ASHCLIFFE HALL (continued 5)

"You have such a curious set of arguments as I never heard. You are for ever talking about the fall of Adam, which you seem to fancy accounts for the falls and slips of you and me. I never knew Adam, I am sure, and I don't hold myself responsible for his taste in apples. How do you know that Adam 'fell,' as you are pleased to call it? And supposing that he did, what in the name of common sense has that to do with me?"

"It has more to do with you than you think for, Mr. Philip. As Christ is the Head of His saved Church, so is Adam the head of the whole family of man. 'In Adam all die.'[11] And as to knowing that Adam fell, to say nought of the Lord's record of it, I scarce think I need more evidence of that than your doubting it, Sir. If you can look upon this world, as it is at this moment, and doubt that man is a fallen, lost, ruined, miserable creature, there must be something sore wrong with the eyes of your understanding."

"Or of yours," suggested Philip. "Oh, I see evil enough in the world, I warrant you: but I see good along with it. Now the principle you are fond of laying down is according to a text which I think you have quoted to me twenty times—'In us dwelleth no good thing.'"[12]

"I wish you thought so, Mr. Philip."

"Thank you for wishing me such an agreeable view of myself. But while you are fixing your eyes intently on all the evil in the world, you leave the good unseen."

"Would you kindly point it out to me, Sir?"

"Willingly. Take only one point. There are hosts of people in the world—Catholics and others, even Mahometans and idolaters, I dare say—whom you would consign kindly and certainly to everlasting perdition"—

"I consign no man to perdition, Sir. The keys of hell and of death are not in my hands, thank God! But I read of 'the son of perdition,'[13] who went to his own place.'"[14]

"Well, among all these very wicked people, there is a vast deal of charity. Is that good or bad?"

"Charity is good, Sir," said Patient, cautiously. "Paul would have counted himself nothing worth if he had not charity.[15] But"—

"Then they are good for indulging it?" interrupted Philip.

"Sir, 'charity' is a much misused word. You are speaking of mere alms, the which are good for them that receive them, if they use them rightly; and good for them that give them, when given in a right spirit. But these are no more evidence of a man's standing before God"—

"Patient Irvine, have you read the Twenty-fifth chapter of Saint Matthew?"

"I have read the Twenty-fifth of Matthew, Sir," answered Patient, dryly, leaving out the "Saint."

"And are not the good people commended in that chapter, and do they not obtain everlasting life, simply and solely for their charity to the poor?"

"No, Sir," said Patient, placidly.

"Well, upon my word!" exclaimed Philip.

"Sir," resumed Patient, gravely, "it takes but a kindly heart to give alms for its own sake, or for the receiver's sake. But it takes a renewed heart to give alms for Christ's sake. Not the giving of alms was the title to life everlasting, but the giving them 'unto Him'[16] was the seal and evidence of their grace. They that know Christ will look for a savor of Him in all things, and such as have it not are bitter unto them. And I would call to your mind, Sir, that 'tis 'he that believeth'[17] which shall be saved: not he which giveth alms. At least, there is no such passage in my Bible."

"You always run off to something else," said Philip, discontentedly. "However, to come back to our first point—as to my conscience, begging your pardon, and with your gracious leave, I think that God has given it to me as a guide, and that I am bound to follow it."

Patient laid down her work, and looked Philip in the face.

"I read in the Word, Mr. Philip, of different sorts of consciences. There is a defiled conscience. 'Unto them that are defiled and unbelieving is nothing pure; but even their mind and conscience is defiled.'[18] There is an evil conscience. 'Having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience;'[19] and nought in earth or heaven will sprinkle them to this end save the blood of Christ. There is a conscience lost and smothered in dead works. 'How much more shall the blood of Christ ... purge your conscience from dead works?'[20] Now, Mr. Philip, see your 'good' and charity to the poor. Works, you see: but, coming from dead hearts and souls—dead works. And lastly, deepest and deadliest of all, I read of a conscience 'seared with a hot iron.'[21] Ay, there have been some of those in our day. The Lord protect us from it! The devil hath such a grip of them that they cannot free themselves; and, poor blind souls! they never know it, but think they are doing God's service. Are these consciences given as guides, Mr. Philip?"

"Well, you see, all that is Saint Peter's opinion."

"I ask you pardon, 'tis Paul, not Peter.'

"Oh, St. Paul? Well, 'tis all the same."

"Ay, Mr. Philip, it is all the same, for it was the Holy Ghost that spake through both of them. And His opinion is scarce to be dealt with so lightly, methinks, seeing that by His word we shall be judged at the last day."

Patient took up her work again, and said no more. Philip was silent for a time: when he next spoke it was on a different subject.

"Celia, I want you to come down at my mother's next assembly. I should like to present my friend Colville to you."

"I am rather curious to see him," she admitted.

"Mr. Philip, if I might presume to say a word"—

"'Presume to say a word!' you may presume to say a thousand, my dear old Covenanter. What's in the wind now?"

"I wish you went less about with that Mr. Colville."

"Why? Does he wear his cravats without starch?" asked Philip, stretching himself out lazily.

"I am afraid, Mr. Philip, that he wears his soul without grace," said Patient, determinately. "If he were such another as his grandsire, I would wish no better than to see you in his company. But I am sore afraid that he draws you off, Sir, to places where you should not go."

"He never draws me off, Reverend Mother, to any place where I don't choose to go, I assure you. He would find that a hard matter."

"The case is scarce bettered by that, Mr. Philip," replied Patient, mournfully. "Nay, rather worsened, I'm thinking. O Mr. Philip! bear with me, Sir, for I have sobbed many a prayer over your cradle, and many a wrestle have I had with the Lord for a blessing on your soul. You little ken, Sir, how even now, whenever I see you go out with that Mr. Colville, I lay the case before the Lord at once. I could not rest else."

"My dear old darling!" said Philip, smiling, and very affectionately, "I wish you did not look at me through such very black spectacles. There are better men than I am—many a one; but I hope there are a few worse."

"That won't satisfy me, Sir," answered Patient. "I would have Sir Edward and you the two best men in the world."

"And we are not!—at least I am not; I am not sure that Ned is not. What a pity!"

"Ay, Mr. Philip, a bitterer pity than you'll ken till you come to stand before God. I have watched you for years, Sir, like a mother her babe, trusting to see you quietened and calmed by grace: and to-night you seem to me lighter and gayer than ever. 'Tis no manner of use—no manner of use. 'I have labored in vain; I have spent my strength for nought.'"[22]

"Dear Patient," said Celia, as the door closed on Philip, "have you forgotten that verse we read last Sunday—'Though Israel be not gathered, yet shall I be glorious in the eyes of the Lord, and my God shall be my strength.'[23] It comes, you know, just after the text you repeated."

"Ou ay, Mrs. Celia," answered Patient, dropping into Scotch, as was usual with her when deeply stirred,—"ou ay, I mind that word. But it was the gathering I wanted, Madam—it was the gathering!"

Back in Paris, and once more attired in full court costume, Celia somewhat sadly joined her step-mother. This visit to the Tuileries was even more distasteful to her than that she had paid at St. Germains. The idea of kneeling to kiss the hand of the man who had ordered the Dragonnades, came, she thought, very near the border of absolute wrong; at the same time, she did not feel so certain of the wrong as to make her resist Lady Ingram's order. Her position was exceedingly disagreeable, since, while she could not be sure that she was doing wrong, she felt very doubtful whether she was doing right. Philip tried to rally her upon her sorrowful face, but his banter fell flat, and he looked puzzled and compassionate.

"I am ready, my dear," said Lady Ingram as she came in. "But what a face! Do you think that I am taking you to see an execution?"

"Madam," said Celia, summoning all her courage, "I wish your Ladyship would allow me to remain at home."

"Is this wicked, my votaress?" asked Lady Ingram, with the scornful smile which by this time her step-daughter knew so well.

"I cannot say that, Madam; but I am not quite sure that it is right. Does your Ladyship wish me particularly to accompany you?"

"Of course I do, my clear. 'Tis an opportunity which it would be a sin to lose. You consider it a venial sin, I suppose. Well, you can say another prayer or two."

"I know nothing about venial sins, Madam. Sin is sin to me; but as I am not sure that this is a sin, if your Ladyship absolutely commands me, I will go: at the same time, I would much rather remain."

"Ah! I know what that means, my réligieuse," said Lady Ingram, laughing; "you want an excuse for your conscience. Very well, then, I command you. The coach is here. Come!"

Celia followed slowly. Lady Ingram had entirely misunderstood her—in all probability was incapable of understanding her. Any further explanation, she felt, would merely plunge her deeper into the mire; so she sat grave and silent until the carriage drew up on one side of the Place du Carrousel. Lady Ingram gave her hand as usual to Philip, and Celia followed them in silence. After the customary passage through suites of rooms, they paused at a door; and on giving a gentle tap, a gentleman in black came out and bowed low before them.

"Madam," said he, "my duty is my duty. I regret unspeakably to be constrained to inform you that His Most Christian Majesty can receive no person to-day."

"I regret it exceedingly also," answered Lady Ingram. "I can proceed, I suppose, to visit the ladies?"

"Certainly, Madam."

Lady Ingram turned off through further suites of apartments, and the gentleman in black, straightening himself up, disappeared again behind the door. Celia felt relieved. There could be nothing wrong, she thought, in paying respect to the Queen and Princesses, to whom she supposed Lady Ingram to refer; and she followed with a lighter step and heart than before. Her ignorance of the state of the Royal Family of France was very great indeed. That state, in the summer of 1712, was a strange and lamentable one. There was no Queen, yet the King was married; there were no Princesses save one, the Duchess de Berry, yet three of the King's daughters sat round his table every evening.

"Now, Celia!" said Lady Ingram, looking back, "we will pay our respects first to the Duchess de Berry."

"Who is the Duchess de Berry?" Celia inquired softly of Philip.

"The wife of the King's grandson," he whispered in reply.

The Duchess de Berry could receive them, they were told, on asking; and the gentleman usher opened the inner door, and gave access to a large and handsome room, wherein about two dozen ladies and gentlemen were seated at a table, playing cards. A much larger number stood round the room, close to the walls, watching the players. Lady Ingram made her way to a very young girl who sat at one end of the lansquenet-table, and who, Celia thought, was scarcely seventeen. This surely could be the wife of nobody, she mentally decided.

The girl certainly looked very young. Celia, on consideration, doubted if she were seventeen. A soft, bright, innocent face she had, laughing eyes, and a blooming complexion. She looked up with a smile as Lady Ingram approached her, and said a few words in a low tone. Lady Ingram took off her gloves, and sat down quietly at the lansquenet-table, having apparently forgotten her companions.

"Are we to remain here?" asked Celia of Philip, in a tone inaudible to any one but himself.

"Wait a minute, till I see the result of her first venture," answered Philip, biting his lip.

Celia looked back at the card-table. She was accustomed to see Squire Passmore play cards, but never for money, except when he received or went into company; and even then, a few half-crowns were all that changed hands. She gazed with surprise on the piles and rouleaux of gold which lay upon this table, and the quantity of loose pieces scattered about. Hands were constantly extended with a dozen or two of louis in them, and one lady in particular Celia noticed, who piled up her gold until the tower would go no higher, and each time staked the heap on a single card.

"Who is that girl next my Lady Ingram, at the end of the table?" Celia next inquired of her brother.

"That is the Duchess de Berry," said he.

"That the Duchess! Why, Philip! she is scarce more than a child!"

"She is the mother of two children herself," replied Philip. "Perhaps you guess her younger than she is—eighteen."

"She looks so young and innocent," said Celia.

"Young, yes—but innocent! My dear, this girl of eighteen is already one of the worst women in France. Deuce-ace—ah! She will go on. We may go."

Philip slipped round the table to his mother's side, and whispered a few words to her, to which she responded without turning her head. Coming back to Celia, he gave her his hand and led her out of the room.

"Is my Lady not coming?" she asked, glancing back.

"Not when she has thrown deuce-ace," said Philip, dryly. "She considers that her lucky number, and always goes on playing when it comes at the first throw. Now come with me for half-an-hour. You will see a little of Court-life, and you shall go home when you are tired. We will visit the great drawing-room."

He led her into a large, handsome room, hung with crimson. Round the apartment lines of spectators, three or four deep, were standing, and at a very large table in the midst about forty more were seated. The game played here also was lansquenet, for such immense losses had occurred at basset that the King had forbidden the latter game in all rooms but the private boudoirs of the Princesses.

"Have we any right here, Philip?" whispered Celia, doubtfully.

"Yes," said Philip, coolly. "Any person known to the gentlemen-ushers can enter. Come round a little to the right—there is more room, and you will see better. I will be your directory. That gentleman with the blue coat and the orders on his breast, at the top of the table, is the Duke of Orleans.[24] If the King die while his heir is under age, as is most likely, that man will be Regent of France. He is considered a clever fellow."

Celia looked, and saw a man of middle height, and about forty years of age. He had bright eyes, a laughing mouth, a florid complexion, and a thick, flat nose. The hand which held his cards was as small, white, and delicate as that of a woman.

"And who are the ladies beside him?" Celia wished to know.

"On the right, his cousin, the Grand Duchess of Tuscany,[25] and on the left another cousin,[26] the Princess of Conti. Next to her is her half-sister, the Duke's wife."[27]

"I do not quite like the Grand Duchess's face."

"She is not considered particularly amiable. One of her sisters[28] was married to the Duke de Guise, which was so marvellous a condescension that the poor man might never eat his dinner without his wife's leave. Every day he stood beside her chair, and presented her dinner-napkin: the cover was laid for her only; and he might not presume to help himself even to a biscuit until Her Royal Highness was graciously pleased to command a plate and chair to be brought for Monsieur de Guise. Then he made a low, grateful bow to his very superior wife, and might sit down and dine."

"Is that really true, Philip?" asked Celia, laughing softly.

"Perfectly true."

Celia turned her attention to the Princess of Conti. She liked to look at her fair, quiet face, with its large, soft brown eyes; and she was wondering what her character was, when suddenly a lady, who had been staking extremely high, rose from her seat, flinging down her cards, cursing and swearing in most voluble French. This was the first time that Celia had heard a woman use such language, and she hid her face, shuddering.

"Ruined!" said Philip, coolly. "You had better come away."

The ladies and gentlemen at the card-table set up a shrill chorus of laughter.

"O Philip, take me home!" sobbed Celia. "I cannot bear this!"

She had heard Squire Passmore swear before now, but it was generally when he was excited or angry, and was commonly accompanied by a gentle "Hush, John!" from his wife. Philip led his sister out of the room to the seats in the recess of the corridor window.

"Sit down here a minute," he said, "and recover yourself, before I take you up-stairs. That was an unfortunate accident. If I had known I should not have brought you here."

"O Philip, let me go home! No more visits like this, please!"

"You shall do as you like, my dear," said Philip, kindly; "but the next visit will be very different from this."

Celia rose, trying to compose herself; and, afraid of disappointing her brother, she consented to be taken where he wished.

"Does Madame de Maintenon receive this afternoon?" was Philip's question to the usher upstairs.

"She does, Sir; and His Royal Highness the Duke of Bretagne is with her."

"Oh, I don't want to see anybody who will swear!" said Celia, drawing back.

"If the Duke of Bretagne have learned to swear," answered Philip, gravely, "he must be a marvel of juvenile depravity; for he will not be three years old until next February."

"A child!" said Celia. "I beg the little thing's pardon; I have no objection to that."

"The future King of France, my dear," said Philip. "He will be Louis XV. (if he live) in a few years, at the utmost. Now, three low courtesies for Madame de Maintenon."

In a quiet, pleasant chamber, hung with dark blue, an old lady sat showing a picture-book to a very little boy who stood leaning against her knee. She did not look her age, which was seventy-eight. Her figure was rather inclining to be tall, and she preserved the taste, the grace, and the dignity which had always characterized her. A complexion of extreme fairness was relieved by black eyes, very large and radiant, but the once chestnut hair now required no powder to make it white.

"Mr. Philip Ingram?" she said, with a peculiarly pleasant smile; "I am very much pleased to see you."

"My sister, Madame," said Philip, as he presented Celia.

"I did not know that you had a sister," she answered, receiving Celia very kindly. "Louis, will you give your hand to this lady?"

The pretty little child[29] addressed trotted forward, and looking straight in Celia's face with his great brown eyes, presented his baby hand to be kissed. Resisting a strong inclination to take him on her knee and kiss him, Celia performed her homage to the future Sovereign. With much gravity the little Duke offered the same privilege to Philip, and trotted back to his picture-book.

"My Lady Ingram is not with you?" asked the old lady.

"In the Duchess de Berry's saloon at lansquenet, Madame."

"Ah! Do you play, Mademoiselle?"

"No, Madame," said Celia.

"I am glad to hear it," replied Madame de Maintenon.[30] "It is a great waste of time and temper, which were not given us for such uses."

"Turn over!" required the little Prince, authoritatively.

Madame de Maintenon smiled and obeyed.

"I hope His Majesty is not ill?" asked Philip. "I hear he does not receive."

"Not ill, but not well. One of his troublesome headaches. Neither men nor women live forever, Mr. Ingram—not even Kings."

"True, but unfortunate, Madame," was the civil answer with which Philip took his leave.

"Now we will go home," said he. "A short visit, but I thought we had better not interrupt the Duke's reading-lesson. Did you like this scene better than the other?"

"O Philip, how different! Is that lady his nurse?"

"Well, not precisely, my dear. She is—only that she is not called so—the Queen."

"The Queen of France?" asked Celia, opening her eyes.

"The King of France's wife, which I suppose is the same thing; only that in Madame de Maintenon's case it is not the same thing. There is a paradox! A strange life that woman has led. She was born in a prison, the daughter of a Huguenot father and a Catholic mother; imbibed her father's teaching, and when young was a determined little Huguenot. Her father died early. Her mother took her to church, and she turned her back on the altar. Madam d'Aubigné slapped Miss Fanny and turned her round; but Fanny only presented the other cheek. 'Strike away!' said she; ''tis a blessed thing to suffer for one's religion!' Her mother now thought there was nothing to be done with the obstinate little heretic, and gave her up. Next, the house was burnt—fortunately while they were out of it; but for days Fanny cried inconsolably. Her mother, who appears to have been a practical, matter-of-fact woman, when this sort of thing had gone on for several days, thought it desirable to treat Miss Fanny to a slight scolding. 'What a little goose you are!' she said, 'crying everlastingly for a house!' 'Oh! it isn't the house!' sobbed Fanny; 'it isn't the house—it is dolly!' Well, Madame d'Aubigné died while Fanny was still a girl, and she was left entirely destitute. In these circumstances she married, for a home, the ugliest man in France. He was a comic poet, a poor deformed fellow, of the name of Scarron. Fanny did not gain much by her marriage, for they were very poor; but her taste in dress was so exquisite that I have heard ladies say she looked better in a common gown of lavender cotton than half the Court ladies in their silks and satins: and her conversation was so fascinating that clever men used to dine with Scarron just for the sake of hearing her talk.

"There is a story told of one such dinner, at which the servant whispered in Madame's ear, 'Please to tell another story; there is not enough roast beef.' I have heard these and many other anecdotes about her from Aunt Sophie, whose mother-in-law knew her well for many years. When her husband died, she was again thrown on the world; and for some time she petitioned the King in vain for some little property or pension to which she was entitled us Scarron's widow. At last he became perfectly tired of her petitions; but he had never seen her. 'Widow Scarron!' His Majesty used to say, as he took up another petition: 'am I always to be pestered with Widow Scarron?' A short time afterwards he met her somewhere; and her grace, beauty, and wit made such an impression upon him that he gave her the appointment of governess to a posse of his children. When he came to see them, he saw her; and 'Widow Scarron' so grew in his esteem, that it is supposed about two years after the death of his Queen, he married her."[31]

"And why do they call her Madame de Maintenon?"

"His Majesty gave her the estate of Maintenon, and wished her to bear the name."

"And what will become of her when he dies?"

"Ah, that is just the point! I should think she will go into a convent."

"I thought you said she was a Huguenot?"

"So she was, but she is generally supposed to be a Catholic now."

"What a pity!" said Celia, thoughtfully. "How much good she might have done in turning the King's heart towards the Huguenots, if God had permitted her!"

"On the contrary, she is thought to have turned him from them. Many persons say that we may thank her for the revocation of the Edict of Nantes."

"I can scarce believe that, Philip!"

"I hardly do myself."

"Do you think, Philip," asked Celia, slowly, after a pause, "that there is one really good man or woman among all your acquaintance?"

"My dear," replied Philip, in his gravest manner, "I have met with so many good men and women that I have lost all faith in the article. I have seen excellent mothers whose children have died from neglect, excellent husbands who have run away with other people's wives, excellent sons and daughters who have left a kind mother alone in her old age, and excellent friends who have ruined their friends' reputations by backbiting. Never a one of your good men and women for me, if you please. We are all a bad lot together—that is the truth; and the best of us is only a trifle less bad than the others."

"But, Philip, do you really know none who has the fear of God in his heart?"

"Yes, I know three people who have it—you, and Ned, and Patient. I cannot name a fourth."

"O Philip! I wish you were the fourth yourself!" sighed Celia.

"So do I, my dear," said Philip, so gravely that Celia looked up into his face to see what he meant. She was perplexed, and scarcely satisfied with what she read there.

"Philip," she asked, dropping her eyes again, "do you play at these card-tables?"

"Never. I believe Patient thinks I do, but she is mistaken. I threw at basset once, and I shall never do it again."

"Did you lose?"

"No, I won."

"Then what made you determine not to do it again?"

"A remark of Leroy, who was standing near. He said, 'No man ever loses at the first throw. I never saw one lose. The Devil is too cunning for that.' I thought that if the habitual frequenters of the basset-table acknowledged that gentleman for their president, the less I saw of it the better."

"I think you were very wise, Philip," said Celia. "Monsieur Leroy! The man who"—she stopped suddenly, wondering whether Philip were acquainted with the facts of which she was thinking.

"'The man who'—precisely: Savarie Leroy. I see Patient has told you that sad story."

"Philip," said Celia, very seriously, "I wish I could do something to help you. If you do really wish to fear God"—

"My dear little sister," replied Philip, putting his arm round her, "have you any idea how much you have helped me already? I am not quite the Gallio you and Patient think me—caring for none of these things. Now I will just give you a glimpse into my heart. I always knew what Patient was—she never concealed her thoughts on the matter; but there are thirty years between her and me, and I fancied—perhaps foolishly—that the religion which might be very good for her would not do for me. I thought many a time, 'If I could find some one in my own rank, and near my own age, who had not been brought up with Patient as Ned and I have, and therefore had not taken the tone of his feelings from her; if this person should think, feel, and talk in the same way that she does, having derived it from a different locality and breeding, and all that,—why, then, I should feel that, whatever else this religion of hers were, at least it was a reality.' Now this I never could have found in Ned, for two reasons: as to religious breeding, Patient has brought him up; the tone and color of his religion he derives from her. And, secondly, Ned is rather close. Not in the least sternly or unkindly so—nothing of the sort; but he is not such an open, foolish, off-handed fellow as I am. It is not natural to him, as it is to me, to say everything he thinks, to everybody who comes in his way; and in religious matters particularly, what he thinks and feels he keeps to himself. Well, then you came. For the first few weeks that you were here, I watched you like a cat watches a mouse. If you had made one slip—if I had once seen your profession and practice at variance—if you had been less gentle and obedient to my mother, when I could see that she was making you do things which you would much rather not do: or if, on the other hand, you had allowed her to lead you into something which I knew that you considered positively forbidden—if I had seen anything of this, Celia, I should have gone away more irretrievably disgusted than ever with religion and all who professed it.

"Now, my dear, I don't want to make you proud and puff you up, but as I am telling you all this, I must add that I found not one slip in you. I cannot understand how you have done it. It seems to me that you must have a very large amount of what Patient calls 'grace,' that I, who have been watching you so narrowly, could detect nothing in you which I thought wrong. Now will you forgive me for the ordeal through which, unknown to you, I have been putting you? The conclusion to which it has led me is this:—This thing—this religion of yours and Patient's—call it fear of God, or what you will—is a real thing. It is not the disordered fancy of one good woman, as I for a time imagined that it might be. It is a genuine compact and converse between God and your souls, and I only wish I were one of you."

Rather to Philip's surprise, Celia, who while he spoke had been earnestly regarding him, with brilliant eyes and smiling lips, put her head down and burst into tears.

"My dear!" he said.

"O Philip, I am so glad!" she said,—"so glad, so thankful—so very, very glad!" And she sobbed for pure joy.

"Then I am very glad that I have told you, my dear. And if it gives you any satisfaction, I will say again what I have said:—from my soul I wish I were one of you!"

X. ANENT JOHN PATTERSON.

"One Faithful, meek fool, who is led to the burning, He cumbered us sorely in Vanity Fair." —MISS MULOCH.

"Look out for rocks, Madam Celia," was Patient's enigmatical comment when she heard what Philip had said.

"I do not understand you, Patient."

"Madam, there is nothing harder in this world than humility, because there is nothing so near to the Lord. There are but two places wherein He dwelleth—the high and holy Heaven, and the humble and contrite heart. Paul, you mind, was sent a thorn in the flesh because of the abundance of the revelations. I have near always found that when I have had some work to do for the Lord which was like to make me think well of myself, there has either been a thorn in the flesh or a thorn in the spirit sent to me, either just before or just after. Most commonly just before. And it does not need abundance of revelations, neither, to set up poor fools like us. Anything can do that. If we are trying to walk close to the Lord, and give no occasion for stumbling, the Devil can make pedestals of our very graces whereon to stick us up and cause us to fall down and worship ourselves. Ay, of our very sins he can! Many's the time when I have been set up in the forenoon on account of some very thing which, when I was calmer, had to be laid open and repented of before the Lord at night. Depend upon it, Jonah was no feeling over lowly when he thought he did well to be angry.[1] And then, when a little breeze of repentance does stir the heavy waves of the soul, the Devil whispers, 'How good, how humble, how godly you are!' Ah, 'his devices!' Thank God 'we are not ignorant' of them.[2] Look out for rocks, Madam. I am no true prophet if you find not a keen wind soon after this."

"Tell me, Patient, does my brother Edward fear God?"

"Yes, Madam."

"You know he does?"

"I have no anxiety about Sir Edward, Madam. I only wish I were half as sure of Mr. Philip."

"Do you think?"—

"Madam, the way is rough and the gate strait, and 'few there be that find it.'[3] And I don't think Mr. Philip likes rough walking. But the Lord kens that too. If he have been given to Christ of the Father, he'll have to come—'shall come to Me'[4]—and he'll find no more to greet over than the rest of the children when we all get Home to the Father's House. 'Neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand.'"[5]

Lady Ingram did not return from the Palace before eight o'clock in the evening, and then in an exceedingly bad temper. Fashionably so, only; she was much too accomplished and polished to go into a vulgar passion. Thérèse discovered the state of her mistress's mind when she found that she could do nothing to please her. The new dress, of which Lady Ingram had expressed her full approbation in the morning, was declared "effroyante" at night; and Thérèse had to alter the style of her lady's hair five times before she condescended to acknowledge herself satisfied. At length she appeared in her boudoir, and after breakfast, instead of paying her usual visit to Celia's room, sent a message desiring Celia to come to her.

"Are you not well, Madam?" was Celia's natural query, when she saw how pale and heavy-eyed Lady Ingram looked.

"Well! yes, my dear; but I have scarcely slept. I left fifteen hundred pounds behind me at that horrible lansquenet."

Celia's eyes opened rather wide. The sum indicated was almost incredible to her simple apprehension.

"My dear," said Lady Ingram, pettishly, "you are still only half-formed. Do not open your eyes in that way—it makes you look astonished. A woman of the world never wonders."

"I am not a woman of the world, Madam."

"Then my lessons have been of very little use to you. I am afraid you are not, really, and never will be. That reminds me of what I wished to say to you. I am informed by some one who saw you, that after you and Philip left me in the saloon of the Duchess, he took you into the great drawing-room, and that at something you saw there you burst into tears. Now really, my dear, this is totally inadmissible. You scandalized those who saw you. Had you heard some dreadful news, or some such thing, it might have been proper and even laudable to shed a few tears; but actually to sob, in the sight of all the world, just as any laundress or orange-girl might have done,—really, Celia, you must get over this weakness!"

"I beg your pardon, Madam," replied Celia, timidly, "but really I could not help it. There was a lady at the card-table who had lost a great deal—at least Philip thought so—and she began speaking such horrible words that it terrified me; I could not help it."

"'Could not help it!'" repeated Lady Ingram, contemptuously. "Cannot you help anything you choose? Oh, yes! it was the Countess des Ferrières,—she had lost £30,000 and her estates, every livre she had, even to the earrings which she wore, so of course she was ruined. But you quite mistake, my dear—you need not have felt terrified. You are in error if you suppose that swearing is interdicted to men, and even women, of quality.[6] Quite the contrary, it is rather modish than otherwise. A few gentle oaths, such as"—(and Lady Ingram gave a short list)—"are quite admissible in such circumstances. You would hear them from the lips of the best families in France. If it were not modish, of course it would be highly improper; but you are entirely mistaken if you suppose it so. Any of those I have mentioned would be quite proper—for you, even. I have heard much stronger words than those from the Duchess de Berry, and she is younger than you are. But mercy on us, child! what eyes you make!"

They were gleaming like stars. Lady Ingram a words had lighted up a fire behind them, and every feeling of timidity was burnt up in the blaze of its indignation.

"My Lady Ingram!" said Celia, with a dignity in her voice and manner which her step-mother had never seen her assume, and believed to be quite foreign to her nature, "I did not come to Paris either to deny my religion or to outrage my God. In all matters which concern Him not, you have moulded me at your will. I thought that you took to me the place of my dead father and mother, and I have obeyed you as I would have obeyed them. But into the sanctuary of my soul you cannot penetrate; on the threshold of the temple even you must pause. God is more to me than father or mother, and at the risk of your displeasure—at the risk of my life if needs be—I must obey Him. 'The Lord sitteth upon the flood, yea, the Lord sitteth King forever;'[7] and 'He will not hold him guiltless that taketh His Name in vain!'"[8]

Notwithstanding all Lady Ingram's condemnation of feelings, she was just now overpowered by her own. In the foreground was amazement. Had her little pug Venus opened its mouth and emitted a moral axiom, she could hardly have been more astonished. Behind her surprise came annoyance, amusement, and respect for the strange, new bravery of Celia; but in the background, beyond all those, was a very unpleasant and unusual sensation, which she did not attempt to analyze. It was, really, the discovery of a character which she could not fathom, of a strength which she could not weaken, of a temple into which she could not enter. She had always prided herself upon her ability to read every person's character at a glance: and here was the especial character which she had set down as simple, and almost beneath notice, presenting itself in an aspect which it was beyond her skill to comprehend. She had not, indeed, forgotten Celia's confession at the outset of their acquaintance; but she had set it down to her English education, as a past phase of thought which she had succeeded in dispelling. A little more banter on the one hand, and firmness on the other, would, she thought, rid Celia of her absurd and obsolete notions. She had threaded all the mazes, and she meant her speech just uttered to be the last turn in the path, the last struggle between herself and her step-daughter. And lo! here, at that last turn, stood a guarded sanctuary, too strong for her weapons to attack, into which she knew not the way, of whose services she had never learned the language. A strange and sudden darkness fell over her spirit. There was a Power here in opposition to her stronger than her own. This simple, docile, untaught girl knew some strange thing which she did not know. And with this conviction came another and a disagreeable idea. Might it not be something which it immediately concerned her to know? What if Celia were right—if all things were not bounded by this life; if there were another, unknown world beyond this world, guided by different laws? What if God were real, and Heaven were real, and Hell were real? if there were a point beyond which prayers were mockery, and penances were vain? A veil was lifted up for a moment which had covered all this from her; a dark, thick, heavy veil, which all her life she had been at work to weave. A voice from Heaven whispered to her, and it said, "Thou fool!" When moments such as these do not soften and convict, they harden and deaden. The veil dropped, and Lady Ingram was herself again—her heart more rock than ever. It was in a particularly cold, hard voice that she spoke again.

"Celia, if you do not take care, I shall wash my hands of you. I will not be braved in this manner by a mere girl—a girl whose character is wholly unformed, and whose breeding is infinitely below her quality. Go to your chamber, and remain there until you are sufficiently humbled to request my pardon for treating me with so little respect."

"Madam," was the soft answer, "if I have shown you any disrespect, I will ask your pardon now. It was not my wish to do so."

Ah! the thing which Celia had shown Claude Ingram, and at which she could not bear to look, was her own heart.

"Will you then retract what you have said?"

"If I have said anything personally offensive to your Ladyship, I will retract it and ask your forgiveness. What I have said of my own relation to God I never can retract, Madam, for it is real and eternal."

Lady Ingram was silent for a moment. Then she said, in her hardest voice and coldest manner, "Go to your chamber." Celia, courtesying to her step-mother, retired without another word. Left alone in her own boudoir, again that cloud of dread darkness rolled over Claude Ingram. The presence of the accusing angel was withdrawn, but the accusations rankled yet. She sat for some time in silence, and at length rose with a sudden shiver and a heavy sigh. Opening with a little silver key a private closet, richly ornamented, a shrine was disclosed, where a silver lamp burned before an image of the Virgin. Here Lady Ingram knelt, and made an "Act of Contrition" and an "Act of Faith."[9] The repetition of vain words put no more contrition nor faith into her heart than before she uttered them. Only the soul was lulled to sleep: and she rose satisfied with herself and her interview.

"Do you think I did wrong, Patient?" asked Celia, sadly, of her sole confidante, at the moment when, at the other end of the house, Lady Ingram was finishing her devotions.

Patient replied in a measured and constrained voice, "'He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me.'"[10]

"Yes, I know; but I am so very anxious not to be wanting in respect to her—not to put any obstacles in her way."

"The more obstacles in her way the better, Madam; for it is the broad road that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat."[11]

Celia sighed heavily, but made no answer.

"Ah, poor blind soul!" continued Patient. "If only we would look more at all men and women in one light, and measure them by one test—friends of Christ, or enemies of Christ—I think we would behave different from that we do."

Patient stitched away without saying more, and Celia sat looking thoughtfully out of the open window. From some cause unknown to herself, there suddenly rose before her a vision of the great laurel at Ashcliffe, and the stranger blessing her in the name of the Virgin. She exclaimed, "Patient!" in a tone which would have startled any one less unimpressionable than the placid woman who sat opposite her.

"Madam!" replied Patient, without any change of manner.

Celia told her the circumstance of which she was thinking, and added, "Can you guess who it was, Patient?"

"What manner of man was he, Madam?"

Celia closed her eyes and tried to recall him.

"A tall, thin, comely man, with a brown skin, and no color on cheeks or lips: dark hair somewhat unkempt, bright dark eyes, and a very soft, persuasive tone of voice. His clothes had been good, but were then ragged, and he looked as if he had been ill, or might become so. I always wondered if it could be my father; but as he died when I was but a child, that is not possible."

"And what was the day, Madam?"

"Some day in November, 1710."

"I think I can guess who it was, Madam Celia. No, it could not have been your father; and I know but one who answers to that description, yet I knew not that he had been in England so late as that. It was my husband, Gilbert Irvine."

"Patient!" exclaimed Celia, interested at once. "Had he been ill?"

"Nay, Madam, 'twas the other way: he fell ill afterward. He died about twelve months thereafter."

"Poor Patient!"

"Do not pity me, Madam. I had nought but what I deserved."

"I am afraid I should not like to have all I deserve, Patient. But what do you mean?"

"Madam, do you mind the Israelites under Joshua, which accepted the Gibeonites because of their spoiled victuals and clouted shoon, and asked not counsel at the mouth of the Lord? That was what I did. I was a plain, portionless maid, having nought but my labor, and he was my Lady's gentleman-usher, in a better place than I, and a rare hand at talking any one over to what he had a mind to—ay, he was that! And so I took him because of his comely face and his flattering tongue, and such like, and asked not counsel at the mouth of the Lord. And 'tis mine experience, Madam, that while the Lord never faileth to bring good out of evil for His people in the end, yet that oft for a time, when they be obstinately bent on taking their own way, He leaveth them to eat of the fruit of it. I say not how 'tis with other believers; but this I know, that my worst troubles have ever been them I have pulled on mine own head. There is a sort of comfort in a trouble by Divine ordinance, which it lacks when 'tis only by Divine permission, and you know you are yourself to blame for it. And little comfort I had with Gilbert Irvine. I've envied Isabel Paterson in the cave with her guidman—ay, many and many a time! And I have asked the Lord to do more than a miracle for me—for to turn Gilbert's heart would have been on the thither side of a miracle, I'm thinking,—more wonderful yet. You mind, Madam," added Patient, suddenly, as if afraid of being misunderstood on this point, "Gilbert was no a Papist when I and he were wed. I should have seen my way through that, I think, for all the blind fool that I was; but it was no for five years thence. He professed the Evangel then, and went to the preaching like any Christian. The Lord forgive him—if it be no Papistry to say it: anyhow, the Lord forgive me!"

"There are no miracles, now, certainly," said Celia, reflectively. "I can quite fancy what a comfort it must have been to live in the days of miracles. But who was Isabel Paterson, and what cave did she live in?"

"Are there no miracles now, Madam?" asked Patient. "Ah, but I'll be long ere I say that! If the Lord wrought no miracle for John Paterson—ay, and twice over too—I little ken what a miracle is. But truly he was a godly man above many. 'Tis mostly Elijahs that be fed by angels and ravens, though I'm no saying that, if it pleased the Lord, He might not work wonders for you and me. 'Tis ill work setting limits to the Lord."

"But who was Isabel Paterson, and who was John Paterson?" urged Celia again.

"I'll tell you, Madam. John Paterson—he was Isabel's guidman—was a small farming-man at Pennyvenie, but at one time he dwelt for a season no so far from Lauchie. 'Twas when I was a young maid that these things happened. I knew Isabel Paterson, and many a crack I've had with her when I was a lassie, and she a thriving young wife with wee weans about her. Well, John, her guidman, was a marked man to King Charles's troopers, and many a time they set out to hunt him down. He could no dwell in his own house, but was forced to seek sleeping-room on the Crag of Benbeoch, between two great rocks, only visiting his own home by stealth. The first of these times the dragoons came on him as he was coming down from Benbeoch to the little white farmhouse below, and Isabel was watching his coming from the window. As he was crossing the moor they saw him, and he saw them. John, he turned and ran, and they galloped after. He heard them coming over the moor, and leaping the stone wall that girdled Benbeoch Crags, and he thought, 'Ah! sure 'tis all over with me now!' For only that week had Claverhouse hanged Davie Keith at his own door, and he was sib to Paterson. John he ran, and the troops they galloped: he crying mightily unto the Lord to save him for His Name's sake. And while the words were yet in his mouth, and the dragoons were so near him that he could hear their speech to one another, all at once his feet caught at a stone, and down he fell. He gave himself up for lost then, for the horses were right on him. 'But where am I going?' thinks he. Through the heather he fell, through the grass, through the very solid earth aneath him. Madam, the Lord made a new thing, and the earth opened her mouth and swallowed him up, rather than he should fall into the hands of his enemies. When he came to himself—for he was a bit bruised and stunned by the fall—he felt that he was in some wide dry cavern, many a foot across, and he heard overhead the troopers cursing and swearing that they could not find the hole where, quoth they, the fox had run to earth. And John down aneath was kneeling and giving thanks to the Lord, enjoying, as he told afterwards, the blessedest hour of communion with Him that ever he had. After a while the troopers gave it up as a bad job, and off they went. And when John dared to climb up out of the hole, and pop up his head through the long grass and heather, there was nought but the green grass and the purple heather, and God's blue sky over all. After a time he ventured forth, and hearing a wail of a woman's voice, found Isabel mourning on the hill-side, seeking his dead body, never doubting that the troopers had slain him. He helped her into the cave, and there they knelt down together and praised the Lord again. And by degrees, after a while, they carried bedding and household goods such as could be spared to this safe shelter which the Lord had provided for them, and not only John, but others of the brethren, hid there for many a day after, when Claverhouse was known to be in the country."

"Patient, is that really true?"

"True as Gospel, Madam. I had it from Isabel her ain sel'."

"But the cave must have been there before, surely."

"Maybe, Madam, or maybe not," said Patient, a little obstinately. "We ken little of what goes on in the heart of the earth. Anyhow, it had never been found before, though there were shepherds who knew every inch of Benbeoch Crags: and there it was ready when John Paterson fell in need of it."

"And what was his second escape, Patient?"

"That, Madam, was well-nigh as strange, for the Lord made choice of a poor silly beast as his deliverer. 'Twas indeed the earlier deliverance of the two. It began just like to the other:—John was running over the moor afore Claverhouse's troops, a meeting in the Black Glen having been broke up on the rumor of their coming. But this time the men had dogs with them. John, he ran as long as he could over Longstone Moss, calling on the Lord for deliverance as he ran. All the way across the bog he kept pace with them, for the horses being heavier, and the troopers armed, they had ill work to get on through the bog. But he, knowing that the Moss once passed, they would be far swifter than he on the hard ground, looked around earnestly for some safe hiding-place. Coming upon a deep furrow of moss and long grass running across the bog, he lay down in it, scarce hoping that it could be enough to hide him, but for just what men call a chance. Hitherto he had seen only the troopers, and had not noticed the dogs; but all at once, as he lay in this long grass, he heard their deep bay come across the moor. 'That sound,' quoth he, 'struck upon my heart like a death-knell. That sense of smell which God had given them was sure and unerring; and these men were now using it to hunt God's children to the death.' Straight and sure came the hounds rushing upon him. He cried once more unto the Lord, and then was about to rise lest the dogs should tear him. When, all at once, he heard among the long grass at his head a whirring sound, and a fox dashed close past him. Ay, but that was a scurry! Horses, dogs, and men, away they set after the fox, and they never came back that day.[12] So again the Lord delivered him."

"But you don't think, Patient, that He made the fox on purpose?"

"Madam," said Patient, a little dryly, "I am not in the Lord's counsels. I should fancy that He guided a common fox to do the thing; but I cannot presume to say that the bit beastie was not created there and then. We are too apt to limit the Lord, Madam."

"But God has given over creating, Patient."

"Has He so, Madam?" asked Patient, dubiously. "Is it no new creation when the buds spring forth, when the grass groweth up, and 'He reneweth the face of the earth'?[13] 'God did rest the seventh day from all His works;'[14] but the Scripture doth not tell us what He did on the eighth. Moreover, saith our Lord that 'the Father worketh.'[15] This I know—that if the purpose of the Lord were to preserve John Paterson by means of a fox, that fox should sooner have been brought from the Indies as on dry land than that His purpose should fail. 'He will work, and who shall let it?'"[16]

"I say!" observed Mr. Philip Ingram at the door, "what have you been doing, or saying, or something, to my mother? I have not seen her in such a state I don't know when."

"I am afraid I have displeased her," said Celia, "but I could not help it. If I had it to do over again, I must say just the same thing in substance."

"Have you been running a tilt with her, my pugnacious warrior?" asked Philip, glancing at his reflection in the mirror.

"Something like it, I am afraid."

"Ah! I thought as much when I was desired, just now, to talk upon some subject more agreeable than you. I said I did not know any, and departed; doubly willing to do so as I found that she had the megrims."

"I thought she looked poorly," said Celia, compassionately.

Philip indulged in a peal of laughter.

"My sweet rustic innocence! I thought I told you that megrims stood for Père Letellier. He is closeted with her Ladyship, assisting her to mourn over your lamentable departure from the faith and the mode. I should not very much wonder if you were treated to a visit from his reverence."

"Oh dear!" said Celia, involuntarily.

"He isn't such a formidable being," said Philip. "He used to confess me when I was about the height of that table, and order me a certain quantity of sugar-plums for penance—I know it was two for squalling, and four for stamping and kicking. I lost my temper with tolerable frequency under that discipline."

Patient sighed and shook her head slowly.

"Now how much wisdom lies in a shake of some people's heads! Patient, my dear creature, you could not have conveyed your meaning half so well in words."

"I am doubtful if you know my meaning, Mr. Philip."

"Know your meaning! Why, it was written on your head in that shake! Did it not say, 'Philip Ingram! your education was awfully bad, and you are what might be expected from it'?"

"Nay, Sir, scarce that. I was thinking rather of that word, 'I am against the shepherds,'[17] and yet more of that other word of John, 'Therefore shall her plagues come in one day, ... for strong is the Lord God who judgeth her.'"[18]

"Spare me, please!" exclaimed Philip, springing up. "You never quote from the Revelation without a sermon after it. Urgent business requires my presence down-stairs. Mrs. Celia Ingram, your servant!"

And he shut the door, laughing; but the next minute he opened it again to say, "If Père Letellier should take it into his head to come here, send for me to keep you in countenance. You will find the bear in its den—Patient knows where."

"But, Philip, what do you expect people to do?"

It was not the advent of Père Letellier, but his own want of occupation, which, to use Philip's elegant simile, had drawn the bear out of its den. Père Letellier was gone some hours before, and Lady Ingram had shut herself up, desiring Thérèse to tell any one who asked for her that she had the vapors, and could see nobody; and Philip, thus thrown back on his own society or his sister's, had selected the latter as the pleasanter of the two.

"But what do you expect people to do?" was Celia's natural reply to Philip's remark that good people never did anything.

"Well, my dear, I can only say that if I were one of you good folks, I could not live as you do. If I believed—really, honestly believed—that all the people, or not all, say one-half, say one-tenth of the people around me, in this city alone, were going to perdition as fast as they could travel, and that I knew of something which would save them, if I could only persuade them to take it,—why, my dear Celia, I could never sit quietly on this sofa! I should want to go out instantly 'into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in.'[19] It would be as cruel as helping oneself to an extra slice of plumcake in the presence of a starving wretch who had lived for a week on a handful of potato-parings."

"Philip, I am sure you have been reading the Bible. You have quoted it several times lately."

"I told you I had read it," answered Philip, shortly.

"Mr. Philip," said Patient, very gravely, "you have given me somewhat to meditate upon. Your words are very exercising. We do scarce follow sufficiently that word, 'Consider your ways.'[20] You are quite right, Sir, more shame for us!"

"Very well, then, you agree with me," said Philip. "Well, and here are all the good, charitably-disposed Catholics shutting themselves up in convents and telling their beads; and all the good, charitably-disposed Protestants sitting on sofas, reading their good books, and mourning to each other over the wickedness of the world. Now, is that really the best thing that either party can find to do?"

"Mr. Philip, I hope you don't mean to go to compare the poor blind souls of Papists, worshipping idols in those wicked monasteries, with enlightened Christian believers either in Scotland or England?" objected Patient, with a shade of rising indignation in her tone.

"I do not mean to say that the 'believers,' as you call them, may not be doing more good to their own souls than the monks and nuns: but if they sit still on their sofas, what more good are they doing the world than the monks are? Is it not the same thing under another name? Are they helping to lessen by one grain the heap of wickedness they mourn over?"

"I am afraid you are right, Philip," said Celia, thoughtfully.

"That is just the failing of you good folks," resumed he. "You hear of a poor family, shockingly destitute, and steeped in all manner of sin and wickedness; and you say to each other, 'Isn't it dreadful?' You talk them over—perhaps you pray them over; but at the best, you do anything but put on your hat and go and try to lift them out of the mire. Oh dear no! They are far too dirty and disagreeable for your delicate fingers. I am without, as you know; and on the principle that 'lookers-on see most of the game,' those things show more plainly to us than to you. Look at the men in our prisons. They are beyond you now. But was there no time when they were not beyond you? Did they pass, do you think, in five minutes from little children saying the Paternoster at their mother's knee, to the hardened criminals to whom you would not dare to speak? You should talk to Colville. He would put everything before you far better than I can."

A few days after this conversation, Celia made the acquaintance of her brother's solitary friend. Lady Ingram's reception took place on the Thursday subsequent; and that lady, who had not yet resumed her usual graciousness to Celia, nevertheless intimated her pleasure that her step-daughter should be present. As Celia sat quietly in her corner, moralizing to herself on the scene, Philip's voice beside her said—

"Celia, my dear, allow me to introduce you. Mr. Colville, Mrs. Ingram. Mrs. Ingram, Mr. Colville."

Celia lifted her eyes with much curiosity. Her first impression was that Philip's friend was a very thin long man, with very light hair and eyes of the palest blue, a stoop in the shoulders, and a noticeable nose. He and Philip remained standing by her chair.

"An interesting scene this," observed Mr. Colville, in a deep, hollow voice. "Pleasant to see men and women enjoying themselves. Life is short, and death certain. Let us be happy while we can."

"After death the judgment.'"[21] The words came suddenly from Celia's lips, and almost without her volition.

Mr. Colville smiled condescendingly.

"You are one of the old-fashioned thinkers," he said. "I shall be happy to show you how mistaken such a notion is. I always take a pleasure in disabusing young minds."

"Very generous of you," said Philip—Celia was not sure whether seriously or ironically.

"'Mistaken!'" she exclaimed, lifting her clear eyes to her opponent's, and thinking that her ears must have made some strange mistake. "'Tis a passage of Scripture."

"A fable, Madam," returned Mr. Colville, coolly. "Quite inconsistent with the character of God, who is a perfect Being; and most injurious to the minds of men. The soul, I assure you, is a mere quality of the body; it has no substance, yet is entirely material, and perishes with the body of which it is a quality."

"Sir, how can God's revelation be a fable?" was Celia's very grave reply. "And, without that revelation, what can we know of the character of God?"

"My dear Madam," replied Mr. Colville, with his pitying, patronizing smile, "these are quite obsolete, disproved notions. There can be no such thing as revelation; 'tis impossible. And there are no means of any kind by which man can understand the character of God. We know from nature that God is infinitely powerful, and infinitely wise. Of His moral character we can have no idea, except that He is a perfect Being. Whatever, therefore, is inconsistent with perfection, is inconsistent with God."

"Inconsistent with your notions of perfection, you mean," said Philip. "Doesn't it require a perfect creature to imagine perfection?"

"Then," pursued Mr. Colville, taking no notice of Philip, "you suppose that all Scripture is of Divine original. This is another mistake. The Gospel is of Divine original, and perhaps some portions of the Old Testament; but the Pentateuch was compiled by a most ignorant and unphilosophical man, a repellent, sanguinary law-giver—and the Epistles are the product of heated brains. Paul was a cabalistic Rabbi, a delirious enthusiast; Peter, a poor ignorant fisherman.[22] What could you expect from such persons? Entirely human, Madam, these parts of Scripture!"

"And you, Mr. Colville," said Celia, warmly, "dare to sit thus in judgment upon God! You presume to lay your human hand on different portions of His Book, and to say, 'This is from God, and this is from man!' Sir, at His bar you must one day stand, and by that Book you will have to be judged."

"Believe me, I quite honor your warmth and kindly feelings. Youth is enthusiastical—given to hero-worship. 'Tis a pity to set up for your hero a mere dead book. But perhaps you misunderstand me. I do not reject all Scripture. For the words and character of Jesus I have great respect. He was unquestionably a true philanthropist, and an enlightened man—a very excellent man. But"—

Celia had risen and stood before him. She forgot all about the lighted rooms and the crowds who might be watching and listening. "And no more?" she said, in a voice of suppressed intensity.

"More?" answered Mr. Colville. "What could you wish me to say more?"

"Mr. Colville, your words, complimentary as they might be if you were speaking of a man, are but an insult—an insult to Him in whom is life,[23] and who is the brightness of the Father's glory.[24] I cannot bear them!"

She would have passed on, but Colville detained her.

"My dear Madam, you entirely mistake. Suffer me but to show you"—

"Sir, I shall speak with you no more. 'He that biddeth you God-speed is the partaker of your evil deeds.'"[25]

And Celia made her way through the rooms and gained her own boudoir without another word to any one. But she had not been there for five minutes before Philip followed her.

"Upon my word, Celia!" said he, laughing, "I had no idea what an amount of undeveloped soldiery there was under that quiet manner of yours. You have fairly rendered Colville speechless—a state of things I never saw before. I beg to congratulate the successful general on the victory!"

"Philip, how can you like that odious man?"

"Well, my dear," responded Philip, "I am beginning rather to wonder at it myself. He has become insipid latterly. I used to think him a very ingenious fellow; I am beginning to suspect that he is only a showy donkey!"

"He is an Atheist," said Celia, in a tone of horror.

"Scarce that, my dear," answered Philip, quietly. "He does believe in a sort of God, but 'tis one of his own making."

"Will that deliver him in the day of the Lord's wrath?"[26] asked Celia in a low tone. "Philip, I hope I said nothing wrong. I did not mean to speak uncourteously or unchristianly. I hope I did not do it."

"My dear little scrap of scrupulousness! Do you suppose that a soldier in the heat of battle says 'Pray excuse me!' to the opposite man before he fires at him?"

"Ah! but the weapons of my warfare ought not to have been carnal.[27] St. Paul says, 'Speaking the truth in love.'[28] I am afraid there was not much love in what I said to-night."

"No, dear Celia, the truth was so hot that it burnt it up," said Philip, laughing. "Don't make yourself miserable. Colville will hardly break his heart over it. Indeed, I am not certain that he keeps one. Are you not coming down again? Well, then, good-night."

On questioning her counsellor Patient in a similar manner, Celia found her unable to see any error in her act. Perhaps the old fiery Covenanter spirit was too strong in her to temper the words which she spoke. That which to Celia was merely carrying out the apostolic injunction, "Be courteous,"[29] was in Patient's eyes "conferring with flesh and blood."[30]

"Nay, Madam," said she, "if Paul himself could say, 'If any man preach any other Gospel unto you than that ye have received, let him be accursed,'[31] are we to mince our words and dress the truth to make it dainty to the world and the Devil? Is it not written, 'If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema Maran-atha'?"[32]

"You retired early last night," said Lady Ingram to Celia, as she sipped her chocolate on the following afternoon. "You were tired, I suppose?"

"No, Madam," said Celia, honestly; "I was angry."

Lady Ingram gave her usual sign of surprise or perplexity—a very slight elevation of her chiselled eyebrows.

"With whom, my dear?"

"With Mr. Colville, Madam."

"A very good family, child," said Lady Ingram, gravely. "A younger branch, it is true, but still an old family—allied to the Colvilles of Bassingbourne. They can trace their descent to the eleventh century."

"Madam, Mr. Colville and I were not disputing the length of our descent."

"When you do, my dear, remember that you are of a still older family than he. Hubert de Ingeramme went over to England with William the Conqueror, and before that his line had been seated at Gournay and Ingeramme from the days of Rollo. You must be careful to remember, child, that if there be no high titles in your house, you are very ancient indeed; and that, after all, is the real thing. There are many families in France who are merely Counts or Barons in respect of title, but whose lines are as old as the Crown itself. 'Familles en velours rouge cramoisi,'[33] that is what some call them. And yours, my dear, is a crimson velvet family. Pray don't allow any one to dispute that."

"I am not in the least likely, Madam," was Celia's amused reply.

"That is right, my child!" resumed Lady Ingram, condescendingly. "I am rejoiced to see that you appreciate the importance of the subject. By the way, has Philip told you that he has received a commission from His Majesty?"

"Yes, Madam," said Philip's sister, sighing.

"My dear," answered his mother, "there is nothing to sigh about. 'Tis high honor to receive a commission from King James. The troops, I learn, march for Landrécies on the 19th—next Monday; and are to oppose Prince Eugene there about the 10th of next month. I propose, therefore, to travel to Landrécies, where I shall take apartments—small and inconvenient, I fear they will be: but I suppose you can put up with that? And then Philip can come and see us from time to time while the troops are there; and I shall be able to see that he powders his hair properly, and does not neglect the tying of his cravats. 'Twould never do that an Ingram should be unmodish, even in battle. Only think, if he were to go into action in a Steenkirk![34] I should never forgive myself. And he is far too careless in that respect."

"I can put up with anything that you can, Madam," said Celia, answering only one clause of her step-mother's speech.

"Very good, my dear. Then order Patient to be ready."

"Is Patient to go, Madam?"

"My dear!" said Lady Ingram, "do you think I mean to travel like a bourgeoise? Of course Patient will go. And be careful that you do not take too few gowns with you. I have to spur you, my réligieuse, or I really think you would scarce know the difference between silk and camlet. What a pity you were not born a Catholic! I will give the orders to Patient myself, that will be best. She is little better than you in such matters. I suppose, in her case, it arises from her being a Scotch-woman, and of no family. But how it ever came to be the case with you, an Ingram of Ingram, I really cannot understand. Those things generally run in the blood. It must be the people who brought you up. They did not look as if they knew anything."

"You think so much about family, Madam," said Celia, stung in the affections by this contemptuous notice of her dearest friends; "pardon me for telling you that the Passmores have dwelt at Ashcliffe for eight hundred years."

"My dear, you astonish me!" said Lady Ingram, with a faint glimmer of interest. "Then they really are respectable people! I assure you I am quite rejoiced to hear it. I did think there was something a little superior in the manner of the eldest daughter—something of repose; but you English are odd—so different from other people. Eight hundred years, did you say? That is quite interesting."

And Lady Ingram dropped another lump of sugar languidly into her cup of chocolate. Repose! thought Celia. Truly in Isabella's manners there was repose enough; but it had never occurred to the simple Passmores to regard it as enviable. On the contrary, they called it idleness in plain Saxon, and urged her by all means to get rid of it.

"Quite interesting!" repeated Lady Ingram, stirring up the sugar in a slow, deliberate style which Isabella would have admired. "Really, I did not know that the Passmores were a respectable family. I thought they were quite nobodies."

XI. HOW PHILIP CAME BACK.

"The hour we see not, when, upsurging full, Our cup shall outflow. God is merciful."

"Disengaged, Madam? I have just half an hour to spend with you. Positively the last time before I don my regimentals. And then hurrah for Landrécies! O Ned, I wonder where you are! I wish you would come back!"

"Do you travel with us, Philip?"

"No, thank you, Madam. That would be rather too spicy."

"You go with your regiment?"

"I have that honor."

"Mr. Philip," said Patient, as she noiselessly entered, "I have done your packing, and"—

"What a darling of a Covenanter you are, to take that off my hands!"

"And I have put a little Bible, Sir, along with your linen. Will you please to promise me, Mr. Philip, to read it?"

"Dear Patient," answered Philip, letting his lightness slip from him like a cloak, "I will read it. I have read it so much lately that I should feel almost lost without it, I assure you."

"Have you done aught but read it, Mr. Philip?" asked Patient, earnestly.

"As how?" queried Philip.

"Sir, I can conceive of none so awfully far off God and good as he that handles the bread of life but never eateth of it, he that standeth just outside the gate of the fold and never entereth therein. Have you felt it, Mr. Philip? have you believed it? have you prayed over it?"

There was no lightness about Philip's tone or manner as he answered, "I think, Patient, I have."

But Patient was not satisfied yet.

"Mr. Philip, my bairn," said she, "I do think that what you do, you'll do thoroughly—not half and half. I think you will know whether you do mean to follow the Lord or not. But 'tis one thing to mean to go, and another to set out on your journey; 'tis one thing to think you can leave all without trying, and another to leave all. And I'm no so sure, my dear bairn, whether you ken your own self, and whether you can leave all and follow Him. 'Tis rougher walking in the narrow way than on the broad road. It takes sore riving to get through the gate with some. Can you hold on? Can you set the Lord always before you, above all the jeering and scoffing, all the coldness and neglect of the world? For until the Lord is more to you than any in this world, you'll scarce be leaving all and following Him. Don't be deceived—don't be deceived! and oh, laddie dear, dinna deceive your ainsel'!"

"My dear old friend!" said Philip, looking up lovingly into Patient's face. "I will tell you the honest truth about myself. Celia, do you remember what I said to you the first time that I saw you?"

Celia remembered that well. It had pained her too much to be lightly forgotten.

"Well, that has all passed away. I believe that there is a God, and that the Bible is His revelation to man. Colville's philosophy merely disgusts me now. (I must say for him, though, that he was talking unusual nonsense the other night; he generally has something better to say than that.) Well, then, I believe, if I know what believing means, in Jesus Christ. Perhaps I don't know what believing means; I shall not feel astonished if you tell me so. I believe that He died to save sinners, that is, instead of sinners; but instead of what sinners I don't quite know. For I cannot help seeing that while all mankind are sinners, there is one class of sinners, called saints, who are quite different from the rest. My puzzle at present is what makes the difference. We all believe that Christ died for sinners, yet it seems to be only some of us that get any good from it. If you can explain this to me, do so."

"I must go back to eternity to explain that," said Patient. "Sir, ages back, ere the world had a beginning, the Lord God, who alone was in the beginning, Father, Son, and Spirit, covenanted the redemption of man.[1] Certain persons, whose names were written in the Book of Life,[2] were given of the Father to the Son,[3] unto whom, and to none other, the benefits of His redemption were to be applied.[4] 'No man,' quoth our Lord, 'can come to Me except the Father which hath sent Me draw him;[5] and also, 'All that the Father giveth Me shall come to Me.'[6] Therefore"—

"Stop, stop!" cried Philip. "Let me take all that in before you go on to secondly. Do you mean to say, Patient, that God, the loving and merciful God, who says He wills not the death of any sinner,[7] selected a mere handful of men whom He chose to save, and deliberately left all the rest to perish? Was that love? Was that like God?"

"Sir, we can only know from the Word what is or is not like God. He ruleth over all,[8] and who shall say unto Him, 'What doest Thou?'[9] And when all were sunk in sin, and He might justly have left all to perish, shall we quarrel with Him because He in His sovereign grace and electing love decided to whom the merit of His work, the free gift of God, should be applied?"

"That is Covenanting doctrine, I suppose," said Philip, dryly.

Celia saw breakers a-head.

"Dear Patient," she said, very gently, "are you not trying to feed Philip with rather too strong meat? Remember what our Lord said to His disciples, 'I have many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now.'"[10]

"Speak you, then, Madam Celia," said Patient. "I have but one speech."

"Oh! you good folks don't always agree!" observed Philip, as if he had made a discovery.

"We quite agree," answered Celia. "I believe just what Patient does, but I don't think it is suited for you. She is trying to make you spell words of three syllables before you can say your alphabet perfectly; and I think it will be better to help you over the alphabet first. Dear Philip, those whom Christ saves are those whom He makes willing to accept His salvation. Are you willing?"

"Go your own way, Madam," said Patient, in a dissatisfied tone; "go your own way. But don't account me in agreement with the teaching of Arminius."

"My dear Patient, I know nothing about Arminius—neither who he is nor what he teaches," replied Celia, simply. "Does not God make His elect willing to accept His salvation?"

"Surely, Madam, surely," answered Patient, a little mollified. "But you spake of will, Madam. Now I never can accept the free-will views of that heretic Arminius."

"Fire away, Patient!" cried Philip, from the sofa; "I will lay five pounds on you. Well, really! I am rejoiced to find that the saints can quarrel like sinners! It makes a fellow feel himself less of an isolation."

This was exactly the sentiment which Celia was most unwilling to foster in Philip's mind. She paused a moment, and sent up a prayer for wisdom before she spoke again.

"Dear Philip, the saints after all are only a few of the sinners. Patient and I are both human, therefore open to sin and error. Don't take what we say, either of us; take what God says. He cannot mistake, and we may. Patient, you will not disagree with me in this?"

"Not a whit, Madam. And I ask your pardon if I spake unadvisedly with my tongue."

"And if I did," responded Celia, softly. "Least of all should we do it on such a subject as this."

"You did not," answered Philip. "It was the old bird that was the fighting cock!"

"Well, dear Philip," said Celia, turning to her brother, "this is the great question for you and me: Are we willing to accept Christ's work, and to place no reliance upon our own works? He will be all or nothing. We cannot save ourselves either wholly or in part. Our salvation is either done, or to do; and if it be yet to do, it can never be accomplished."

"Then what place do you find for good works in your system?"

"No place, as the efforts of the slave to set himself free;[11] every place, as the endeavor of the child to show his love to the reconciled father."[12]

"Well," said Philip, reflectively, "I found long ago that your view was the soil which grew the finest crop of them. Don't look at me so, Patient. Let me talk as I think; it is natural to my mind to express itself as I do. I don't mean anything wrong."

"The Lord will have that out of you, Mr. Philip, if you be His."

"Well," replied Philip, gravely, "I suppose He knows how."

"Ay, He knows how," answered Patient, sadly. "But don't you give Him more work in that way than you can help, Sir. The surgeon's knife may be very necessary, but it never can be otherwise than painful."

Celia did not quite agree with Patient here; but it was a secondary point, and she said nothing. Philip looked at his watch, and, declaring that he could not stay another minute, kissed Celia and Patient, saying, "A Landrécies!" as he left the room.

"I see a long, weary walk for Mr. Philip, Madam," remarked Patient, when he was gone. "If he be to reach the good City at all, 'twill sure be by a path of much affliction."

Celia was rather disposed to think the same.

Lady Ingram's expectation that she would be able to procure only small rooms at Landrécies was verified. The apartments to be obtained were both small and few. Lady Ingram and Celia occupied the same bed-chamber. Until this happened, Celia had no idea what a very artificial flower her handsome, stately step-mother really was. She now found that the fourth part of her hair, and nearly three-fourths of her bloom, were imparted. Every morning Lady Ingram sat for two hours under the hands of Thérèse, who powdered her hair, rouged her cheeks, applied pearl-powder to her forehead, tweezers to her eyebrows, and paint to her neck, fixing in also sundry false curls.

"My Lady," asked Patient, in her quietest manner, the first evening at Landrécies, which was the 12th of July, "if the Prince Eugene take us prisoners, what will become of us, if you please?"

"Prisoners!" repeated Lady Ingram. "Absurd, Patient! You speak as if you thought a defeat possible. The armies of the Grand Monarque and those of King James together to be routed by one Savoyard! Preposterous!"

"They were put to flight at Malplaquet, Madam" (which place Patient pronounced to rhyme with jacket); "and 'tis not so many days since the Prince took Le Quesnoy."[13]

"Patient Irvine, you are no better than a fool!" said Lady Ingram, turning round to give effect to her sentence.

"Very like, Madam," was the mild reply of Patient, who was employed in giving the last fold to her young lady's dress. "Indeed, 'tis but the act of a fool to reason beforehand. The Lord will dispose matters."

"Celia! I shall find you another attendant, now that you can speak French, and send Patient back to her sewing. Does she speak in this canting way to you?"

"Pray don't!" was Celia's alarmed reply to the first part of Lady Ingram's remark. "No more than I do to her, Madam," she answered to the second.

"I see!" said Lady Ingram, sarcastically. "A nice choice of an attendant I made for you! It was unavoidable at first, since she was the only woman in my house, except Thérèse, who could speak English; but I ought to have changed her afterwards. I might have known how it would be. When we return to Paris, I will provide you with a French woman."

"You will do the Lord's will, Madam," observed Patient, calmly.

"I will do my own!" cried Lady Ingram, more angrily than was her wont.

"Madam," was Patient's answer, "the Lord's will will be done; and in one sense, whether you choose it or not, you will have to do it."

"Leave the room! You are a canting hypocrite!" commanded her mistress, in no dulcet tones.

"Yes, my Lady," answered Patient, meekly, and obeyed.

"Now, if that woman had had the least spirit, she would have answered me again. A little more rouge here, Thérèse."

And Lady Ingram settled herself peacefully to her powderings, leaving Celia in a state very far from peace. She felt, indeed, extremely rebellious.

"Cannot I have my own choice in this matter?" she thought to herself. "Am I never to have my own way? Must I be forever the slave of this woman, who is neither my own mother nor one of the Lord's people? Shall I calmly let her take from me my only friend and counsellor? No! I will go back to Ashcliffe first; and if I break with Lady Ingram altogether, what matters it?" But the next minute came other thoughts. Patient had told her words of her grandfather's which she remembered,—"A soldier hath no right to change his position." And how could she put such an occasion to fall in her brother's way? Perhaps the Lord was drying up all the wells in order to drive her closer to the one perennial fountain. Ah! poor caged bird, beating against the cage! She little knew either how near she was to freedom, nor by what means God would give it to her.

The 21st of July dawned. Lady Ingram had risen a little earlier than usual, for she expected to see Philip, and had been grumbling all the previous evening at his non-appearance. He came in, dressed in full regimentals, about eleven o'clock, when his mother had been down for about an hour, and Celia for several hours.

"Good-morning and good-bye in one," he said, speaking hastily, and to both at once. "I have but ten minutes to stay. Marshal Villars has found a weak place in Prince Eugene's intrenchments at Denain, and he is going to draw his attention by an attack this morning on the Landrécies side, while we come up the other way and storm Denain this afternoon. Villars himself will be with us. Bentinck defends Denain with seventeen battalions and fourteen squadrons, mostly Dutch.[14] By the way, Le Marais has heard that Ned is in camp, but I have not come across him. You are sure to see him before long, if he be here."

"Philip!" said his mother, suddenly, "the tie of your cravat is quite a quarter of an inch on one side!"

"A quarter of a fiddle-stick, my dear Mother!" said Philip, laughing. "What do you think it will look like when I have been an hour in action! I hope they will let me head a charge. I expect to be made a Prince of the Empire at the very least! Good-bye, Mother."

"Adieu, my son," responded Lady Ingram, a little less languidly than usual. "Don't go into danger, Philip."

"What admirable advice to an officer of His Majesty's army!" returned Philip, kissing her. "Good-bye, little Celia. I have something to tell you when I come back."

Celia looked up from Philip's kiss into his eyes to see what it was. They were deeper and softer than usual, but she read nothing there.

"Good-bye, dear Philip. God keep you!" she said.

"And you—both," replied Philip, in a softened tone. "Adieu!" And he was gone.

All that day Celia could do nothing. She wondered to see Lady Ingram sit quietly knotting, as if the day of the battle of Denain were no more to her than other days. But the day passed like other days; they dined and drank chocolate, and the dusk came on, and Lady Ingram ceased knotting. She had been out of the room a few minutes when Patient put her head in at the door.

"Madam," she said, in her quiet, unmoved voice, "Sir Edward is below, and a strange gentleman with him. Will you speak with him while I find my Lady?"

Celia rose and went down into the dining-room, very curious to make the acquaintance of her unknown brother. But it was not the unknown brother upon whom her eyes first fell. She saw merely that he was there—a tall, dark, grave-looking man; but beside him stood a fair-haired man, a little older than himself, and with a cry of "Harry! dear, dear Harry!" Celia flew to him. Harry's greeting was quite as warm as Celia's, but graver.

"Who has won?" was her first question. She wondered afterwards that it should have been so.

"The allies," answered Harry, quietly. "I am Sir Edward's prisoner."

"A prisoner whom I yield to my sister, to be disposed of at her pleasure," said Edward, coming forward; and Celia, turning from Harry, greeted and thanked the real brother cordially, though a little shyly.

"Have you seen Philip?" she asked of both. Her apprehensions were beginning to subside.

We rarely know the supreme moments of our lives till they are past. We open laughing the letter which contains awful tidings; we look up brightly to see the unclosing of the door—

"Which lets in on us such disabling news, We ever after have been graver."[15]

It was with a lightened heart, and almost a smile, that Celia asked if her brothers (as she considered both) had seen Philip; and full of apprehension as her heart had been all day, she did not guess the answer from the dead silence that ensued.

Harry was the first to speak, and he addressed himself to Sir Edward. "You, or I?" was his enigmatical question.

"You," answered Edward, shortly.

"Celia, darling!" began Harry, looking back at her with deep compassion in his eyes; and he got no further. And then she knew.

"O Philip, Philip!" broke in a bitter wail from the lips of the sister who had learned to love Philip so much. "Are you sure? Have you seen him?" she asked, turning first to Harry and then to Edward, hoping against hope that there might be some mistake.

"I have seen him," replied Edward; and her hope died away.

"Celia," resumed Edward, "listen, dear sister. I have seen Philip; there can be no mistake on that score. He will be brought here soon. But I have seen also something else, for which, knowing him as I do, I thank God so much that as yet I have hardly begun to grieve at all. He lies just where he fell at the head of his troops, after one of the finest and bravest charges that I ever witnessed in my life: his face turned to God and the foe. But this lay close to his heart. Look at it."

Celia took from her brother's hand the little book which he held out to her. She saw at once that it was a Testament, but the leaves were glued together with a terrible red, at which Celia shuddered as she tried to open them.

"The first leaf," was Edward's direction.

She recognized Philip's well-known hand as she turned to it. At the head of the fly-leaf Lady Ingram's name and address were faintly pencilled; and below were a few lines in darker and fresher lead. Celia dashed the intrusive tears from her eyes before she could read them.

"'Wherefore He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him, seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them.'[16] 'Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief.'"[17]

The little book trembled in Celia's hand, and she broke into a fresh shower of uncontrollable weeping. Her companions allowed her to indulge her sorrow for a few moments in silence. Then Edward said gently, "Who shall tell his mother?"

"I will," she answered, ceasing her tears by a violent effort; and she left the room, and went up-stairs at once. Lady Ingram was seated at her knotting.

"Where have you been?" she asked, without looking at her step-daughter, for just then the knotting was at a difficult point, and required all her attention.

Instead of answering, Celia knelt down by her, and uttered one word—a word she had never used to her before.