counted my words but idle clavers and foolish fancies. At last she grew so very bad that he began to believe me. 'Patient,' he said to me one morn, 'I shall go on to Plymouth and inquire for a ship. Tend your Lady well, and so soon as she can abide the journeying, she must come after. If I find it needful, I may sail the first.' It was on a Monday that Sir Edward rode away, leaving my Lady and the little Master, with me and Roswith to tend them, at a poor cot, the abode of one Betty Walling."

"Betty Walling of Ashcliffe? Why, Patient, I know her!"

"Do you so, Madam? She knows you, I guess, and could have told you somewhat anent yourself. Not that she knew my Lady's name: I kept that from her. It was on the Friday following that you were born. Saving your presence, Madam, you were such a poor, weak, puny babe, that none thought you would live even a day. Betty said, I mind, 'Poor little soul! 'twill soon be out of its suffering—you may take that comfort!' I myself never reckoned that you could live. I marvel whether Madam Passmore would remember Betty Walling's coming unto her one wet even in June, to beg a stoup of wine for a sick woman with her? That sick woman was my dear Lady. It was the Saturday eve, and she died on the Sunday morning. I laid her out for the burying, which was to be on the Wednesday, and was preparing to go thence unto Plymouth afterward, with Roswith and the babes, when on the Tuesday night I was aroused from sleep by a rapping on the window. I crept to the casement and oped it, and was surprised to hear my Master's voice saying softly, 'Patient, come and open to me.' I ran then quickly and let him in; he looked very white and tired, and his dress soiled as if he had ridden hard and long. Quoth he, 'How fares Magdalene?' As softly as I could break it, I told him that she would never suffer any more, but she had left him a baby daughter which he must cherish for her sake. He was sore grieved as ever I saw man for aught. After a while, he told me much, quickly, for there was little time. He had not entered Plymouth, when, riding softly in the dark, another horseman met him, and aroused his wonder by riding back after him and away again; and this he did twice over. At length the strange horseman rode right up to him, and asked him plainly, 'Are you Sir Edward Ingram, holding King James's commission?' And when he said he was, then said the horseman, 'If you look to sail from Plymouth, I would have you know that you are expected there, and spies be abroad looking for you, and you will be taken immediately you show yourself. If you love your life, turn back!' Sir Edward desiring to know both who he was and how he knew this, the horseman saith, 'That I may not tell you: but ride hard, or they will be on your track; for they already misdoubt that you are at Ashcliffe, where if your following be, I counsel you to remove thence with all the speed that may be.' Sir Edward said that he had ridden for life all through three days and nights, and now we must move away without awaiting aught. 'And we will go,' quoth he, 'by Bideford; for they will expect me now, if they find I have given them the slip, to take passage by Portsmouth or Southampton, and will scarce count on my turning westward.' It grieved us both sore to leave my Lady unburied, but there was no help; and Betty passed her word to follow the body, and see that she was meetly laid in her grave. 'And how will I carry the babe?' quoth I. 'Nay, truly,' said he, sorrowfully, 'the babe cannot go with us; it will bewray all by its crying. We must needs leave it somewhere at nurse, and when better times come, and the King hath his own again, I will return and claim it.' For Master Edward was a braw laddie, that scarce ever cried or plained; while you, Madam, under your leave, did keep up a continual whining and mewling, which would have entirely hindered our lying hid, or journeying under cover of darkness. So I called Betty when it grew light, and conferred with her; and she said, 'Leave the babe at the gate of the Hall, and watch it till one cometh to take it.' Madam Passmore, she told us, was a kindly gentlewoman, that had sent word she would have come to see my Lady herself if she also had not been sick; and at this time having a little babe of her own, Betty thought she would be of soft heart unto any other desolate and needful babe. So I clad you in laced wraps, and pinned a paper on your coat with a gold pin of my Lady's, and Sir Edward wrote on the paper your name, 'Celia,' the which my poor Lady, as she lay a-dying, had felt a fancy to have you called. He said he had ever wished, should he have a daughter, to name her Grissel, which was my Lady his mother's name; 'But,' quoth he, 'if my poor Magdalene in dying had asked me to name the child Nebuchadnezzar, I would not have said her nay.' He was such a gentleman as that, Madam; in his deepest troubles he scarce could forbear jesting. So I carried you to the Hall, and laid you softly down at the gate, and rang the bell, and hid and watched among the trees. There first the Master rode up, looked strangely on you, though pitifully enough, but touched you not: and anon came out a kindly-looking woman of some fifty-and-five or sixty years, and took you up, and carried you away in her arms, chirping pleasantly unto you the while. So I was satisfied for the babe."

"That was Cicely Aggett," said Celia, smiling: "dear old Cicely! she told me about her finding me."

"The next hour," pursued Patient, "saw us thence. We got safe to Bideford, and away, the Lord aiding us, and after some tossing upon the sea, landed at Harfleur in fourteen days thereafter. Thence we came up to Paris, unto Mr. Francis Grey's house, which he had given unto my Lady in dowry; and Sir Edward bought another house at St. Germains, for he had had prudence to put some of his money out to interest in this land, so that all was not lost."

"And now tell me, Patient, how did he meet my step-mother?"

"I must pray you to leave that, Madam, for the time, and try on this skirt. Thérèse hath given me the pieces for the bodice."

VI. THE TROUBLES OF GREATNESS.

"Good Majesty, Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you, But when you are well pleased." SHAKESPEARE.

"Very fair! Turn round. Yes, I think that will do. Now, do you understand how to behave to people?"

"If you please, Madam, I do in England, but I don't know about France," said Celia, in some trepidation as to what her step-mother might require of her.

"Absurd!" said Lady Ingram. "Good manners are the same everywhere, and etiquette very nearly so. Now, how many courtesies would you make to a Viscountess?"

"I should only make one to anybody, Madam, unless you tell me otherwise."

"Incroyable! I never saw such a lamentable want of education as you show. You have no more fine breeding than that stove. Now listen, and remember: to a Princess of the Blood you make three profound courtesies, approaching a little nearer each time, until at the last you are near enough to sink upon your knees, and kiss her hand. To a Duchess, not of the Blood, or a Marchioness, three courtesies, but less profound, and not moving from your place. To a Countess or Viscountess, two; to any other person superior or equal to yourself, one. Inferiors, of course, you will not condescend to notice. Do you understand, and will you remember?"

"I will do my best, Madam, but I am afraid I shall forget."

"I believe you will, first thing. Now listen again: I expect to-night the Duchesses of Longueville and Montausier, the Marchioness de Simiane, and other inferior persons. What kind of seat will you take?"

"Will you please to instruct me, Madam?" asked Celia, timidly—an answer which slightly modified Lady Ingram's annoyance.

"You are very ignorant," said that Lady. "It is one comfort that you are willing to be taught. My dear, when we are merely assembled en famille, and there is no etiquette observed, you can sit on what you like. But if there be any person present in an assembly of higher rank than yourself, you must not sit on a chair with a back to it; and whatever be the rank of your companions, on no occasion must you occupy an arm-chair. You will take your place this evening on an ottoman or a folding-stool. You will remember that?"

"I will remember, Madam," replied Celia.

"Should any member of the Royal House condescend to honor me by appearing at my assemblies—I do not expect it to-night—you will rise, making three deep courtesies, and remain standing until you are desired to seat yourself."

"Yes, Madam."

"Very well. Now go down into the drawing-room, and find a stool somewhere in the corner, where nobody will see you."

Thus graciously dismissed, Celia retired from her step-mother's dressing-room, with a long look at Lady Ingram, whom she had never before seen so splendidly attired. She wore a blue robe, with a long sweeping train, robe and train being elaborately embroidered with flowers, in white, crimson, and straw-color; a petticoat of the palest straw-colored satin, a deep lace berthe, and sleeves of lace reaching to the elbow; long white gloves advanced to meet the sleeve, and jewels of sapphire and diamond gleamed upon the neck and wrists. Her hair was dressed about a foot above her head, and adorned with white plumes, sapphires, and diamonds. Celia descended to the drawing-room, feeling stiff and uncomfortable in her new yellow silk and white satin, and nervously afraid of losing her bracelets and necklace, of topaz and diamonds, which Lady Ingram had lent her for the occasion. In the drawing-room she discovered Mr. Philip resplendently arrayed in white and crimson, and occupied in surveying himself intently in the mirrors.

"O Celia!" said he, when she uttered his name, "I am glad you have come early. It is such fun to see the folks come in, and do all their bowing and courtesying; and I shall have some amusement to-night in watching your innocent astonishment at some things, my woodland bird, or I am mistaken. Please be seated, Madam; here is a place for you in a nice little corner, and I shall keep by your side devotedly all the evening. Has my Lady-Mother seen and approved that smart new gown of yours?"

Celia smiled, and answered affirmatively.

"That is a comfort!" quoth Mr. Philip. "Now, I liked the looks of you a good deal better in that brown cashmere. But I am an absolute nobody, as you will find very shortly, if you have not done so already."

"The brown cashmere will go on again to-morrow, and I shall not be sorry for it. But, Philip"—

"Stop! look out—somebody is coming."

A gentleman in dark blue led in a lady very elaborately dressed in pink. As they entered by one door, Lady Ingram came forward to receive them from another. She stood and made three courtesies, to which the lady in pink responded with one. Then Lady Ingram came forward, and, taking the hand of her guest, turned to Celia and Philip in the corner.

"Bon soir, ma tante," observed the latter unceremoniously from his station behind Celia's chair.

"Celia, this is my sister, the Duchess de Montausier," Lady Ingram condescended to say; and Celia, rising, made two low courtesies, having already forgotten the number of reverences due.

"Three," whispered Philip, too low to be overheard, thus saving his sister a scolding.

The Duchess returned the compliment with a single courtesy, Celia thought a rather distant one. But her astonishment had not yet left her at the meeting between the sisters.

"Is that really your aunt?" she asked of Philip.

"Yes, my mother's sister," answered Philip, smiling. "Why?"

"They courtesied so!" was Celia's ungrammatical exclamation.

"Ah! you think it unsisterly? The one, my dear, is a Duchess, the other only the widow of a Baronet. You must not consider the sistership."

Celia laughed within herself to think how the Squire and Madam Passmore would look, if they saw her and Isabella courtesying away at each other in that style.

"Now don't lose all these folks," resumed Philip, as more people entered. "That little man dressed in black, with a black wig, to whom my mother is courtesying now,—do you see him?"

"I was just looking at him," replied Celia. "I cannot say that I like him, though I have no idea who he may be."

"Why?—because he is so short?"

"Oh no! I hope I should never dislike a man for any natural infirmity. I thought he looked very cross."

"He has the happy distinction of being the crossest man in France," said Philip.

"Well, he looks like it," said Celia.

"But one of the most distinguished men in France, my dear. That is the great Duke de Lauzun,[1] who has spent ten years in prison for treason, who aspired to the hand of Mademoiselle, the King's own cousin, and whom King James trusted to bring the Queen and the Prince of Wales over here from England."

"I wonder he trusted him," observed Celia.

"I never wonder at anything," philosophically answered Mr. Philip Ingram. "Now look to your right! Do you see the lady in black, with fair hair, and blue eyes, who seems so quiet and uninterested in all that is passing?"

"I think I do."

"That is a cousin of my mother's, who would not have appeared here if it had not been a family assembly. She is a Jansenist. Thirty years ago she was a famous beauty, and a very fashionable woman. Now all that is over."

"What is a Jansenist, Philip?"

"Ah! there you puzzle me. I thought you would want to know that. You had better ask my Cousin Charlotte—she can tell you much better than I can."

"I do not like to speak to any one," said Celia, timidly. "Can you not tell me something about them?"

"Well, this much I can tell you—they are very bad people, who lead uncommonly holy lives—ergo, holiness does not make a saint."

"Philip, you are laughing at me."

"No, my dear; I am laughing at the Catholic Church, not at you. The Jansenists are a sort of heretic-Catholics, whom all real Catholics agree to call very wicked. They hold all manner of wrong doctrines, according to the Bishops and my Lady-Mother; and they lead lives of such austerity and purity as to put half the saints in the calendar to shame. Now this very Cousin Charlotte of mine, who sits there looking so quiet and saintly, with her blue eyes cast down, and her hands folded on that sombre black gown,—when my mother was a girl, she was the gayest of the gay. About fifteen years since she became a Jansenist. From that day she has been a very saint. She practices all kinds of austerities, and is behaved to almost as if she were a professed nun. Of course, in the eyes of all true Catholics, her Jansenism is her worst and wickedest action. I don't quite see myself how anything can be so very wrong which makes such saints of such sinners. But you see I am a complete extern, as the religious call it."

"I should like to know something more about these people, Philip. What doctrines do they hold?"

"Now, what a remarkable attraction anything wrong and perilous has for a woman!" observed Mr. Philip Ingram, with the air of a philosopher. "Well, my dear, I have only heard one; but I believe they have a sort of confession or creed, indicating the points whereon they differ from the Church. That one is, that there is no such thing as grace of congruity, and that men are saved by the favor of God only, and by no merit of their own."

"But, Philip, that is the Gospel!" exclaimed Celia, turning round to look at him. "That is what we Protestants believe."

"Is it, my dear? Well, I have no objection. (Now, return to your condition of a statue, or you will have a lecture on awkwardness and want of repose in your manners. Oh! I know all about that. Do you think I was born such a finished courtier as you see me?) As to merit, I have lived long enough to find out one thing, and that is, that people who are always talking of merit are generally least particular about acquiring it, while those who believe that their good deeds are worth nothing, have the largest stock of them."

"That is natural," said Celia, thoughtfully.

"Is it?" asked Philip again. "Well, it looks like the rule of contrary to me. But you see I have no vocation. Now look at the lady who stands on my mother's left—the one in primrose. Do you see her?

"I see her," said Celia. "I like her face better than some of the others. Who is she?"

"The Marchioness de Simiane,[2] daughter of the Countess de Grignan, and granddaughter of the late clever Marchioness de Sévigné. Her flatterers call her an angel. She is not that, but I don't think she is quite so near the other set of ethereal essences as a good many of the people in this room."

"What an opinion you have of your friends, Philip!"

"My friends, are they?" responded Philip, with a little laugh. "How many of them do you suppose would shed tears at my funeral? There is not one of them who has a heart, my dear—merely lumps of painted stone, as I told you. These are not men and women—they are only walking statues."

"Do you call that cross little man a walking statue?" asked Celia, smiling.

"He!—scarcely; he is too intensely disagreeable."

"I should rather like to see the lady to whom you said that man took a fancy, Philip. Is she here?"

"Ah! my Sister," answered Philip, in a graver voice than any in which he had yet spoken, "you must go to the royal vaults at St. Denis, and search among the coffins, to do that. She was buried twenty years ago.[3] She was so unfortunate as to have a heart, and he has a piece of harder marble even than usual. So when the two articles met, the one broke the other."

"I never can tell whether you are jesting or serious, Philip."

"A little of both generally, my dear. Don't lose those ladies who are going through the courtesying process now—they are distinguished people. The elder one is the Duchess du Maine,[4] one of the daughters of the Prince of Condé, who is emphatically 'the Prince' in French society. The younger is Mademoiselle de Noailles,[5] the daughter of the Duke de Noailles—a famous belle, as you may see. She will probably be disposed of in a year or two to some Prince or Duke—whoever offers her father the best lump of pin-money. We don't sell young ladies in the market here, as they do in Barbary; we manage the little affair in private. But 'tis a sale, for all that."

"It sounds very bad when you look at it in that light, Philip."

"A good many things do so, my dear, when you strip off the gilding. His Majesty gave a cut of his walking-stick once to a gentleman with whom he was in a passion, and was considered to have honored him by that gracious notice. Now, if he had been the Baron's son, and the other the King, whipping to death would have been thought too good for him after such an insult to Majesty. We live in a droll world, my Sister."

"But, Philip, there must be differences between people—God has made it so."

"Aren't there?—with a vengeance! On my word, here comes Bontems, the King's head valet-de-chambre. Now we shall have some fun. You will learn the kind of differences there are between people—Louis XIV. and you, to wit."

"What do you mean by fun?"

"You shall hear. Here is a chair, Monsieur Bontems, and I am rejoiced to see you."

"Sir, I am your most obedient servant," responded a dapper little gentleman, dressed in black and silver, with a long sword by his side, and large silver buckles in his shoes. He sat down on the seat which Philip indicated.

"I trust that His Most Christian Majesty enjoys good health this evening?" began that young gentleman, with an air of the greatest interest in the reply to his question.

"Sir, I am happy to say that His Majesty condescends to be in the enjoyment of most excellent health."

"Very condescending of him, I am sure," commented Philip, gravely. "May I venture to hope that His Royal Highness the Duke de Berry[6] is equally condescending?"

"Sir," answered Monsieur Bontems, looking much grieved, "I regret exceedingly to state that Monseigneur the Duke is not in perfect health. On the contrary, he has this very day been constrained to take medicine."

"How deeply distressing!" lamented Mr. Philip Ingram, putting on a face to match his words. "And might I ask the kind of medicine which had the felicity of a passage down Monseigneur's most distinguished throat, and the honor of relieving his august sufferings?"

"Sir," answered Monsieur Bontems, not in the least perceiving that he was being laughed at, "it was a tisane of camomile flowers."

"I unfeignedly trust that it has not affected his illustrious appetite?"

"Sir," was the reply, always commencing by the same word, "I am much troubled at the remembrance that His Royal Highness's appetite at supper was extremely bad. He ate only two plates of soup, one fowl, fifty heads of asparagus, and a small cherry tart."

"Ah! it must have been very bad indeed," said Mr. Philip, with a melancholy air. "He generally eats about a couple of geese and half a dozen pheasants, does he not?"[7]

"Sir?" said Monsieur Bontems, interrogatively. "I am happy to say, Sir, that all the members of the Royal House have tolerably good appetites; but scarcely—two geese and six pheasants!—no, Sir!"

"Yes, I have gathered that they have, from what I have heard you say," answered Philip, gravely. "Monsieur Bontems, I am anxious to inform my sister—who speaks no French—of the manner in which His Majesty is served throughout the day. I am not sure that I remember all points correctly. It is your duty, is it not, to present His Majesty's wig in the morning, and to buckle his left garter?"

"The left, Sir?" asked Monsieur Bontems, somewhat indignantly. "The right! Any of His Majesty's ordinary valets may touch the left—it is my high office to attend upon the august right leg of my most venerated Sovereign!"

"I beg your pardon a hundred thousand times!"

"You have it, Sir," said Monsieur Bontems affably. "A young gentleman who shows so much interest in His Majesty's and Monseigneur's health may be pardoned even that. But you are a little mistaken in saying 'buckle.' His Majesty is frequently pleased to clasp his own garters; it is my privilege to unclasp them in the evening."

"Would you kindly explain to me, that I may translate to my sister, His Majesty's mode of life during each day?"

"Sir, I shall have the utmost pleasure," replied Monsieur Bontems, laying his hand Upon his heart. "Madam," he continued, addressing himself to Celia, though she could understand him only through the medium of Philip, "first thing in the morning, when I rise from the watch-bed which I occupy in the august chamber of my Sovereign, having noiselessly dressed in the antechamber, I and Monsieur De St. Quentin, first gentleman of the chamber, reverently approach his royal bed, and presume to arouse our Sovereign from his slumbers. Then Monsieur De St. Quentin turns his back to the curtains, and placing his hands behind him, respectfully presents the royal wigs, properly curled and dressed, for His Majesty's selection."

"Pardon my interrupting you; I thought the King's attendants never turned their backs upon him?"

"Sir, His Majesty cannot be seen without a wig! Profanity!" cried Monsieur Bontems, looking horrified. "This is the only part of our service in which we are constrained to turn our ignoble backs upon our most illustrious Master."

"I beg your pardon, and understand you now. Pray proceed."

"When the King has selected the wig which he is pleased to wear, St. Quentin puts away the others; and then, His Majesty placing his wig on his august head with his own royal hands, he indicates to me by a signal that he is ready for the curtains to be undrawn. As soon as I have undrawn the curtains, there is the familiar entrée. This is attended by the Princes of the Blood, and by His Majesty's physicians. Then I pour into the hands of my Sovereign a few drops of spirits of wine, and the Duke d'Aumont,[8] first Lord of the Bedchamber, offers the holy water. Now His Majesty rises, and I present his slippers. After putting on his dressing-gown, if it be winter, His Majesty goes to the fire. The first entrée follows. The King shaves on alternate days. Monsieur De St. Quentin has the high honor of removing the royal beard, and washing with spirits of wine and water our Sovereign's august chin. I hold the glass, while His Majesty wipes his face with a rich towel. Then, while His Majesty's dresses, the grande entrée takes place. His Most Christian Majesty is assisted in dressing by the Grand Master of the Robes, Monsieur d'Aumont, a Marquis (graciously chosen by the Sovereign), Monsieur De St. Quentin, my humble self, three valets, and two pages. Thus, as you will see, many attendants of the Crown are allowed the felicity of approaching near to the person of our most illustrious Master."

"Too many cooks spoiling the broth, I should say," was the translator's comment. "Fancy ten people helping a fellow to put his coat on!"

"His Majesty's shoes and garters are clasped with diamonds. At this point the king condescends to breakfast. On an enamelled salver a loaf is brought by the officers of the buttery, and a folded napkin on another: the cup-bearer presents to the Duke d'Aumont a golden cup, into which he pours a small quantity of wine and water, and the second cup-bearer makes the assay. The goblet, carefully rinsed and replenished, is now presented to His Majesty upon a golden saucer. The napkin is offered by the first Prince of the Blood present at the entrée. His Majesty then intrusts to my hands the reliquary which he wears about his neck, and I carefully pass it to one of the lower attendants, who carries it to the royal closet, and remains there in charge of it. The royal shirt is then presented—by the Grand Master of the Robes, if no person of more distinction be present; but if any more august persons have attended the entrée, it is passed on till it reaches the first Prince of the Blood. I assure you, on frosty winter days, I have known it perfectly cold on reaching His Majesty (though always carefully warmed), the persons of distinction through whose hands it had to pass being so numerous."

"Ah! 'Pride costs more than hunger, thirst, or cold,'" observed Mr. Philip Ingram. "That is a copy I had set me ages ago. But what a very cool proceeding!"

"When His Majesty's lace cravat is presented, he is pleased himself to indicate the person who shall have the honor of tying it. Then I bring him the overcoat which he wore on the previous day, and with his own august hands he removes from the pockets such articles as he is pleased to retain. Lastly, Monsieur De St. Quentin presents to him, on an enamelled salver, two handkerchiefs laced with superb point. Now His Majesty returns to his ruelle[9] for his private devotions. Two cushions are placed there, upon which His Majesty condescends to kneel. Here he prays aloud, all the Cardinals and Bishops in the chamber following his royal accents in lower tones."

"I hope he learns his prayers by heart, then, or all his Cardinals following will put him out abominably!" was the interpolation this time.

"Oh dear, Philip!" murmured Celia, "it reminds me of Daniel and Darius."

"'Save of thee, O King?'[10] No, he is a little better than that."

"Our Sovereign," pursued Monsieur Bontems, "now receives the envoys of foreign powers, not one of which powers is worthy to compete with our august Master."

"I say, draw that mild!" objected Mr. Philip Ingram.

"Then he passes into his cabinet, and issues his orders for the day; when all retire but the Blood, and a few other highly distinguished persons. After an interval of repose, His Majesty attends mass."

"How sadly he must want his repose!"

"After mass, and a visit to the council-chamber, at one o'clock His Majesty dines. This is either au petit couvert, or au grand couvert; the grands couverts are rare. His Majesty commonly dines alone in his own cabinet, at a small table, three courses and a dessert being served. Monsieur de St. Quentin announces the repast, and His Majesty takes his seat. If the Grand Chamberlain be there, he waits on the Sovereign; when he is absent, this is the privilege of Monsieur de St. Quentin. Another interval of repose ensues before His Majesty drives out. He frequently condescends at this time to amuse himself with his favorite dogs. Then he changes his dress, and drives or hunts. On returning, he again changes his attire, and after a short period in his cabinet, repairs to the apartments of Madame de Maintenon, where he remains until ten, the hour of supper. At a quarter past ten His Majesty enters the supper-room, during which interval the officers have made the assay"—

"What is the assay?" asked Celia of Philip, who repeated the question.

"The assay," said Monsieur Bontems, condescending to explain, "is the testing of different matters, to see that no attempt has been made upon the most sacred life of His Majesty. There is the assay of the plates, which are rubbed with bread and salt; the knife, the fork, the spoon, and the toothpicks, which will be used by our Sovereign. All these are rubbed with bread and salt, afterwards eaten by the officers of the assay, to make sure that no deleterious matter has been applied to these articles. Every dish brought to the royal table is tested by the officers ere it may be set before His Majesty, and the dishes are brought in by the comptroller-general, an officer of the pantry, a comptroller of the buttery, and an equerry of the kitchen, preceded and followed by guards, whose duty it is to prevent all manner of tampering with the meats destined for the King."

"Poor man!" said Celia, compassionately; "I am glad to be beneath all that caution and preparation."

"This done," proceeded Monsieur Bontems, "the house-steward enters, with two ushers bearing flambeaux. Then comes His Most Christian Majesty. All the Princes and Princesses of France are already standing round the table. His Majesty most graciously desires them to be seated. Six nobles stand at each end of the table. When His Majesty condescends to drink, the cup-bearer cries aloud, 'Drink for the King!' whereupon the officers of the cellar approach with an enamelled goblet and two decanters. The cup-bearer pours out, the officers taste. The cup-bearer presents the goblet to the Sovereign, and as he raises it with his illustrious hand to his august lips, the cup-bearer cries aloud, 'The King drinks!' and the whole company bow to His Majesty."

"What a tremendous bore it must be!" was Mr. Philip's comment. "How can the poor fellow ever get his supper eaten?"

"His Majesty commonly begins supper with three or four platesful of different soups. Some light meat follows—a chicken, a pheasant, a partridge or two—then a heavier dish, such as beef or mutton. The King concludes his repast with a few little delicacies, such as salad, pastry, and sweetmeats.[11] When he wishes to wipe his hands, three Dukes and a Prince of the Blood present him with a damp napkin; the dry one which follows I have the honor to offer. His Majesty usually drinks about three times during supper."

"How much at a time?" inquired Philip, with an air of deep interest.

"Sir," replied Monsieur Bontems, gravely, "His Majesty's custom in this respect somewhat varies. The goblet holds about half-a-pint, and the King rarely empties it at a draught."

"A pint and a quarter, call it," said Philip, reflectively.

"After supper, His Majesty proceeds to his bedchamber, where he dismisses the greater number of his guests; he then passes on to his cabinet, followed by the Princes and Princesses. About midnight he feeds his dogs."

"Does he feed them himself?"

"Sir, there are occasions upon which those indescribably happy animals have the honor of receiving morsels from His Majesty's own hand. The King now returns to his bed-chamber, and the petit coucher commences. An arm-chair is prepared for him near the fire, and the en-cas is placed upon a table near the bed. This is a small repast, prepared lest it should be His Majesty's pleasure to demand food during the night. It is most frequently a bowl of soup, a cold roast fowl, bread, wine, and water."

"And how many Dukes are required to give him those?"

"Sir, my humble services are esteemed sufficient."

"He appears to be much less august at some moments than others," satirically remarked the translator.

"When our Sovereign enters his chamber, he hands to me his watch and reliquary, and delivers to Monsieur d'Aumont his waistcoat, cravat, and ribbon. Two valets and two pages assist us in the removal of the garments honored by His Majesty's wear. When the King is ready, I lift the candle-stick, and deliver it to the nobleman indicated by my Sovereign for that unparalleled honor. All persons now quit the chamber save the candle-bearer, the physician, and myself. His Majesty selects the dress which he will wear the next morning, and gets into bed."

"Can he get into bed by himself? I should have thought it would have required five Dukes and ten Marquises to help him."

"After the physician has visited his august patient, he and the candle-bearer retire; I close the curtains, and, turning my back to the royal couch, with my hands behind me, await the pleasure of my Sovereign. It is to me that he delivers the wig, passing it outside the curtain with his own illustrious hand. I now extinguish the candles, light the night-lights, and take possession of the watch-bed."

"I wonder if you don't occasionally faint under such a weight of honor—and bother," observed Mr. Philip Ingram, not to Monsieur Bontems. "Well, now we have got His Most Christian Majesty in bed, let him stay there. Monsieur Bontems, I am unspeakably indebted to you for your highly-interesting account, and shall never forget it as long as I live. I beg you will not allow me to detain you further from the company, who are earnestly desirous of your enchanting conversation, though less sensible of your merits than I am."

Monsieur Bontems laid both hands upon his heart, and made three bows.

"Sir, I beg you will not depreciate your high qualities. Sir, I take the utmost delight in conversing with you."

And the head-valet of the chamber allowed himself to be absorbed among the general throng.

"Well, is he not a comical specimen?" said Philip to Celia. "He often makes me laugh till I am exhausted; and the beauty of it is that he never finds out at what one is laughing. And to think who it is that they worship with all these rites—an old man of seventy-four, with one foot in the grave, who has never been any better than he should be. Really, it reminds one of Herod Agrippa and them of Tyre and Sidon!"[12]

"'Thou shalt honor the face of the old man,'"[13] whispered Celia, softly.

"My dear," said Philip, "I don't complain of their honoring him. Let them honor him as much as they like—he is their King, and they ought to do. But what we have just heard is not honoring him, to my thinking—it is teasing and worshipping him. I assure you I pity the poor fellow with all my heart. He must have a most uncomfortable time of it. No, if I were to envy any man, it would not be Louis XIV."

"Who would it be, Philip?" asked Celia, with a smile.

"Simeon Stylites, perhaps," said Philip, drily. "I would quite as soon be the one as the other!"

"I don't know who he was," replied Celia.

"A gentleman of the olden time, who worked out his salvation for forty years on the top of a tall pillar," was the answer, accompanied by an expression of countenance which Celia had seen before in Philip, and could not understand. "Are you tired?" he added, suddenly.

"Scarcely, yet," she answered; "it is all so new to me. But what time is it, Philip?"

Philip pulled out a watch about three inches in diameter.

"Ten minutes to one."

"Do you mean to say it is one o'clock in the morning?" asked Celia, in a voice of unmitigated amazement and horror.

"It certainly is not one o'clock in the afternoon," replied Philip, with much gravity.

"I had no idea how late it was! Let me go, Philip, please do."

And Celia made her escape rather hastily. But Lady Ingram was not justified in saying that nobody would miss her, as she would have seen if she had noticed the lost and ennuyé look of Mr. Philip Ingram after the disappearance of Celia.

VII. THE NIGHT BOSWITH DIED.

"Thou art not weary, O sweet heart and glad! Ye are not weary, O ye wings of light! Ye are not weary, golden-sandalled feet And eyes lift up in Heaven. Were we with thee, We never should be weary any more.

So sleep, sweet love, and waken not for us. Ah! wake not at my cry, which is of earth, For thou these twenty years hast been of Heaven. Still not thy harp for me: I will wail low, That my voice reach thee not beyond the stars. Only wait for me, O my harper! since When thou and I have clasped hands at the gate, We never shall be weary any more."

"O Patient! I am very sorry to have kept you up so late as this—I had no idea that you would wait for me!" exclaimed Celia, as, hastening into her bedroom, she found Patient quietly at work beside the fire.

"I should have done that, Madam, at whatever hour you had returned," was Patient's answer, as she helped Celia to unclasp her topaz and diamond ornaments, and put them away carefully in their cases. "I thought you were early; my Lady often does not quit her assemblies till day-dawn."

"You see," responded Celia, a little apologetically, awaking to the fact that Patient had not expected her for another hour or two, "I am so little accustomed to these things. I never was up at such an hour as this before."

"All the better for you, Madam," said Patient, quietly.

"You do not like these assemblies?"

"I have nothing to do with them, Madam."

"But if you had," persisted Celia, looking for Patient's opinion as a sister in the faith.

But Patient seemed scarcely willing to impart it.

"You command me to answer you, Madam?" she said.

"I want to know, Patient," replied Celia, simply.

"'What concord hath Christ with Belial?'" answered Patient. "Madam, when I was but a young maid, I looked on the world as divided into many sects—Covenanters, Independents, Prelatists, Anabaptists, and the like, and I fancied that all who were not Covenanters (as I was) must needs be more or less wrong. Methinks I am wiser now. I see the world as divided into two camps only, and the army wherein I serve hath but one rallying-cry. They that believe, and they that believe not—here are the camps, 'What think ye of Christ?'—that is the rallying-cry. I see the Church as a great school, holding many forms and classes, but only one Master. And I think less now of a fellow-scholar sitting on another form from mine, and seeing the other side of the Master's face, if I find that he heareth His voice, and followeth Him. Madam, what think you all those great ladies down-stairs would say, if you asked them that question—'What think ye of Christ?'[1] Poor souls! they never think of Him. And with them in the enemy's camp I have nought to do, so long as they remain there."

"But may we not win them over to our side?" queried Celia.

"Ah! my dear young lady!" answered Patient, rather sadly, "I have seen that question lead many a disciple astray who did run well. When a man goes over to the enemy's ground to parley, it ends at times in his staying there. Methinks that it is only when we carry the Master with us, and when we go like the preachers to the poor savages in the plantations, that we have any hope of doing well. 'Tis so easy to think, 'I go there to please God,' when really we only go to please ourselves."

Patient remained silent for a few minutes, but said presently—

"The Sabbath afore the harrying of Lauchie, Madam, which was Communion Sabbath, Mr. Grey preached a very rich discourse from that word, 'He hath made with me an everlasting covenant.'[2] After, fencing the tables, he spake from that other word of Paul, 'Ye are Christ's.'[3] And in speaking on one head—he dividing his discourse into thirty-seven points wherein believers are Christ's—he said one word which hath stuck in mine heart since then. 'We are all vastly readier,' quoth he, 'to try to follow the Master in the few matters wherein He acted as God, and therefore beyond us, than in the multitude wherein He did act as our ensample. For an hundred who would willingly follow unto the Pharisee's feasting, there is scarce one who is ready to seek out sinners, saying unto them, "Go, and sin no more."'[4] Whereupon he took occasion to reprove them among his flock that were of too light and unstable a nature, loving overmuch, gadding about and taking of pleasure. I was then a young maid, and truly was somewhat exercised with that discourse, seeing that I loved the customs yearly observed among us on the 1st day of November, which the Papistical folk called Hallowe'en."

"What customs, Patient?"

"Divers light and fantastical vanities, Madam, which you were no better to hear tell of,—such like as burning of nuts with names to them, and searching of eggs brake into glasses, for the discovering of fortunes: which did much delight me in my tender age, though now I know that they be but folly if not worse. Moreover, they would throw apples in tubs of water, and the laddies and lassies, with their hands tied behind, would strive to reach them by mouth, and many other siccan fooleries."

"It sounds rather amusing, Patient."

"So it might be, Madam, for we bairns which were of too small age for aught less foolish. But for us, who are members of Christ's body, and have heard His voice and followed Him, what have we to do with the deeds of this weary and evil world, which we cast off when we arose to follow Him? Maybe I had better not have said this unto you, Madam, seeing that (saving your presence) you are yet but a young maid, and youth is naturally desirous of vain delights. When you are a little further on in the way, the Lord will teach it you Himself, even as He hath taught me."

"To tell you the truth, Patient, while I quite see with you in the main, I think you a little severe in the particular."

"I do not doubt it, Madam. The Lord knoweth how to deaden your heart unto this world, and He can do it a deal better than I. But if you be His (the which I doubt not), it must needs be."

"I have scarce a choice now," said Celia, in a low voice, feeling doubtful how far she ought to make any remark to Patient which might seem to reflect on Lady Ingram.

"That I perceive, Madam," answered Patient, in the same tone. "Only—if you will condescend to pardon the liberty I take in saying it—take heed that the pleasing and obeying of man clash not with the pleasing and obeying of God. 'For all that is in the world—the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eye, and the pride of life—is not of the Father, but is of the world.'"[5]

"Patient, there is one thing which I feel very much here—the want of a Protestant service."

"I used to feel that very sore, Madam. Not that I miss it not now, 'specially at times: yet scarce, me thinks, so sadly as I once did. At first I was much exercised with that word, 'Forsake not the assembling of yourselves together;'[6] and I marvelled whether I ought to remain in this place. But I began to think that it was not I that had forsaken mine own land, but the Lord which hath caused me to be cast out thence; I having, moreover, passed a solemn word to my dear Lady when she lay a-dying, that I would not leave Master Edward his lone in this strange land while he was yet a bairn. Then me thought of some words of Mr. Grey in that last sermon he ever preached. 'A soldier,' quoth he, 'hath no right to choose his position.' So now, seeing that since the Dragonnades, as they called the persecution here, there is no worship permitted to be had, and also that the Lord, and not I, hath placed me here, I am content. Every Sabbath, ay, every day, He preacheth unto me in the Word, and there is no finer discourse than His."

"What persecution, Patient?" asked Celia, as she lay down on her pillow. "This King hath never been a persecutor, hath he?"

"Ay hath he, Madam. The morn, if it please you, I will tell you some stories of the Dragonnades. My Lady hath given me further work to do for you; and if you think meet, I can bring my sewing into your closet as aforetime."

"Pray do, Patient: I like your stories. Good-night."

"Good-night, Madam, and the Lord be with you!"

"Your very obedient servant, Mrs. Celia Ingram," observed Mr. Philip, lounging into his sister's boudoir the next morning. "I hope your early rising has done you no harm."

"I rose at my usual hour, which is six."

"I rose at my usual hour, which is nine."

"O Philip!" cried Celia, laughing.

"Well, now, what earthly inducement have I to rise earlier? I am doomed—for my sins, I suppose—to spend four mortal hours of every day in dressing, breakfasting, dining, and supping. Moreover, I am constrained to ride a horse. Item, I have to talk nonsense. Fourth and lastly, I am the docile slave of my Lady-Mother. Is there anything in the list I have just given you to make a fellow turn out of bed three hours before he can't help it?"

"I should not think there was, except in the last item."

"Not in the last item, Madam, seeing that her gracious Ladyship does not shine upon the world any sooner than I do—have you not discovered that yet?"

"It seems to me, Philip, that you want something to do."

"Well, that depends," said Philip, reflectively. "It might be something I should not relish."

"Well!" said Celia, a trifle scornfully, "I never would lead such a useless life as that, Philip. 1 would either find something to do or make it."

"How very like a woman you talk!" loftily remarked Mr. Philip Ingram, putting his hands in his pockets.

Celia laughed merrily.

"I don't like it, Celia," resumed Philip, more seriously, "but what can I do? I wish exceedingly that my mother would let me go into the army, but she will not. Edward, you know—or you don't know—is a Colonel in King James's army; so that he can find something to do. I wish you would talk to my mother about it."

"I!" echoed Celia, in an unmistakable tone.

"You," repeated her brother.

"My dear Philip, you surely very much mistake my position with her. I have no more influence with my Lady Ingram than—than her little pug dog."

"A precious lot, then," retorted Mr. Philip, "for if anybody ruffled the tip of Miss Venus's tail, they would not be asked here again for a twelvemonth. It is you who mistake, Mrs. Celia. The only way to manage my mother is to stand up to her—to let her know that you can take your own way, and you will."

"Neither you nor I have any right to do that, Philip," replied Celia, gravely.

"I have not, that I allow," said Philip. "I don't quite see that as regards you. Her Ladyship is not your mother."

"I think that she takes to me the place both of father and mother, and that I have no more right to argue with or disobey her than them."

"That is your view, is it?" inquired Philip, meditatively. "Well, if you look at it in that way, of course you cannot ask her. So be it, then. I must be contented, I suppose, with my customary and highly useful mode of life."

"I find no lack of occupation," observed Celia.

"No, you are a woman," said Philip. "And as Patient's old rhyme (of which I never can remember the first line) says, 'Woman's work is never done.' Women do seem to possess a marvellous and enviable faculty of finding endless amusement in pushing a needle into a piece of linen, and pulling it out again—can't understand it. Oh! has my mother told you that we are going to St. Germains next week?"

"No," said Celia, rather surprised.

"Then there is a piece of information for you."

"She expects me to go, I suppose?"

"If you don't I won't," said Mr. Philip Ingram, dogmatically.

"Is the—the—Court"—began Celia, very hesitatingly.

"Is the Pretender there? Come out with it now—I shall not put my fingers in my ears. Yes, Madam, the Pretender is there, and his mother too, and all the rest of them."

"Oh!" sighed Celia, much relieved. "I thought you would be a Jacobite."

"You are a Whig, then, Mrs. Celia?" asked Philip in an amused tone.

"I do not know that I am a politician at all," she answered; "but I was brought up to the Whig view."

"All right!" said Mr. Philip, accommodatingly. "Don't let my mother know it—that is all."

"I think my father—Squire Passmore, I mean"—Celia explained, a little sadly, "told her so much at our first meeting."

"So much the better. And you expected to find me a red-hot Jacobite, did you? To tell the truth, I don't care two pins about it; neither does my mother, only 'tis the mode here, and she has taken it up along with her face-washes, laces, and lutestring. Of course I would not call the King anything but 'Your Majesty' to his face—it would hurt his feelings, poor gentleman, and I don't see that it would do any good. But if you ask me whether I would risk the confiscation of my property (when I have any) in aiding a second Restoration,—why, not I."

"Do you consider yourself an Englishman or a Frenchman, Philip?"

"Well, upon my word, Mrs. Celia Ingram, you are complimentary! 'Do I consider myself an Englishman or a Frenchman!' I am an Englishman, Madam, and proud of it; and I will thank you not to insult me by asking me whether I consider myself a Frenchman!"

"I beg your pardon, dear Philip," replied Celia, laughing. "But you have never been in England, have you?"

"Never—I wish I had."

"What is the Pretender like, Philip?"

"Well, Madam, the Jacobites say he would be only and wholly like his father, if he were not so very like his mother: while you Whigs are of opinion that he resembles some washerwoman at Egham, or bricklayer at Rotherhithe—don't remember which, and doesn't matter."

"But what, or whom, do you think him like?"

"Not very like his mother, in my judgment, which is very unbiased, except in his height, and the shape of his hands and mouth. Still, I should not call him unlike her. Of his likeness to his father I can say nothing, for I don't remember King James, who died when I was only eight years old. The son is a very tall man—there is over six feet of him, I should say—with a long face, nearly oval,—dark eyes, rather fine,—and a pleasant, good-natured sort of mouth."

"Is he a pleasant man to speak to? Does he talk much?"

"To the first question—yes; he is by no means without brains, and is very gracious to strangers. To the second—no, very little. If you are looking for me, Thérèse, in your wanderings up and down, here I am, at her Ladyship's service."

"It is not her Ladyship, Sir, dat want you. Dupont tell me to say you dat Monsieur Colville is in your rooms."

"Colville! that is jolly!"

And Mr. Philip Ingram took his immediate departure. Celia guessed that Mr. Colville was the solitary friend of whom he had before spoken.

"Now, Patient, I want to hear about the Dragonnades. Oh! surely you are not making up all those dresses for me?"

"Yes, Madam," answered Patient, in her passive way. "My Lady has ordered it."

"Well," sighed Celia, "I wonder when I am to wear them?"

Patient gathered up one of the multifarious dresses—a blue gauze one—and followed her mistress into the boudoir.

"You have never seen King Louis, Madam?"

"Never; I should like to have a glimpse of him some day."

"I never have, and I hope I never shall."

"Do you think so badly of him, Patient?"

"They call him The Great: methinks they might fitly give the same title to the Devil. He is a man with neither heart nor conscience. God forbid that I should judge any man: yet 'tis written, 'By their fruits ye shall know them,'[7] and the fruits of this King are truly dreadful. It doth look as if the Lord had given him 'over to a reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient.'[8] Privately, he is a man of very evil life; and publicly—you will hear shortly, Madam, what he is. 'Tis now, methinks, nigh upon twenty years since what they called the Edict of Nantes[9] was done away with. That decree, passed by some former King of this country,[10] did permit all the Protestants to hold their own worship, and to be visited in sickness by their chosen ministers. This, being too gentle for this King, he therefore swept away. His dragoons were sent into every place throughout France, with orders to force the the poor Protestants to go unto the wicked mass, and to harry them in all manner of ways, saving only to avoid danger of their lives. One Sabbath thereto appointed, they drave all in every place to mass at the point of their swords, goading and pricking on such as lagged, or showed ill-will thereto. I saw one crowd so driven, from a window—for my Lady being a Papist, kept safe them in her house: or else it was that I was not counted worthy of the Lord to have that great honor of suffering for His sake. Poor souls! white-headed men there were, and tender women, and little, innocent, frightened children. It was a sight to move any human heart. I heard many a tale of worse things they did. Breaking into the houses, destroying and burning the household furniture, binding and beating the men, yea, even the women; drumming with hellish noise in the chambers of the sick, until they swooned away or were like to die; burning the houses of some and the workshops of others: all this we heard, and more."