ASHCLIFFE HALL (continued 4)

"Patient, how dreadful!" said Celia. "Why, 'tis near what they did in the days of Queen Mary."

"They only went a little further then on the same road—that was all, methinks," answered Patient, calmly. "When the Lord readeth in the Books before men and angels the stories of the persecutions in England and in Scotland, He will scarce forget the Dragonnades of France."

"I did not know that there had been any persecution in Scotland, Patient—except what King Charles did; I suppose that was a sort of persecution."

"Did you not, Madam?" asked Patient, quietly turning down a hem. "I was not thinking of King Charles, but of the earlier days, when tender women like Helen Stirk and Margaret Wilson perished in the waters, and when the bloody Cardinal brent Master George Wishart, that true servant of God and the Evangel, in his devil's-fire at St. Andrews."

"I never heard of all those people, Patient."

"Ay, perchance so, Madam. I dare say their names and their sufferings scarce went beyond their own land," replied Patient, in a constrained voice, as if her heart were a little stirred at last. "But the Lord heard of them; and Scotland heard of them, and rose and bared her arm, and drave forth the men of blood from off her soil. The Lord is their Avenger, at times, in this life—beyond this life, always."

"Tell me something more about them, Patient. Who was Master Wishart?"

"He was a Scottish gentleman of good birth, a Wishart of Pitarrow, Madam, who, giving himself up unto the service of God and the Evangel, in Dundee and other towns, and bringing the blessed Word and the blessed hope unto many a poor hungered soul, was seized by the bloody Cardinal Beaton, and brent to death as the reward of his labors, in the year of our Lord, 1546. They that did know him at that time, and Master John Knox afterward, did say unto divers persons, as I have heard, that even Master John was not fit to stand up with George Wishart. He was a true man, and one that spake so good and sweet words as did move the hearts of such as heard him. I think the Lord knew how to ease him after his sore pain, and that, now that he hath had rest in Heaven for one hundred and seventy years, he accounts not that he bare too much for the Lord's sake, that one bitter hour at St. Andrew's."

"And who was Helen—what did you say her name was?—and Margaret Wilson?"

"Helen Stirk, Madam, was a wife that was permitted to die along with her guidman for the name of the Lord, which she counted a grand mercy. I can tell you a little more concerning Margaret Wilson, for she died no so long since, and my father's sister's son, Duncan M'Intyre, saw her die. It was at Wigtown, on the 11th of May, in the year that King James became King. Duncan had business in the town, where some of his kith on his father's side dwelt; and hearing that two women were to be put to death, he, like a hare-brained callant as he was, was set on seeing it. I heard not much about Margaret Maclauchlan, who suffered at the same time, save that she was the widow of one John Millikan, a wright of Drumjargan, and a woman notable for her piety and discretion. But that of Maggie Wilson took much effect upon mine heart, seeing that she was a young maid of just eighteen years, mine own age. She and Agnes her sister, as Duncan told us, were children of one Gilbert Wilson of Glenvernoch, who with his wife were Prelatists. Maggie and Agnes, who were not able to conform unto the ill Prelatical ways wherein their father and mother were entangled, had joined many meetings of the Covenanters on the hill-sides or in the glens, for preaching or prayer."

"How old was Agnes? Was she a married woman?"

"No, Madam; she was younger than Maggie—a maid of thirteen years."

"But, Patient! I never heard of such a thing—two girls, thirteen and eighteen, setting themselves up to judge their parents' religion, and choosing a different one for themselves!" said Celia, in astonishment, for she could not help thinking of the strong expletives which would have burst from Squire Passmore, if she and Lucy had calmly declared themselves Presbyterians, and declined to accompany that gentleman to church as usual.

"Madam, their father and mother were Prelatists," said Patient, evidently of opinion that this settled the question. "They could not go with them to church and read the mass-book."

"Oh! you mean they were Papists?"

"No, Madam—Prelatists," repeated Patient, a little perversely. "Not that I see much disagreement, indeed, for methinks a Prelatist is but a Papist with a difference. Yet I do trust there be Prelatists that will be saved, and I can scarce think that of Papists."

"I don't understand you, Patient. I suppose these Prelatists are some sect that I have not heard anything about," said Celia, with much simplicity, for she never supposed that Patient's stern condemnation was levelled against her own Church, and would have been sorely grieved and bewildered had she known it. "Go on, if you please."

Patient did not explain, and proceeded with her history.

"When the late King James became King, on the death of his brother, he put forth a proclamation granting liberty of conscience unto all sects whatsoever. For a time the Puritans rejoiced in this mercy, thinking it a favor unto them, but later they became aware that 'twas but a deceit to extend ease unto the Papists. Maggie and Agnes Wilson, the which were in hiding, did shortly after this proclamation venture into the town, being wishful to speak with their kinsfolk. They never reached their kith, being betrayed by one Patrick Stewart, who came upon them with a band of men, and lodged them in the thieves' hole. Thence they were shifted to another chamber, wherein Margaret Maclauchlan already abode. Thomas Wilson, their brother, did strive to set them free, thereby but harming himself;[11] and they were had up afore the Sheriff,[12] and the Provost,[13] and some others. The indictment of them was for attending field-conventicles, and for joining in the rebellion at Bothwell Bridge and Airsmoss,—they, poor feeble souls, never having been near the same places. The jury brought the charge in proven, and the three women were doomed to be justified[14] by water. They were to be tied to stakes below the mark of the tide, in the water of Blednoch, near Wigtown, until they should be dead, the tide sweeping over them in its flow. Howbeit the Lord restrained them of having their will upon the young maid Agnes. Maybe they were nigh shamed to justify such a bairn: however, they tarried in her case. But on the day appointed, which, as I said, was May 11th, one named Windram, being in command over a band of soldiers, did hale Margaret Maclauchlan and Margaret Wilson to the place of execution. The first stake, whereto Margaret Maclauchlan was tied, was fixed much deeper in the bed of the river than the other, they hoping that Maggie Wilson should be feared at her death, being the sooner, and so brought to recant. Moreover, one of the town officers did with his halbert press and push down the poor old wife, who, having the lesser suffering of the two, was soon with the Lord. As she strave in the bitterness of death, quoth one to Maggie Wilson, 'What think ye of that?' 'Nay,' quoth she, 'what do I see but Christ in one of His members struggling there!' Then Maggie, bring tied unto the nearer stake, after singing of a Psalm,[15] did read a chapter of the Word,[16] and prayed, so that all might hear. And while she was a-praying, the water overflowed her. And to see the devilish cruelty of these men! they left her till she was nigh dead, and then, lifting her out of the water, did use all care and means to recover her, as if they meant mercy. But it was but that she might die over again. They murdered her twice over—poor, poor maid! for she was past feeling when they got her out. Then, when she could speak, this Windram did ask her if she would pray for the King. Much cause they had given her! She then answered that she wished the salvation of all men, and the damnation of none. Then a maid which stood by Duncan, and had sobbed and wept aforetime, which he thought must be of kin or friendly unto her, did cry most dolefully, 'Dear Margaret! oh say, "God save the King!" say, "God save the King!"' 'God save him if He will,' quoth she, 'for I desire his salvation.' Windram now drawing near, commanded her to take the oath unto the King, abjuring of the Solemn League and Covenant. 'I will not,' quoth she; 'I am one of Christ's children.' No sooner had she thus spoken, than one of the town's officers with his halbert thrust her back into the water, crying, 'Tak' anither drink, my hearty!' So she died."

"Patient!" said Celia, in a low, constrained voice, "did God let those men go scathless?"

"Not so, Madam. The town's officer that thrust her back was ever after that tormented with a thirst the which no draught could slake; and for many generations the children of the other, which kept down the old wife with his halbert, were all born with misshapen hands and feet."[17]

"Patient," said Celia again, in the same low reverent tone, "I wonder that He suffers such things to be!"

"I marvelled at that, Madam, years agone. It seemed very strange unto me that He suffered us to be haled down to the beach at the harrying of Lauchie, and that the storm should come on us and cut off so many lives of His servants. It exercised me very sore."

"And how did you settle it, Patient?"

"I do not know that I should have settled it, Madam, had I not met with an ancient gentleman, a minister, that used at one time to visit Mr. Francis in Paris here. He was a reverend man by the name of Colville, one of mine own country, that had fled out of Scotland of old time, and had been dwelling for many years in Switzerland and Germany."

"Was he akin to this Mr. Colville who is Philip's friend?"

"This young gentleman is his grandson, Madam; and little good he doth Mr. Philip, I fear. If he were a wee bit more like his grandsire, I would be fain. Howbeit, grace goeth not by inheritance, as I know. He was a very kindly gentleman, Madam, this old minister; and when he had sat a while ben with Mr. Francis and Miss Magdalene, he oft would say, 'Now let me go but and speak unto the Leslies.' And one day—ah! that day!—when Roswith was very ill, I asked of him the thing which did exercise me. And he said unto me, gently and kindly, holding mine hand in his quavering hand, for he was a very ancient gentleman,—'Dear child,' quoth he, 'dost thou know so little thy Father? Thou mindest me of my little son,' saith he, 'when the fire brake out in mine house. When I hasted up into his chamber, which was above the chamber a-fire, and tare the blankets from his bed, and haled him thence somewhat roughly, the bairn greet, and asked of me what made me so angry.' Well, I could not choose but smile to think of the babe's blunder; and he saith, 'I see thou canst understand that. Why, dear child,' quoth he, 'thou art about just the same blunder as my bairn. Thy Father sendeth a messenger in haste to fetch thy soul home to Him; and lo! "Father," sayest thou, "why art thou so angry?" We are all little children,' quoth he, 'and are apt to think our Father is angry when He is but short with us because of danger. And dost thou think, lassie,' he said, 'that they which saw the face of God first thing after that storm, rebuked Him because He had fetched them thither by water?' So then I saw mine error."

"Did this old gentleman teach you a great deal, Patient? I keep wondering whence you have all the things you say to me. I don't think such things as you do; and even Cicely Aggett, who is some twenty years older than you, does not seem to know half so much about God as you do. Where do you get your thoughts and your knowledge?"

"Where the Lord doth mostly teach His children, Madam—'by the rivers of Babylon, where I sat down and wept.'[18] I think he that beareth the precious seed commonly goeth forth weeping,[19] for we cannot enter into the troubles and perplexities of others which have known none ourselves. And if it behoved Him in all things to be made like unto His brethren, that He might be a merciful and faithful High Priest,[20] who are we that we should grudge to be made like unto our brethren likewise? That is a deep word, Madam,—'Though He were a Son, yet learned He obedience by the things which He suffered.'[21] I have not got half down to the bottom of it yet. But for the matter of that, I am but just hoeing at the top of all Scripture, and scarce delving any depth."

"Well, Patient," said Celia, with a perplexed, melancholy air, "if you think you are but hoeing on the surface, what am I doing?"

"My dear bairn—I ask your pardon, Madam," corrected Patient.

"Don't ask it, Patient," replied Celia, softly; "I like that—it sounds as if somebody loved me."

"Eh, lassie!" said Patient, suddenly losing all her conventionality, and much of her English, "did ye no think I loved Miss Magdalene's bairn? I was the first that ever fed you, that ever dressed you, that ever bare you about. I was just fon' on you when you were a bit baby." Patient's voice became suddenly tremulous, and ceased.

Celia rose from her chair, and kneeling down by Patient's side, threw her arms round her neck and kissed her. Patient held her tight for a moment.

"The Lord bless you, my ain lassie!" she faltered, "You are just that Miss Magdalene o'er again—her ain brown eyes, and her smile, and her soft bit mou'! The Lord bless you!"

Celia resumed her seat, and Patient her calm, respectful tone; but the former understood the latter a great deal better after that episode, and never forgot what a wealth of love lay hidden under that quiet manner and somewhat stiff address.

"Well, Patient, what were you going to say to me?"

"I scarce think, Madam, that you have had much dwelling by the waters of Babylon as yet. I don't mean that you have had no sorrow at all: I misdoubt if any man or maid ever grew up to your age without knowing what sorrow was. But there are griefs and griefs; and 'tis one thing to visit a town, and another to abide there. David knew what it was: 'My tears have been my meat day and night,'[22] quoth he. And though in the main I conceive that and many another word in David's Psalms to point unto Him that was greater than David, yet I dare say 'twas no pleasant dwelling in the cave with all them that were bitter of soul, neither fleeing on the mountains afore King Saul, nor yet abiding in Gath. He felt them all sore crosses, I little doubt."

"Do you think that is what our Lord means, Patient, where He says, 'Take up the cross, and follow Me'?"[23]

"I think he means whatsoever is undelightful to flesh and blood, that cometh in the way of following Him. Is the gate strait? yet 'Follow Me.' Is the way narrow? yet 'Follow Me.' Art thou faint, and cold, and an-hungered, and a-weary? Yet 'Follow Me.' 'My grace is sufficient for thee.'[24] My footsteps are plain before thee, My eye is ever over thee. 'Follow Me.'"

"But, Patient, don't you think that sometimes the footsteps are not so very plain before us?"

"We cannot see them when we don't look for them, Madam—that is certain."

"Ah! but when we do—is it not sometimes very difficult to see them?"

"Madam, blind eyes cannot see. We are all blind by nature, and even they that are God's children, I believe, cannot sin but it dims their eyes. Even of them, perchance more 'see men as trees walking.'[25] than as having the full use of their spiritual eyes. Well, it matters little how we see men, if only we have eyes to see Christ. Yet which of us, after all, ever really hath seen Him? But anent crosses, Madam, I have a word to say, if you please. There's a wonderful manufactory of crosses ever a-working among all God's saints. Whatever else we are unskilful in, we are uncommon skilled in making of rods for our own backs. And very sharp rods they are, mostly. I had a deal sooner with David, 'fall into the hand of the Lord' than into the hands of men:[26] but above all, may the Lord deliver me from falling into mine own! There is a sharp saying, Madam, which maybe you have heard,—'He that is his own lawyer hath a fool to his client:' I am sure he that ruleth his own way hath a fool to his governor. Yet every man among us would be his own God if he might. What else are all our murmurings and disputings of the will of the Lord?"

"But, Patient, you don't call grieving murmuring? You would not say that every cry of pain was a murmur? Surely when God uses His rod to us, He means us to feel it?"

"Certainly, Madam, He means us to feel it; else there were no use laying it on us. There is a point, doubtless, where grieving doth become murmuring; and where that is the Lord knoweth better than we. He makes no mistakes. He will not account that murmuring which he that crieth doth not intend to be such. I think He looks on our griefs not as they be to Him, nor perchance to others, but as they are to us; just as a kindly nurse or mother will comfort a little bairn greeting over a bit plaything that none save itself accounted the losing of worth naming."

"We are very foolish, I am afraid, sometimes," said Celia, thoughtfully.

"Foolish! ay we are so!" returned Patient. "Setting our hearts, like Jonah, on bit gourds, that grow up in a night, and are withered in a night[27]—quarrelling with the Lord when His wisdom denies us our own will—mewling and grumbling like ill bairns, as we be, at a breath of wind that crosses us—saying, all of us at our hearts, 'I am, and none else beside me'[28]—'Who is the Lord, that I should obey Him?'[29] The longer I live, Madam, the more I am ever marvelling at the wonderful grace, and patience, and love, of the Lord, that He should bear with such ne'er-do-weels as we are, even at our very best. 'I am the Lord, I change not; therefore ye sons of Jacob are not consumed.'"[30]

Patient was silent for a while, and Celia broke the silence.

"Patient, what became of Roswith? I never hear you name her now, but always as belonging to past time."

Patient did not answer for a moment. Then she said, her voice a little less calm than usual:

"There is no time, Madam, for her. She will never grow old, she will never suffer pain, she will never weep any more. The Master has been, and called for her."

"She is dead!" said Celia, sympathizingly.

"Dead? Nay, alive for evermore, as He is. 'Because He liveth, we shall live also.'[31] She is in the beatific vision, before the face of the Father, and shall never sin, nor suffer, nor depart any more. And we, here in this body of pain and sin, call them 'dead!' O Roswith! O my soul, my love, my darling! my wee bit bonnie bairn, sister and daughter in one, whom I loved as David Jonathan, as mine own soul! surely I am the dead, and thou art the living!"

Celia sat amazed at this sudden flow of passionate words from her usually imperturbable companion. She had seen her moved, only a short time before, but not like this. Patient bent her head low over her work, and did not look up for some minutes. When she spoke, it was to say, very softly:

"She never looked up rightly after the harrying of Lauchie. She lived, but she never laughed rightly again. The Doctor deemed that the ship wreck—the shock and the cold and the hunger—had wrought the ill. Maybe they had. But she never was a strong, likely lassie. She was ever gentle and quiet in all her ways, and could no bear much putting upon. And after that she just pined and wasted away. It was after Miss Magdalene died—after my Lady that is now was wedded—that the end came. It was one Sabbath afternoon, and I, poor fool! fancied her a wee bit better that day. She was lying on the bed in our chamber, and we had been cracking of divers things—of our Lord Christ and His resurrection, and that sweet prayer of His in John, and the like. Her voice was very low and soft—but it was ever that, I think—and her words came slowly and with pauses. And when we ended our crack, she saith, 'Patient, Sister! sing to me.' I asked her, 'What, dear heart?' and she saith, 'The Twenty-third Psalm.' So I sang:

"And now and then, just for a line, I heard her weak voice joining in. I sang to the end, and she sang the last lines:

"When I had done, I thought the place felt so still, as if the angels were there. Surely they were so! for in a few minutes after I made an end of singing, she arose and went to the Father.

"I have been alone with God since that night Roswith died. I shall go some day, but it seems afar off now. Perchance it may be nearer than I deem. The Lord knoweth the time, and He will not forget me."

There was a long silence when Patient's voice ceased. Celia spoke first.

"Patient, you said once that you would tell me how my father met with my step-mother. But I want to know also why no one ever sought me out until now."

"There was no chance, Madam, so long as you were a child. The troubles in England were too great to allow of Sir Edward returning himself. I believe he charged my Lady on his deathbed to seek you out, and wherefore she tarried I know not. I had a mind once to go myself, and I named it to her, but was called a fool for my pains, and bidden to sit quiet and sew. But I was glad to see you."

"Thank you, dear Patient," said Celia, affectionately. "And now tell me about the other."

"Do you know, Madam, that my Lady was a widow when she wedded Sir Edward?"

"No!" exclaimed Celia. "I never heard of that. But Philip—he is really my brother, is he not?"

"Oh yes, Madam! Mr. Philip is your brother. I will tell you:—After my Lady Magdalene died, Sir Edward was for a time sore sick, and the doctors bade him visit and go about for the recovery of his health. I am scarce certain that it was the best thing he could do, howbeit he did as they bade him. Among the gentlemen whom he used to visit, where he whiles took his son Master Edward, and me as his nurse, was the Marquis of La Croix, and another was one Mr. Camillus De L'Orient. The Marquis was a stately old French gentleman, a kindly man to his own, I think, but one that held himself mortal high, and seemed to think that laboring men and the like were no better, if so good, as his dogs and his horses. The Marchioness, his wife, was much of the same sort, only I'm thinking she wasn't quite so stiff as he. They had no son—and very grieved they were for it—only three daughters: Madam Claudia, Madam Sophia, and Madam Amata. The last young lady is dead; she died a maid, and to my thinking she was a hantle the best of the three. Madam Sophia you saw the other evening; she wedded the Duke of Montausier. Madam Claudia is my Lady.

"I had never any great taking for Frenchmen, but to my thinking Mr. Camillus De L'Orient was the best and pleasantest Frenchman I ever saw. There was something about him so douce and kindly to everybody; and 'tis very seldom the case with the French nobles. Sir Edward came one day into the nursery, as he often did, to play him with the bairn; and, said he, 'Patient, next week I shall go to Monsieur De La Croix's château in the provinces, and Mademoiselle Aimée has begged for Edward to come too; so get him and yourself ready. Mademoiselle De La Croix is to be married to Monsieur De L'Orient." Well, we went to the castle; and surely there were fine doings: Madam Claudia in white satin, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen—they were quite a picture to look at. After the wedding and the revellings were over, Madam Claudia and her husband went up to Paris for a while, and then to pay a visit to Mr. Camillus' father and mother, who lived some way off. Sir Edward meanwhile thought of going home too, but Monsieur and Madam they begged of him to stay till Mr. Camillus came back, and Madam Amata, who was mighty fond of children, and took wonderfully to little Master Ned, she begged him not to take the bairn away; so the end of it was that he stopped ever so long, and Master Ned and me, we stopped too. About two months after the wedding, Mr. Camillus and his new wife came back to the castle, and the fine doings began again. There was nought but feasting and junketing for a fortnight; and one morning, at the end of that time, Sir Edward, and Mr. Camillus, and one Mr. Leroy, and three or four gentlemen more that were staying at the castle, they went out for a stroll in the park.

"I know not rightly how it was, but there arose some words among these gentlemen, and they came to quarrelling. Sir Edward held fast by Mr. Camillus, who was a great friend of his; but Mr. Leroy, whose blood was up because of something that had been said, at last struck Mr. Camillus a blow. Everybody cried directly that he must fight him. Sir Edward ran back to the castle for pistols, for the gentlemen were not armed; and he came in all haste into the chamber where I was sewing, with little Master at his horn-book, and bade me tell Madam Claudia as gently as I could that there was to be a duel between Mr. Camillus and Mr. Leroy. I went up into the chamber where the three young ladies were together, and Madam Sophia was trying of a new gown. I told as quiet as I could what had happened. Madam Amata cried out, and ran to her sister, and clipped her round the neck. She said, 'Claude, ma soeur, ma bonne, ma belle! go, go to Camille, and ask him not to fight!' I looked at Madam Claudia. She went as white as a sheet the first minute; but the next she lifted her head up proudly, and she said, 'Shall I ask him not to revenge an affront to his honor? Noblesse oblige, ma soeur.' 'You are such a child, Aimée!' was all Madam Sophia said, as she looked round from her tiring-glass. 'You always call me so,' said Madam Amata; 'but this is dreadful—it is death, perhaps, my sisters!' Madam Sophia took no heed of her, but went on trying her new gown, and showing her woman where it did not please her. For a minute I thought that Madam Claudia was going to give way and have a good cry; but she did not. I scarce knew then that 'tis not our deepest sorrow that we weep for. She sat down, still very white, and taking no heed to her sister's new array, though she, poor thoughtless maid! kept calling to her, didn't she like this and did she no think that was too long and t'other too narrow? Madam Amata came softly up to me, and whispered 'Ma bonne, go down and bring us the first news.' So I slipped out and down-stairs. About half an hour after a gentleman came in—a French gentleman, but I forget his name now—who I knew had been at the fighting. I called to him and asked him to pardon me for being so bold as to speak to him, but for the love of God to tell me the news. 'News?' quoth he, 'what! of the duel? Oh! they have fought, and Monsieur De L'Orient has fallen: Sir Edward Ingram is carrying him here'—and Mr. Somebody, I don't mind who it was. 'Is he dead, Sir?' I said, all of a tremble. 'I really don't know,' says he, quite careless; 'I think not quite.'

"I hadn't the heart to speak another word to such a man. I crept up again to the young ladies' chamber, and I knelt down by Madam Claudia, and told her she must make ready for the worst. She shivered all over, and then, scarce opening her white lips, she said, 'Is it all over?' I said, 'They think not quite; but Sir Edward is bringing him hither.' When she heard that, she rose and glided down the stairs to the hall, Madam Amata following her, and I likewise. Even Madam Sophia was a trifle touched, I think, for she said a bad word, as those French ladies do when they are astonished; but Madam Amata was very white and crying, for if Mr. Camillus had really been her brother born, I don't think she could have loved him much better than she did.

"Just as Madam Claudia reached the hall, Sir Edward came in, and the other gentleman, bearing poor Mr. Camillus covered with blood. There was a marble couch in the hall, with silken cushions; they laid him down there, and he just spoke twice. First he said to Sir Edward, 'Tell my mother gently, and take care of my Claude.' And then when Madam Claudia came and knelt by him, he said, 'Dieu vous garde, mamie!' Then he laid his head back and died. But when he died, Madam Claudia threw her arms about him, and laid her head down on his breast in spite of the blood: and then suddenly springing to her feet, she flung up her arms wildly in a way that sent a shudder through me, and the next minute she would have fallen on the ground if Sir Edward had not caught her first. 'Let us carry her up, Patient, to her own chamber, poor soul!' he saith. So we took her up, I and he, and I laid her quiet on her bed. Madam Amata followed us, and, poor young maid! it was pitiful to see her. She had never been taught to do more than make fancy-work and play the violin and such, and now she wanted to nurse her sister, and did not know how to set about it. 'Do tell me, ma bonne, what I can do for Claude?—my poor Claude!' she kept saying to me. 'Twas a long while ere Madam Claudia came round, and when she did, she wept and mourned every minute of the day for four days. I don't think she ever quite loved anything again as she had loved him."

Celia could hardly associate the idea of such mourning as this with her cold, fashionable, impassive step-mother.

"You think it scarce like, Madam?" asked Patience, seeing her thought in her face. "I know what you think—ay, and more than you have thought that. If you will forgive me to say it, you deem her cold and hard. So she is. Ah Madam! wherever sorrow softens and sanctifies not, it chills and hardens. I am sure, if I had known her but now, I could never have thought her that bright lassie whom I saw in her early maidenhood. You see, Madam, the Lord sends sorrow to us all; but where He has to touch one of His chosen with it, He brings it Himself. And there is a vast difference between the two. There be to whom the having been with grief is the having been with Jesus; and that always softens and tenders the heart. I think we hardly come to know the Lord's best comforts, till we come to know how sorely He can afflict whiles. But grief without Jesus—ah! that is worth calling grief!

"There is little more to tell now, Madam, for you know the end—that Sir Edward wedded Madam Claudia. I will confess I did think they might have waited a trifle longer, if it were only to the end of the year after Mr. Camillus' death. He had scarce been dead six months, and my Lady Magdalene not the year out, when they were married. Howbeit, that was their business, not mine. Madam Sophia said, in her odd way, that if her sister did not care, she saw no reason why she should: but the tears stood in Madam Amata's eyes, though she said nought. I liked Madam Amata very much. She died about two years thereafter."

"Patient, whom do you think Philip like?—his father or his mother?"

"Neither much, Madam. Sir Edward is like his father, only that he hath his mother's mouth.

"Do you know when he will be back, Patient? I do so long to see my own brother."

"No, Madam. He went off rather unexpected. Now, Madam Celia, if you please to try this gown?"

"Why, Patient! what have you done to that blue gauze?" inquired Lady Ingram, entering so noiselessly that neither knew of her presence until she spoke. "It is cut absurdly short in front. Turn round, my dear. Mais c'est affreux! Pull the rag off, I beg of you. Is that Thérèse's cutting or yours, Patient?"

"Thérèse's, Madam."

"Incroyable! I shall scold her right well for it. It is atrocious. C'est une chose à déchirer de coeur!"

Celia looked up into Lady Ingram's eyes, saw how calm and careless they were, and wondered if there were left in her anything of that early Claude De La Croix, whose sad story she had been hearing.

VIII. WANTED, DIOGENES' LANTERN.

"Smile, hypocrite, smile! It is no such hard labor, While each stealthy hand stabs the heart of his neighbor: Faugh!—Fear not; we've no hearts in Vanity Fair." MISS MULOCH.

We have been absent for a long time from Ashcliffe Hall. In fact, nothing has occurred there since Celia's departure of sufficient moment to be recorded. But on Easter Tuesday of 1712, Harry returned home for a short time. He brought plenty of town news, political and otherwise.

"Twelve new Tory peers were created on New Year's Day"—

The Squire swore at this piece of information.

"And the Duke of Marlborough[1] has fallen in disgrace"—

"So we heard, lad, so we heard," said his father, discontentedly. "Somebody ought to be ashamed of himself."

"And Prince Eugene[2] is come to England on a visit to Her Majesty, 'tis thought to plead for the Duke."

"O Harry! have you seen Prince Eugene?"

"Yes, Lucy, several times. Do you wish to know what he is like? Well, fancy a small, but well-made man, with a dark complexion, a large Roman nose, black eyes, lively and piercing, and black hair."

"Do you think the Queen will listen to his pleading for the Duke?"

"I doubt it. 'Tis scarce so much with the Duke as with the Duchess[3] that she is herself displeased; and Prince Eugene has already offended her by coming to court in a bag-wig instead of the peruque. She said to her ladies that next time she supposed he would come in his night-cap. Prince Eugene, you see, is a soldier, accustomed to think very little of matters of this kind; and in all points of etiquette the Queen is mighty particular."

"And what other news is there, Harry?"

"Well, Sir, the Secretary for War, a young man named Robert Walpole, has been sent to the Tower for bribery."

"Why on earth have they sent him there for that?" asked the Squire, sarcastically. "Does not every one of the Ministers sell all his Secretary-ships? Didn't he buy his place, to begin with?"

"Doubtless, Sir," answered Harry; "and every year the Duchess of Marlborough, whose perquisite they are, either gives or sells the Queen's old gowns; but when the blame must be laid on some one, 'tis easy to find a man to bear it."

"Any other piece of roguery?" asked his father.

"No, Sir, I remember none," said Harry. "Just before I left London, the Queen was touching for the evil.[4] 'Tis a solemn ceremony, I am told, though I was not able to see it. 'Tis stale news, I fear, that there hate been prosecutions of newspaper writers for attacks on the Ministry.

"No, Harry, I had not heard of that," said the Squire, quickly. "Likely enough! A set of beggarly printers daring to bring out lampoons on gentlemen in the Queen's service! Served 'em right!"

"There have been a good many of the lampoons, I believe."

"Is it only the Whig Ministers who suffered from these rascally newspapers?" asked his father.

"Both sides, Sir," answered Harry.

"Well, I am glad the Tories got a bit of it." chuckled Squire Passmore.

"There are gentlemen on the other side, Sir, I think," hinted Harry quietly.

"Nothing but rogues on the other side, my lad," said his father. "Why, how could they be on the other side if they weren't rogues?"

"Why, Father!" said Lucy, who could take more liberties with that gentleman than any one else, and knew it; "you don't think everybody wrong who isn't on the same side as you?"

"There can be only one right side," said the Squire, as evasively as oracularly. "I am on it because 'tis right."

"Well, my politics," said Charley, yawning, "are that 'tis right because I'm on it."

A piece of exalted egotism which provoked universal laughter.

"I met in London with a rather pleasant fellow," remarked Harry, "who told me he had been at Ashcliffe, and had the honor, quoth he, of dining with you. A man of the name of Stevens."

"Ob, aye! a painter," said the Squire.

"Well, he had been in a painter's employ," returned his son, "but is now in a newspaper office: he is employed on the Gazette."

"What made him change his trade in that way?"

"He told me that the painter who had employed him had been but a temporary patron, and having now done with him, he had been unable to get further employment in that line. And having some parts in the way of writing, he had offered his services to one or two of the Whig papers, and is now in the Gazette's office."

"He is a sensible fellow," said his father. "A right Whig, I could see, and a thorough conscientious man."

Could any person have lifted up the veil, and revealed to him the history and identity of one George Shepherd, he would have felt both amazed and humbled.

At the moment that this conversation was going on at Ashcliffe, the thoroughly conscientious man of whom they were speaking was seated in the back-parlor of a newspaper office in London. He had two companions, a man in a fair wig, and another in a black one. The wearer of the black wig, a large-limbed, long-faced, solemn-looking man, had just folded up some letters after perusal.

"Well, Mr. Mist, what say you?" asked he, laying down the letters. "If you prefer to sever our connection, rather than engage to do as I wish, of course you are at liberty to do so. But unless you will keep measures with me, and be punctual in these things, I cannot serve you further, nor be concerned any more."

"I really beg you not to name such a thing, Mr. De Foe!" replied Mist, bowing and nervously twisting a piece of paper. "I am your very humble servant in these matters—all of them; and I engage readily to conduct the Journal—Will you repeat your terms, Mr. De Foe?"

"The Government, Mr. Mist, have treated you with lenity and forbearance," resumed De Foe,[5] oracularly. "They permit you to seem on the same side as before, to rally the Flying Post as much as you please, and all the Whig writers, and even the word 'Whig;' and to admit any foolish trifling things in favor of the Tories, such as really can do them no good, nor the Government any harm."

"Well, Mr. De Foe," said Mr. Mist, with a sigh, "that is liberty enough. I am resolved that my paper shall for the future amuse the Tories, but not affront the Government."

"That, Mr. Mist," announced his dictator, "is the only way to keep yourself from a jail, and to secure the advantages which now rise to you from it; for you may be assured the complaint against you is so general that the Government can bear it no longer."[6]

"Would you mind telling me from whom you speak, Sir?" Mr. Mist meekly wished to know.

"I should mind it very much, Mr. Mist. Be satisfied that you have been spoken to—ay, and warned."

Mr. Mist was fully convinced of that.

"You will write, Mr. Mist, a declaration, full enough to satisfy the Government, of your intention to make no further attack upon them?"

Mr. Mist would do anything he was told. The poor little mouse was entirely at the mercy of the lion. He withdrew to pen his declaration, and left the arch-conspirators together.

"You see, Mr. Stevens, what difficulties we Government spies have to contend with!" sighed the author of Robinson Crusoe. "But you know that, of course, as well as I do."

"'Bowing in the House of Rimmon,'" responded Stevens, with a peculiar smile. "I fancy the spies on the other side have their difficulties also."

In which observation, though De Foe was completely unaware of it, Mr. Stevens was alluding to himself.

"'Bowing in the House of Rimmon!'" repeated De Foe. "I thank you, Mr. Stevens, for so apt a comparison. You see, Sir, I am for this service posted among Papists, Jacobites, and High Tories—a generation which my very soul abhors. I am obliged to hear traitorous expressions and outrageous words against Her Majesty's person and Government and her most faithful servants, and to smile at it all as if I approved of it."

"You are scarce the first person, Mr. De Foe, who has been constrained to smile at what he disapproves."

"Well, his Lordship's instructions are positive."

"You have them, I think, from himself?" asked Stevens, deferentially.

"Through Mr. Buckley. I introduced myself to Mr. Mist in the disguise of a translator of foreign news, with his Lordship's approbation, who commissioned me, in this manner, to be so far concerned in this weekly paper of Mist's, as to be able to keep it within the circle of a secret management, and also prevent the mischievous part of it; but neither Mist nor any of those concerned with him have the least guess by whose direction I do it. You, Mr. Stevens, are one of ourselves, so I speak freely to you."

"Quite so," answered Stevens, dryly.

"Some time ago," resumed De Foe, "I was concerned in the same manner with Dyer's News-Letter. Old Dyer was just dead, and Dormer, his successor, being unable by his troubles to carry on that work, I had an offer of a share both in the property and management. Well, I immediately sent to the Minister, who, by Mr. Buckley, let me know 'twould be a very acceptable piece of service, for that letter was really very prejudicial to the public, and the most difficult to come at in a judicial way in case of offence given. Upon this I took upon myself (and do still take) the entire management of the paper, so that the style still continues Tory, that the party may be amused, and not set up another, which would destroy the design."[7]

"Of course your object was not wholly political?" smilingly suggested Stevens.

"You mean, there was a matter of money betwixt us? Of course there was—money or money's worth."

"We have it on good authority that 'the laborer is worthy of his hire,'" answered Stevens, still smiling. "Ah! Mr. De Foe, 'tis in truth such as you and I that rule kingdoms—not Kings nor Ministers."

When Stevens left the office of Mist's Journal, which was in truth Mist's private habitation, he sauntered slowly for a while along the busy streets; turned into a (Whig) coffee-house, which he frequented every Tuesday morning, and called for a dish of coffee and the Postboy; wandering on, turned into another (Tory) coffee-house, which he frequented every Tuesday afternoon, and called for a glass of usquebagh and the St. James's Chronicle. Having made his weekly impression on the society of the two coffee-houses, he sauntered on again until he reached Gray's Inn Road. Here his proceedings suddenly changed. He walked up the Road with the air and pace of a man who had no time to spare, and entering a whitesmith's shop, inquired in a rather loud tone whether Butler (the whitesmith) could attend to a little matter of business. Mrs. Butler, who was in the shop, having informed him that her husband was at leisure to undertake anything required, Stevens sinking his voice to a low whisper, asked further—

"Is the old horse in the old stall?"

"He is, Sir," answered Mrs. Butler, in the same tone, adding, in a louder one, "Pray go up-stairs, Sir, and speak with Butler yourself."

Stevens found his way without difficulty up a dark and rickety staircase in the corner, with the intricacies of which he appeared well acquainted, and pausing at a door on the right hand, at the head of the stairs, placed his lips to the keyhole, and gave a low, soft whistle. The door opened with a spring, and Mr. Stevens was admitted to the chamber within.

In the room in question, two men were sitting at a green baize table covered with books and papers. The younger was about the age of Stevens himself, and he looked up with a nod and smile of recognition to the new-comer: the elder, a bald-headed man with a fringe of white hair, did not stir from his close examination of the papers on the table until Stevens stood before him.

"Your blessing, Father!" requested the young priest.

The old man looked up abruptly. "Peace be with thee, Brother Cuthbert," said he, in a harsh, brusque tone; and he went back immediately to his papers. The younger man pointed to a seat at his side, which Stevens took; but neither ventured to interrupt the studies of the old priest, until he at last laid down his papers and took off his spectacles.

"Well, Brother, what news?" said he, looking up at Stevens.

In answer to this query, Stevens gave him a condensed account of the information which he had just received from De Foe.

"That is awkward, Father, is it not?" asked the younger of the strangers.

"Not at all, my son," said the old Jesuit, placidly wiping his spectacles. "The Protestants are welcome to work against us as much as they please. They cannot combine; they have no organism; hence their wiles are mere shadows compared with ours. They are sure to fade and fail, sooner or later. However, we are not above learning even from enemies. It might be as well to have a friend so employed on some few Whig papers. Could you manage that?" he asked, suddenly turning to the young stranger.

The person addressed smiled, but shook his head rather hopelessly.

"I do not think I could, Father Boniface," said he.

"No," assented the old man; "your talents do not lie in that direction. Brother Cuthbert, here is employment for you—yours do."

"My talents commonly lie in any direction to which I find it convenient to turn them, Father," said Stevens, with as modest an air as if he were disclaiming praise instead of bestowing it upon himself. "And as I hold a general dispensation for anything that may be needful, I have no scruples in using it."

The old man, having finished a very careful cleansing of his glasses, put them on, and inspected Stevens through them.

"Brother Cuthbert," said he, "had you been suffered to sink into the abyss of heresy, as at one time seemed likely, it would have been a great loss to the Church."

"Well, I rather think it would," was the cool reply of Mr. Cuthbert Stevens.

"It was a blessed act of our Brother Arnold," resumed Father Boniface, "an inspired thought, which led him to steal you away, an infant untainted by heresy, from the cradle wherein your heretic mother had laid you, while she went to watch the dancing on the village-green. That was Brother Cuthbert's introduction to the Church, Jerome," observed he, turning to his companion. "Our Brother Arnold—he is among the blessed now, I trust, for I have myself offered hundreds of masses for the repose of his soul—he found, in a village in France, an infant in a cradle, by a cottage-door, with none to watch over it. Impelled by philanthropy, he inquired how this was from the next-door neighbor, and was told that a Huguenot carpenter lived in the cottage; he was out at work, and his wife had gone to see the dancers. 'This must not be,' said Arnold; 'I will myself carry the infant to his mother, and reprove her for such foolish conduct.' I should have told you that, the village being full of these misguided heretics, Arnold, in his zeal to recover some of these straying sheep to the true fold, had attired himself as a heretic teacher. 'You will do well, Master Pastor,' said the neighbor; 'for though she is kindly and well-meaning, 'tis her worst fault to love gadding about, and she is very young and needs teaching.' So Arnold took the babe, and instead of going to the green, piously brought it to us at the monastery. Thou wert a sad trouble for a long time, Brother Cuthbert; for the brethren were not wont to deal with such tender young creatures, and thou wouldst eat nothing presented to thee, and didst wail and howl ceaselessly."

And the old priest shook his head sorrowfully, as if he remembered too well the trouble which the Huguenot baby had brought upon the brotherhood. Stevens laughed, and so did Jerome; but the latter seemed to enjoy the novel idea more of the two.

"Do you know the name of the village, Father? It might be a good act to endeavor to win over some of these Huguenots."

"We thought it better, Brother Cuthbert, that you should not know the name of your birthplace. Ties of kindred are strong at times; and, as I have often observed to you, when a man becomes a priest, he ceases to have any kindred ties. The Church is your mother, her monks are your brethren, her nuns your sisters. Be satisfied."

Stevens was far too much accustomed to instant and implicit submission to offer the slightest remonstrance to this slight mandate. But this was the first time that he had ever received a detailed account of his origin. He knew that he had been brought to the monastery as an infant, but hitherto he had known nothing more, and had naturally supposed himself to be a foundling. In this idea he had grown up. He had never loved any human being, nor, so far as he knew, had any human being ever loved him. But that afternoon a vision rose before him of the poor Huguenot mother coming back from her thoughtless expedition to find her darling gone. He wished he could have found her. He would have tried to convert her to Romanism if he had done so; for he honestly believed his Church the true one. But she might perhaps have loved him; and nobody ever had done so hitherto.

"In these papers, Brother Cuthbert," resumed the old Jesuit, "you will find instructions in cipher. I need not charge you to keep them carefully."

Stevens put them safely away in a private pocket.

"And I will detain you no longer."

Stevens had reached the door, when he turned back.

"Father Boniface, if you think it not an improper request, would you tell me in what part of France I was found?"

Father Boniface looked into his young friend's face, and thought it a very improper request. But he had his own reasons for not bluntly refusing an answer.

"In Auvergne, my son," he said, shortly. "Ask no more."

Cuthbert Stevens passed out of the whitesmith's shop without stopping for his customary five minutes' chat with Mrs. Butler.

"Ah, poor gentleman!" said she to herself; "he's had a bit of bad news."

He had had something like it. He walked very rapidly up Gray's Inn Road, knowing little and caring less whither he was going, till he found himself in the fields beyond Clerkenwell. There he threw himself on the grass, and resting his head upon his hands, gave himself up for one hour to mournful and profitless visions of that Auvergne home, and of the unknown father and mother who might have loved him once.

"And I shall never see them!" he thought. "So near the Waldensian valleys:—what a stronghold of heresy they must be! Ah, well! I can say every day a mass with an intention for my parents. Who knows if God may be merciful to them, after all? The soul is worth more than the body, and eternal happiness is worth more than any amount of ease or felicity in this world. From what a fate, therefore, have I been rescued! I ought to be very thankful."

But gratitude and love are the last things into which a man can scold himself, and Stevens did not feel so thankful as he thought he ought to be. He might have been more so, had he known that Father Boniface had not troubled himself to tell him the exact truth. It was from the outermost village of the Val Martino, in the Waldensian valleys, not from Auvergne, that he had been stolen away. And in that Val Martino, though he was never to know it, every night knelt Lucetta Carmagnoli, mourning before God—less for the martyred husband, or for the two brave young sons slain in battle, than for the lost first-born, whose fate she could guess only too well. Wavering from hour to hour between the passion of hope—"Oh that Ishmael might live before Thee!"[8]—and the passion of despair—"Would God I had died for thee! O Absalom, my son, my son!"[9]

Such prayers and tears seem lost sometimes. But "are they not in Thy book?"[10] "What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter."[11] It is not only Simon the son of Jonas who is asked, now in the tempest, now in the still, small voice, "Lovest thou Me more than these?"[12]

Stevens rose from his green couch, and walked back to London. His heart had been dormant all his life till now, and it went easily to sleep again. His conscience the Jesuits had crushed and twisted and trained so early that it never troubled him with a single pang. By the time that he had reached Fleet Street, and had solaced his inner man with a second dish of coffee (and something in it) at the Tory coffee-house, Mr. Cuthbert Stevens was himself again. And if he did look back on the hour spent in the fields at Clerkenwell, it was only to reflect with momentary annoyance that, as he would have phrased it, he had made a fool of himself. And it was very rarely indeed that he thought that substantive applicable in the slightest degree to the Rev. Cuthbert Stevens.

"Well, there is one comfort," he meditated, as he sat imbibing the mixture: "nobody saw me do it."

And fortified by this consideration, and the coffee, &c., Mr. Stevens walked into the residence of the Editor of the Postboy, and expressed his desire for an interview with that rather awful individual. There was a smile on his lips when he came out. He was engaged at a high salary to supply foreign news to the columns of the Whig paper. Mr. Buckley, the Ministerial agent, had spoken very highly of Mr. Stevens to the Editor. Mr. Stevens was rejoiced to hear it, and he told the truth for once when he said so. The Editor thought Mr. Stevens set a rather high value on his services. Mr. Stevens could assure him that he had received innumerable applications from the Tory side, and it was only his deep attachment to the Whig cause, and his respect for the Postboy in particular, which had led him, by asking so little, rather to underrate the importance of the information he could supply. The importance, indeed, of the information which Stevens could have supplied would not have been overrated at double the figure; but of this little fact the Editor of the Postboy was unconscious.

Here we part with the Rev. Cuthbert Stevens. The rest of his life was a mere repetition, with variations, of what we have seen. The Whigs continued to take him for a Whig spy, the Tories for a Tory, while he himself cared in reality for neither, and was devoted but to one thing, and ready to be either, neither, or both, in the service and at the command of that Church which supplied to him the place of home, and parents, and friends, and God. And at the close of such a life followed the priest, and the crucifix, and the unction, and the false hope which shall perish, and the death that has no bands.

Ere this Rome has employed, and destroyed, many a Cuthbert Stevens. What do the crushed devotees matter to the idol? Let the car of Juggernaut roll on! "Thou art become guilty in thy blood that thou hast shed, and hast defiled thyself in thine idols which thou hast made."[13] "In the cup which she hath filled, fill to her double."[14]

Perhaps the greatest of Lucetta Carmagnoli's mercies was what she thought the bitterest of her sorrows—that she never knew what became of her lost child.

It is time for us to return to France.

On one of these spring afternoons of 1712, Celia stood looking out of her bedroom window. They were in Lady Ingram's country-house at St. Germain-en-Laye. She was very curious, and yet almost afraid, to see the Palace—that house in which, as she knew, he dwelt whom Squire Passmore called the Pretender, and Lady Ingram the King. Celia herself had owned to no politics at all. She found it quite work enough to steer between her religious Scyllas and Charybdises, without setting up political ones. In all things not absolutely wrong, she was resolved meekly to submit to Lady Ingram, so that her step-mother might have no just cause for dissatisfaction with her in respect to those few points which to her were really matters of conscience. When Patient came quietly in with an armful of the linen which she was unpacking and putting away, Celia said—

"Patient, do you know where the château is?"

"The Pretender dwells over yonder, Madam," answered Patient, pointing in the direction which she wished to indicate.

"So you call him the Pretender!" observed Celia, smilingly.

"I was taught, Madam, when a wean, that the people should have nought to do with an uncovenanted King. Moreover, the reign of His Highness the Lord Protector being so much better for the faith, hath perhaps turned me a little against this one and all his."

Celia laughed softly to herself. What would Squire Passmore have said, from whose lips the gentleman so respectfully designated by Patient was, at the gentlest, "that scoundrel Oliver"? She began to wonder how many more phases of political feeling she should find.

"I ask your pardon if I have grieved you, Madam," said Patient, when Celia remained silent, "I would not willingly do that. Sir Edward, I know, was strong for King James, and would doubtless have been so for his son: and 'tis most like you will feel with your father. Only we were taught otherwise. When King James was driven out of London, I heard that, the Sabbath after, in Scotland, a certain godly minister did discourse from that word—'And death shall be chosen rather than life by all the residue of them that remain of this evil family, which remain in all the places whither I have driven them, saith the Lord of hosts.'"[15]

"I think that was rather too strong, Patient," said Celia, doubtfully.

"Perchance so, Madam. Indeed, I know there be some that do think King Charles the First safe—in Heaven, I mean. God grant it! I only know that he was a deceitful man, and an uncovenanted King."

"I have always heard him called a martyr, Patient."

"He was not that!" said Patient, less calmly than usual. "At least, not if a martyr be a witness for the Lord's truth. Did he not try to force Prelacy upon Scotland? Call such a man a martyr! A martyr to Prelacy, forsooth! a martyr to deceit, and broken faith, and cruel oppression! We were the martyrs, Madam." And Patient shut a drawer wrathfully, for her.

"I don't know much about it, Patient," said Celia, honestly. "I have been taught to believe that King Charles was a good and misfortunate man. But now I can hardly tell what to believe among you all. My—Squire Passmore thinks that King Charles was a good man and a martyr, yet calls this man the Pretender, and will scarce hear him named with patience. My step-mother thinks them both good; and you think them both bad. I cannot tell what to think."

Celia came from the window as Lady Ingram entered the room.

"Patient," she said, "lay out Mrs. Celia's new court-dress on the bed—you know which it is. My dear, this afternoon I will lead you to kiss the Queen's hand. Your manners are slightly improved, and I wish you to show respect to the Court."

"Very well, Madam," resignedly answered Celia.

"You will enter behind me; stop, and go forward, when I do. When I draw aside, come forward, kneel, and kiss the Queen's hand when she offers it. Should she speak to you, remain kneeling while you answer, unless she command you to rise. If she do not speak, rise, draw to one side, as I shall have done, and stand there."

"Yes, Madam."

"Do not look about you: keep your eyes on the Queen. Don't look awkward. Be self-possessed."

"I will do my best, Madam."

Lady Ingram tapped Celia's cheek with her fan, a sign, that she was unusually gracious. "Be ready in an hour," she said, and departed.

Thérèse came next to dress Celia's hair. Patient, in solemn and evidently disapproving silence, helped her to dress. She found herself, when the process was over, in a quilted pink satin petticoat, a bodice and train of white satin, trimmed with gold braid, white satin shoes, long white gloves, pearl necklace and bracelets: her hair was dressed very high, and adorned with pink roses and pearls. As Celia looked at herself in the glass, she felt much inclined to sing with the celebrated little old woman, "Sure this is none of I!" but much time was not allowed her for the indulgence of that feeling.

"Your servant, Madam!" observed Philip's voice in the corridor, accompanied by a tap at the door. "Don't keep us waiting, please,—we shall be very cross if you do. I protest! aren't you smart!"

Mr. Philip himself was scarcely less so. He wore a light blue coat embroidered in gold, a white satin waistcoat and breeches, white silk stockings, and white satin shoes with large rosettes. In the drawing-room stood Lady Ingram, attired in white and gold.

"Turn round!" was her greeting to Celia and Philip. "Nonsense, not you!" as Philip made a pirouette in answer. "That will do. Now, follow me; and whatever you feel, don't look awkward or afraid."

Celia meekly followed her step-mother to the carriage, which rolled away with the trio, and in a few minutes deposited them at one of the half-dozen doors of a large and stately mansion. On the terrace, before them, ladies and gentlemen were walking and chatting, most of them in rather shabby, though full, court-dress. Lady Ingram bowed to two or three, gave her hand to her son, and once more enjoining Celia to keep close behind, passed on into the Palace.

"This is English ground, Madam," observed Philip, over his shoulder.

Celia wished it were. Up lofty staircases, through suites of rooms, past groups of servants in the royal livery of England, worn and faded, she followed Lady Ingram and Philip, until in one apartment a lady dressed in black rose to meet them, and shook hands with Lady Ingram.

"You can go in to the Queen, my friend," she said; "there is only His Majesty with her."

There were only two persons in the room beyond. A gentleman stood at the window reading the Gazette; a lady in mourning sat writing at a very shabby little table in the middle of the room. A glance at each assured Celia that they were mother and son; and she speedily discovered who they were, by Lady Ingram's kneeling before the quiet-looking lady in mourning, who sat at the shabby little table.

"Ah, ma chère!" said the lady, in a soft voice, turning to her; adding, "I am very glad to see you. It is long since I had the pleasure."

Lady Ingram answered in French, and still kneeling, "I have been in Paris, Madame, and in England for a short time. I had the honor to inform your Majesty that I was going there to fetch my step-daughter."

"This is your daughter?" asked the Queen, turning with a smile to Celia.

Lady Ingram drew aside to leave room for her. "She scarcely speaks French yet," she observed.

As Celia knelt and looked up into the face before her, she was much struck with that smile. It changed the aspect of the whole face. The air of subdued sadness which had dwelt upon the classic regular features and in the quiet soft eyes, passed away, and a brighter expression lighted them brilliantly while the smile remained. She could fancy what that face might have been in the old days, when, at the close of the coronation, nearly thirty years before, the Westminster students had called up that smile by their spontaneous shout of "Vivat Regina Maria!" Celia forgot all about kissing the Queen's hand, until she heard Lady Ingram's voice beside her whisper, in a subdued tone, "Cette folle!" Then she blushed painfully and hastily performed her homage. The charm which enfolded the Jacobites had been cast around her; the spell of voice, and eyes, and smile, which she would never forget any more.

"Why so hurried, my child?" asked the soft voice, in Celia's own tongue. "Do not be frightened of me, I pray you."

Frightened of her? No, indeed! thought Celia, as she rose from her knees with a smile in answer to the Queen's. What fright she felt was not for Her Majesty, but for Lady Ingram. As she regained her feet, she suddenly saw that the Queen's son was standing beside his mother. The formidable mortal, whom Squire Passmore would have knocked down as his first greeting, and Patient have sermonized as an uncovenanted King! Hardly knowing what she did, Celia knelt again and kissed the hand that was extended to her. It was a soft white hand, which did not look as if it would hold the sceptre very harshly, and on one finger glittered a large gold ring set with a balas ruby, upon which a cross was engraved. Celia would have regarded that jewel with deep interest and veneration had she known its romantic history, stranger than any romance. This was the last relic of James's fallen fortunes, the ancient coronation-ring, "the wedding-ring of England," which had gleamed from many a royal hand before, and had been employed to many a strange end. While Philip in his turn performed his homage, Celia studied the royal persons before her.

First, the King. He was tall, very tall[16]—a man whom few would pass without wondering who he was; rather thin, but with all this not ungraceful, and with an air of much distinction about him. An oval face he had, with a bright complexion; a forehead smooth and high, but not at all broad; arched eyebrows; eyes of a dark, rich brown,[17] large, and very soft; a mouth rather too large for strict proportion, but bearing an expression of mingled sadness and sweetness, which grew into fascination when he smiled. His smiles were rare, and his voice seldom heard; but very often Celia caught a momentary upward glance of the eyes, accompanied by a silent motion of the lips, and she wondered if it were possible that he was praying.[18] He wore no wig, only his own dark chestnut hair curling over his shoulders.

This was the King whom England had cast out. She would have none of him, under any pretext. Rather than be ruled by this son of her own, she had set "a stranger over her, which was not her brother."[19] Celia wondered, for the first time in her life, whether England had done well. She turned with a sigh from the son to the mother, who was conversing familiarly with Lady Ingram, seated beside her.

The Queen, Maria Beatrice, or Mary, as the English called her, Celia thought a most fascinating woman. She resembled her son in height and form, being very tall,[20] and slender.[21] Her face was oval,[22] her complexion clear and fair, but very pale;[23] her mouth rather large,[24] but her smile to Celia perfectly enchanting; her hair, eyebrows, and eyes were black. The eyes were very large, clear, and brilliant;[25] though when they smiled, as they were doing now—

"And now tell me all about it, my dear," the Queen was saying to Lady Ingram. "Sophia gave you my message about the Bishop?"

"Yes, Madam; and I am quite delighted to think of it. Your Majesty is aware that the Tories are in greater power than ever?"

"Dean Atterbury said so in his last note," replied the Queen, opening her desk, and apparently searching for the letter. "He has written often lately, and very kindly."

Celia listened in much surprise, to hear that an unsuspected Protestant dignitary was in constant and familiar correspondence with the Court of St. Germains.[27]

"Your Majesty has not heard from the Duke?"

"From Blenheim? no, not since I saw you: but the Duchess of Tyrconnel[28] was here not long ago, and she tells me that there seems no hope of the Duke's return to power."[29]

Celia's astonishment grew.

"Does your Majesty fear that the Princess"—suggested Lady Ingram.

"No, my dear, no," replied the Queen, rather sadly; "I do not think she can have discovered. She is not naturally suspicious, and you know that the Duchess has been her dearest friend for many years."

"I scarcely think much of that," answered Lady Ingram. "Beside, as your Majesty knows, this woman Abigail, who has crept up to power on the wreck of hers, and who is a better friend of ours than ever she was, has all the influence now over the Princess Anne; and she would doubtless willingly let her know if she discovered it, simply to spite the Duchess, and prevent her return to power. Of course the supplanter would not like to be supplanted."

"I know it, my dear Lady Ingram, I know it," responded the Queen, with a sadder air than ever.

"Also your Majesty will remember"——But here Lady Ingram bent forward and spoke low, so that Celia could hear no more. She had heard quite enough already to make her doubtful of the truth and honesty of everybody in the room but Philip.

"Is this your first visit to France?"

Celia looked up suddenly to find herself addressed by the King.

"Yes, Sir," she said, hesitating very much, coloring, and doubting whether, in saying "your Majesty," she would have been doing right or wrong. "Yes, this is my first visit."

"Do you like it?"

"Not so well as England."

"Spoken like a true Englishwoman!" said the King, with his rare smile. "Neither do I."

Remembering that he had been carried away as an infant in arms, Celia wondered what he knew about it.

"I hope you are one of my friends?" was the next question.

Celia looked up, blushed, and looked down again. "I do not know, Sir," she said.

"I compliment you on your honesty," said he. "'Tis a rare quality."

Celia was beginning to think it was.

"I beg your pardon, Sir," she replied, timidly; "I was brought up to think otherwise."

"Let us hope to convert you," he answered. "I assure you that your friends can hope for no great degree of prosperity till they become mine;[30] and I am not without hopes of changing all England on that question. Do you think it impossible?"

"I almost do, Sir," said Celia, smiling, and playing with her fan a little nervously.

"We shall see who is right," added the King, "Ingram, have you seen Colville lately?"

"And I assure your Majesty," said Lady Ingram rising, "that I shall make the fullest inquiries about it, and direct Sophie to do so."

"So be it, my dear," said the Queen, quietly. "Farewell! You will bring this little maid again? I had a daughter—you know. In Arcadia—once! 'Fiat voluntas Tua.'"

The last words were spoken very low and falteringly. The beloved Princess Louise, surnamed by her father La Consolatrice, had been taken away from her mother's eyes as with a stroke, only six weeks before.[31]

And for one minute Celia forgot dishonesty and Popery and everything else on the part of the exiled House, as she looked pityingly into the tear-dimmed eyes of the almost desolate mother. There were four graves at Westminster[32] beside the one at Chaillot, and the young man who stood beside the Queen was the last of her children: "the only son of his mother, and she was a widow!"[33]

And the verdict Celia whispered to her own heart at the close was—"Yes, England has done well—has done right. But oh, if it had not been necessary!"

"Chocolate!" announced Mr. Philip Ingram to himself, simultaneously with the presentation of himself at his sister's boudoir-door. "Patient, bring me a cup—there's a good soul. Why, how long is it before supper?"

"Scarcely two hours, I know," said Celia; "but I had very little dinner, and I am hungry."

"You dined on your coming interview with the Queen, did you? Well, how do you like her?"

"I like her face very much, and feel very sorry for her."

"You like her face!" repeated Philip, putting his hands in his pockets. "What a droll answer! Do you mean that you dislike her voice, or what part of her?"

"Nothing in that way. Philip, I wonder if there is a scrap of honesty left in the world!"

"Precious little, my dear—I can tell you that. Patient, you are a diamond of the first water!" The last remark by way of receipt for the chocolate.

"Well, I think so! I never could have imagined that such men as the Duke of Marlborough and Dean Atterbury were eating the Queen's bread, and deceiving her every day by writing to these people and offering help."

Philip laughed. "So that is what has angered and astonished you? Why, any man in Paris could have told you that months ago. 'Tis no secret, my innocence—from any but the Princess Anne."

"'Tis rank dishonesty!" exclaimed Celia, warmly. "I don't complain of their helping this Court, but of their want of truth. If they are Jacobites, let them have the manliness to say so."

"You are such an innocent!" responded Philip, still laughing. "Why, my simple little sister, all is fair in politics, as in love and war."

"I don't see that 'all is fair' in any of the three. What is right is right, and what is wrong is wrong."

"Excellent, my logical damsel! But what are right and wrong? That is the first question. Is there a certain abstract thing called right or virtue? or does right differ according to the views or circumstances of the actor?"

"I do not understand you, Philip. To do right is to obey God, and to do wrong is to disobey God. There was no wrong in Adam's and Eve's eating fruit: what made it wrong was God's having forbidden them to touch that one tree. St. Paul says, 'Where no law is there is no transgression.'"[34]

"Upon my word, you are a regular divine! But—leaving St. Paul on one side for the present—how, according to your theory, shall we discover what is wrong?"

"Just by not leaving St. Paul on one side," answered Celia, smiling; "for the Bible is given us for that purpose."

"Very few definite rules are to be found in the Bible, my doctor of divinity."

"Quite enough for all of us, Philip."

"Pardon me! The very thing, I think, is, that there are not enough. A few more 'thou shalts' and 'thou shalt nots' would be of infinite service. Your view, if I understand it, is to bring the Bible to bear upon every act of life; but how you contrive to do so I can't imagine. Now, look here! I will give you a case, my fair casuist. Would it be right or wrong for me, at this moment, sitting on this sofa, to take a pinch of snuff?"

"I must ask you a few questions before I can answer."

"Catechize, by all means. 'What is my name?' Philip Eugene. 'Who gave me this name?' Don't recollect in the least. 'What did they do for me?' Why, one of them gave me a gold goblet, and another a set of silver Apostle-spoons:[35] and I am not aware that they did anything else for me."

"Philip, Philip!" remonstrated Celia, laughing in spite of herself. "Please don't let us jest upon these serious subjects. I don't want to ask those questions."

"Well, I won't jest, my dear. I will be very quiet and grave."

"Does your mother object to your taking snuff?"

"Not exactly. I don't think she much likes it."

"Then your question is answered. If she does not like it, it is—for you—wrong."

"Oh! you arrive at your conclusions in that roundabout sort of way? That is rather clever but I will see if I cannot puzzle you yet."

"I have no doubt you can, very easily," said Celia. "You may readily propound fifty such cases which I could not answer. You see, those are not my circumstances: and we can scarce expect that God will give us grace to see what is right in difficulties which He does not lay upon us. Do you not think so, Patient?"

"I do so, Madam. I have ever found it harder to see the way out when I had hedged up mine own way, than when the Lord, as with Noah, had shut me in."

"Ah! there you come round to your divinity," said Philip, lightly. "Whatever I ask you, you always centre there; and Patient will say Amen to all your propositions, I have no doubt. But to return to our point of departure: I hardly see your 'rank dishonesty' in the acts of the Court. I believe this—that if the Queen thought it dishonest, she would not do it. She is considered here a very religious woman: not in your way, I dare say. But we freethinkers, you know, do not set much value on small differences. If a man be sincere, that is the chief thing; even some of the more enlightened of the Catholic Fathers allow that. Does not the Bible say that there are twelve gates to Heaven?[36] There is a reference for you."

"A reference that'll no hold water, Mr. Philip," said Patient, looking up. "For though there be twelve gates into the City, there's only door into the Fold:[37] and I'll be fain to know how you are shaping, without passing the one door, to get in at any of the twelve gates. For whoso 'entereth not in by the door into the sheepfold, but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber.'"[38]

"Philip," added Celia, softly, "there is but one gate and one way to life, which is Jesus Christ."

"Ah! at it again!" said Philip, lifting his eyebrows, and finishing his chocolate.

"Always at it," answered Celia, in the same tone. "'Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth' must speak.[39] Philip, your idea about sincerity will lead you terribly astray—I am sure it will. There is but one truth; and if a man believe falsehood, will his thinking it truth make it so? Sincerity is not the chief thing. The chief things are faith and love in us, and the Lord Jesus Christ out of us. 'He that hath the Son hath life: and he that hath not the Son of God hath not life.'[40] O Philip! listen to me this once! 'It is not a vain thing for thee, because it is thy life!'"[41]

Philip looked into his sister's earnest eyes, rose and kissed her, and sat down again.

"You are a capital little sister," he said, "and admirably cut out for a réligieuse. I am quite glad the Protestants don't take to that amusement, or I should certainly lose you, and I like you too well to afford it."

Celia sighed. Her words did not appear to have made the faintest impression.

"What a sigh!" said Philip. "My dear little Celia! do you take me for an utter reprobate, that you think it necessary to mourn over me in that way?"

"Philip," said Celia, very solemnly, "a man must be either inside the sheepfold of Jesus, or outside it. Without is without, whether the door which he refuses to enter be a yard from him or a thousand miles. Without the Fold now, without the City hereafter. And 'without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.'"[42]

"I know mighty few people who are in, then," said Philip, whistling, and considering the carpet.

"I am afraid so," answered Celia, shortly. "But the one question for us, Philip, is—Are we in?"

A question to which Mr. Philip Ingram made no reply.

IX. INSIDE AND OUTSIDE.

"But sure he is the Prince of the world; let his nobility remain in his Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some, that humble themselves, may; but the many will be too chill and tender; and they'll be for the flowery way, that leads to the broad gate and the great fire." —SHAKSPEARE, "All's Well that Ends Well," Act iv. Scene 5.

"My Dearest Mother,—(For I cannot bear to call you anything else)—I have so much to tell you that I know not where to begin. I am now, as you will see by my date, at St. Germains, which is a rather pretty place. My step-mother is kind to me, in her way, which is not exactly your way; but I am quite comfortable, so pray be not troubled about me. I like Philip, my younger brother, very much; he oft reminds me of Charley. My elder brother, Edward, I have not yet seen, he being now absent from home. I have seen the Pretender and the late Queen Mary,[1] both of whom are very tall persons, having dark hair and eyes. I have made no friends here but one; you shall hear about her shortly. So much for my news.

"And now I wish very much to hear yours. Are you all well? And pray tell me anything of note concerning any person whom I know. All news from England has great interest for me now.

"Pray give all manner of loving messages for me. Tell my dear father that the people here hunt a great deal, but always stags. There is no cock-fighting, at which I am glad, for 'tis but a cruel sport to my thinking; nor no baiting nor wrestling, but a great deal of duelling. I like the French gentlemen ill, and the ladies worse. Bell should come here to see the modes; 'twould give her infinite pleasure. I can speak French tolerable well now, and if my father and you choose, could teach Lucy on my return. For I am looking forward to that, Mother dear—sometimes very much indeed. To think that 'tis six months, nearly, since I saw one of you! and if you have writ I have not had your letters. If aught should bring Harry to Paris, do pray bid him visit me; I should be so infinitely glad. Pray give my love to Cicely, and tell her I would she knew my woman here, whom I like mightily, and so would she. I hope Charley is a good boy, and that Lucy tries to fill my place with you. At the end of this month, if my Lady Ingram say nought, I shall ask her when she will part with me. I beg that you will write to me, if 'twere but a line. Indeed I should like dearly to hear from every one of you. Anything you like to write will be infinitely welcome to—

"Madam, "Your dutiful child and faithful servant, "CELIA INGRAM.[2]

"ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE, May 15, 1712."

Celia folded her letter, addressed it, and sat thinking. How would they receive it? She pictured Lucy rushing into the parlor, waving it above her head, and Isabella languidly rebuking her for her rough entrance. She could guess the Squire's comments on many things she had said, and she knew that the very mention of the Pretender would call forth some strong participles. Madam Passmore would fold up the letter with "Dear child!" and drop it into her ample pocket. Cicely would courtesy and ask if Mrs. Celia was a-coming. One month more, and then surely Lady Ingram must be satisfied. But then came another thought. She would be very sorry to leave Philip and Patient, even to return to Ashcliffe. Would Lady Ingram be induced to let her take Patient with her? As to Philip, surely he could visit her if he chose.

"Mademoiselle!" said the voice of Thérèse beside her.

Celia turned, and saw that Thérèse was holding a little pink note, which having delivered, the French maid departed. She broke the seal, and discovered to her surprise that the note was from Lady Ingram herself. It ran thus:

"MY DAUGHTER,—I shall not be able to receive you this afternoon, as I am suffering from megrims.[3] I will send Philip to keep you company. I wish you to know that when I return to Paris, which will be in four days, I will lead you to kiss the hand of the King of France. After this you will be able to enter into company.

"CLAUDE INGRAM."

Celia dropped the note in the trepidation which it caused her. She had no desire to be presented to the originator of the Dragonnades. And what was "entering into company?" She was sure it meant what she would not like, and might think actually wrong.

"Do you drive out this afternoon, Madam?" asked Patient, appearing at the door.

"No, Patient," said Celia, hesitatingly, for she was still thinking of the note. "Mr. Philip will drink a dish of chocolate with me here."

"Yes, Madam," replied Patient, and disappeared.

Celia changed her dress with a heavy heart, and came back into her boudoir, where preparations for the chocolate were made. She found Mr. Philip Ingram very comfortably established on her sofa.

"Good evening, Madam," observed that gentleman, without any alteration in his attitude of repose.

"Philip, what is it to go into company?"

"To dress fine and tell lies. Why?"

Celia gave him the note in answer.

"Ah!" remarked he. "Megrims, has she? Let me see now—the megrims are Père Letellier; yes, Père Dumain is a cold on the chest."

"What do you mean, Philip?" asked Celia, in bewilderment.

"Only my Lady-Mother's style of cipher correspondence, my dear. She gives an occasional séance to her spiritual advisers, on which occasion she tells the world—fibs."

"You do not really mean it?"

"Of course I do."

"But what does she do?"

"In her séance? Confesses her sins—that is, so far as I can judge from my recollection of one such occurrence at which I was present when a small kitten, she regales her spiritual pastor with some very spicy tales of all her friends and acquaintances."

"I am sure you are joking, Philip. But please tell me what it is that she wants me to do? Is it to go to all her assemblies?"

"Precisely, my Grey Sister—and to a few Court balls, and a play or two."

"O dear!" sighed poor Celia. "I never can do that,"

"Don't sigh in that heart-rending style," said Philip. "As to assemblies, there will not be above three more this summer, and we may be in China by next year. What is your special grief?"

"It looks like conformity to the world," answered Celia, in a low tone, for she did not expect Philip to understand her.

"Where is the world?" laughed that irreverent young gentleman. "That superb satin gown of yours, or the chocolate, or the talk? Eh, Patient? What do you say, my veteran prioress?"

"In your heart, Mr. Philip," answered Patient, setting down the chocolate-pot which she had just brought in. "The world outside, and an evil worldly human heart within, will work no little mischief. I'll warrant it did Him no harm dining with the Pharisee[4]—not that Simon was an over-pleasant man to do with, I should say: and when your heart is as pure and holy as His, why, Sir, I'm thinking you may go, and welcome. But I've work enough cut out for me in keeping the devil without mine own door, without calling at his to ask how he fareth."

"Thank you, Dr. Patient. Rather a short sermon. Celia, my dear, I have a scrap of information for you which will make you open your eyes."

"The shortest sermon I ever heard of was one of the most salutary, Sir,—to wit, when Nathan said to poor sinful David, 'Thou art the man!'"[5]

"You are very disrespectful to His Israelitish Majesty," said Philip, lightly. "Well, Mrs. Celia, know that I have succeeded at last in obtaining her Ladyship's leave, and the King's commission, to go into the army. Lieutenant Ingram, Madam, at your service!" and Philip rose and made a bow which would not have disgraced Monsieur Bontems.

"Philip! Are you really a lieutenant?"

"Really. And the best half of the battle is the battle. There is a prospect of the troops being called to active service."

Celia turned pale.

"Does your mother know that?"

"No."

"O Philip! you have not been deceiving her, have you?"

"Smooth your ruffled brow, my fair reprover. I did not know it myself until after His Majesty had promised me a commission. Of course, after this I must be a fervent Jacobite. So don't you talk any politics in my hearing, Mrs. Patient Irvine, unless you wish me to fight you."

"I shall scarce be like to do that, Sir, unless you give me the starting," quietly responded Patient.

"Thank you, no! I will keep my hands off that gunpowder-magazine. I know how you can go off sometimes when touched by a few odd matches. So, my charmer, your interview with me on the 18th of next month will be the last for a while."

"Where are you going, Philip?"

"We march to the Netherlands Border, and meet Prince Eugene. We are to be at Landrécies by the 10th of July."[6]

"Mr. Philip, you shall not go hence without a Bible in your knapsack."

"Thank you very much. Am I to read it when I am not firing?"

"If I could help it, Sir, you would not go without one other thing, but that I cannot give you."

"What thing may that be?"

"The grace of God in your heart, Sir."

"You think me entirely devoid of it?" asked Philip, gravely.

"I do so, Mr. Philip," said Patient, looking him full in the face.

"Well, you are candid, if not complimentary," said he. "'Tis fortunate for me that my conscience gives a rather fairer report than you do. I wish Edward were back. I should like to have gone into battle under dear old Ned's wing, and I'm in his own regiment, too. He must have got an awful furlough."

"Your conscience, Sir!" exclaimed Patient, in a peculiar voice. "Do you think that when Adam fell he left his conscience out?"

"My dear Patient, I wonder what you mean? God has given to every man his conscience as his ruler, counsellor, and guide. He who hearkens to his conscience is hearkening to God."

Patient did not answer at once. Then she said:

"Sir, I desire to speak with due reverence of the Lord's dealings. But 'tis my true belief that he did nothing of the kind you say. He gave, 'tis true, a guide to every man; but that guide was His own blessed Word and His own Holy Spirit, not the man's poor, miserable, fallen conscience. Truly, I would not take my conscience, which is myself, to be my 'ruler, counsellor and guide.' One is my Ruler, which is in heaven. One is my Counsellor—the Wonderful Counsellor.[7] And one is my Guide—the Spirit, in the Word which He hath written. Conscience given us for a guide, Mr. Philip! Why, Paul went according to his conscience when he kept the clothes of them that stoned Stephen.[8] Peter went according to his conscience when he withdrew himself from them that were not of the circumcision, and refused to eat with them.[9] Alexander the coppersmith very like went according to his conscience when he did the Church much evil.[10] To come to our own day, I dare be bold to guess that King Charles went according to his conscience,—Charles the First, I mean; I doubt his son had none. And Claverhouse, and this King Lewis, and the Pretender—ay, the Pope himself, poor old sinner!—I'll be bound they go according to their consciences. Nay, nay, Mr. Philip! When Adam fell in Eden, surely his conscience fell with him. And just as there can be nothing more sweet and gracious than an enlightened conscience and a sanctified will, so there is little worse than a blind conscience and a carnal will."