"Nor is that all that is to be considered," he went on. "I can tell
you, young lady, if he were to succeed, we should all rue it bitterly
before long. His triumph is the triumph of Rome--the triumph of
persecution and martyrdom and agony for God's people."
"I know that," said I. "But right is right, for all that! The Crown is
his, not the Elector's. On that principle, any man might steal money,
if he meant to do good with it."
"The Crown is neither George's nor James's, as some think," said Mr
Raymond, "but belongs to the people."
Who could have stood such a speech as that?
"The people!" I cried. "The mob--the rabble--the Crown is theirs! How
can any man imagine such a thing?"
"You forget, methinks, young lady," said Mr Raymond, as quietly as
before, "that you are one of those of whom you speak."
"I forget nothing of the kind," cried I, too angry to be civil. "Of
course I know I am one of the people. What do you mean? Am I to
maintain that black beetles are cherubim, because I am a black beetle?
Truth is truth. The Crown is God's, not the people's. When He chose to
make the present King--King James of course, not that wretched Elector--
the son of his father, He distinctly told the people whom He wished them
to have for their king. What right have they to dispute His ordinance?"
I was quite beyond myself. I had forgotten where I was, and to whom I
was talking--forgotten Mr Raymond, and Angus, and Flora, and even
Grandmamma. It seemed to me as if there were only two parties in the
world, and on the one hand were God and the King, and on the other a
miserable mass of silly nobodies called The People. How could such
contemptible insects presume to judge for themselves, or to set their
wills up in opposition to the will of him whom God had commanded them to
obey?
The softest, lightest of touches fell on my shoulder. I looked up into
the grave grey eyes of Annas Keith. And feeling myself excessively rude
and utterly extinguished,--(and yet, after all, right)--I slipped out of
the group, and made my way into the farthest corner. Mr Raymond, of
course, would think me no gentlewoman. Well, it did not much matter
what he thought; he was only a Whig. And when the Prince were actually
come, which would be in a very few days at the furthest--then he would
see which of us was right. Meantime, I could wait. And the next minute
I felt as if I could not wait--no, not another instant.
"Sit down, Cary. You look tired," said Ephraim beside me.
"I am not a bit tired, thank you," said I, "but I am abominably angry."
"Nothing more tiring," said he. "What about?"
"Oh, don't make me go over it! I have been talking to a Whig."
"That means, I suppose, that the Whig has been talking to you. Which
beat? I beg pardon--you did, of course."
"I was right and he was wrong, if you mean that," said I. "But whether
he thinks he is beaten--"
"If he be an Englishman, he does not," said Ephraim. "Particularly if
he be a North Country man."
"I don't know what country he comes from," cried I. "I should like to
make mincemeat of him."
"Indigestible," suggested Ephraim, quite gravely.
"Ephraim, what are we to do for Angus?" said I, as it came back to me:
and I told him the news which Mr Raymond had brought. Ephraim gave a
soft whispered whistle.
"You may well ask," said he. "I am afraid, Cary, nothing can be done."
"What will they do to him?"
His face grew graver still.
"You know," he said, in a low voice, "what they did to Lord
Derwentwater. Colonel Keith had better lie close."
"But that Whig knows where he is!" cried I. "He--Ephraim, do you know
him?"
"Know whom, Cary?"
"Mr Raymond."
"Is he your Whig?" asked Ephraim, laughing. "Pray, don't make him into
mincemeat; he is one of the best men in England."
"He need be," said I; "he is a horrid Whig! What do you, being friends
with such a man?"
"He is a very good man, Cary. He was one of my tutors at school. I
never knew what his politics were before to-night."
We were silent for a while; and then Grandmamma sent for me, not, as I
feared, to scold me for being loud-spoken and warm, but to tell me that
one of my lappets hung below the other, and I must make Perkins alter it
before Tuesday. I do not know how I bore the rest of the evening.
When I went up at last to our chamber, I found it empty. Lucette,
Grandmamma's French woman, who waits on her, while Perkins is rather my
Aunt Dorothea's and ours, came in to tell me that Perkins was gone to
bed with a headache, and hoped that we would allow her to wait on us
to-night, when she was dismissed by the elder ladies.
"Oh, I want no waiting at all," said I, "if somebody will just take the
pins out of my head-dress carefully. Do that, Lucette, and then I shall
need nothing else, I cannot speak for the other young ladies."
Lucette threw a wrapping-cape over my shoulders, and began to remove the
pins with deft fingers. Grandmamma had not yet come up-stairs.
"Mademoiselle Agnes looks charmante to-night," said she: "but then she
is always charmante. But what has Mademoiselle Flore? So white, so
white she is! I saw her through the door."