whereon her party was held. Her hair stood at the very least six
inches above her head. Her petticoat was of crimson quilted satin,
and she wore a yellow satin gown, edged with rich old point-lace.
Large silver buckles decorated her shoes, and a lace _cornette_ was
perched upon the summit of her hair. A splendid fan, and a
handkerchief nearly all lace, shared her left hand; and in her
pocket, alas! dwelt a silver snuff-box. Her four daughters were
dressed alike, in their blue satin petticoats and brocaded trains,
with coral necklaces, and cherry-colored top-knots of ribbon instead
of _cornettes_ stood on the summit of their hair. They also
displayed fans, Isabella making all manner of use of hers, and held
handkerchiefs not quite so elaborate as their mother's. Their trains
were not gathered up this evening, so that when they walked a grand
display of brocade was made on the floor. About four o'clock, Dr.
Braithwaite and his wife made their appearance. Mrs. Braithwaite was
a modest, retiring little woman, holding in high reverence her big
learned husband, but the fact of being constantly kept under the
sound of quotations which she did not understand, gave her a scared,
bewildered look which did not improve her countenance. She was
quietly dressed in black, with lace tucker and ruffles, and a white
top-knot on her hair, which, in comparison with that of Madam
Passmore, was dressed quite low.
"Good-even, Madam, and the young ladies!" said Mrs. Braithwaite,
courtesying nervously. "I hope I see you well in health?"
"Madam," said the Doctor, bowing low over the hand which Madam
Passmore extended to him, "that most marvellous and mellifluent
writer of poesy, of whom among the Grecian dramatists the fame hath
transcended"--
"Squire and Madam Harvey!" said Robert, in a tone which drowned the
Doctor's elaborate Greek compliment.
This lady and gentleman lived in the "great house" of the next
parish. They were quiet people, who, having no children, had grown
somewhat prim and precise; but they had honest and kindly hearts, and
greeted their old friends, if somewhat stiffly, yet cordially.
Squire and Madam Rowe, Mr. John Rowe, and Mrs. Anne Rowe, were next
announced; and after a general salutation, the party sat round the
fire in high-backed chairs, very stiff and uncomfortable. The table
in the window held the tea-tray, and Cicely, who entered with the
tea-pot, was welcomed by all parties, to whom she courtesied with
"Hope I see you all well, Sirs and Madams!" Isabella, her train
trailing after her, now approached the little table and poured out
the tea. Cicely stood holding a waiter, on which, as each cup was
filled, she carried it in turn to the person for whom it was
intended. Nothing was eaten with the tea. Tea was tea in 1710, and
nothing else.
Mr. John Rowe, _alias_ Johnny, was a slim youth of eighteen, who had
come to the party with the view of making himself agreeable to
Isabella. He would scarcely have felt flattered if he had known how
she regarded him. She despised him supremely, both on account of his
slight juniority, and of his taste in dress. At this moment he wore
yellow silk stockings, green breeches, a white waistcoat embroidered
in blue, a gray silk coat heavily laced with silver, and a very large
full-bottomed wig, of flaxen color, though his natural hair was
almost black. As he had also dark eyes and black eyebrows, his wig
certainly was not in the best taste. Isabella all but shuddered at
his combination of colors as he advanced to salute her, and did not
receive him by any means warmly--a calamity which he, poor innocent
fellow, humbly set down to his want of personal merit, not knowing
that it was caused by the deficiencies of his costume. Squire
Passmore was nearly as smart as his young guest, but he was dressed
with much better taste, in a dark green coat and breeches with silver
lace, white waistcoat, and white silk stockings. The party sat still
and sedately on their row of chairs round the fire--Mrs. Braithwaite
eclipsed and silent, for Madam Passmore was on one side of her, in
the yellow satin, and Madam Rowe on the other, attired in emerald
green: these two ladies were talking across her. Further on was
Madam Harvey in dark crimson, conversing with Mrs. Anne Rowe, who was
dressed in simple white, and Henrietta, next to Squire Rowe. The
younger daughters of Squire Passmore were out of the group, and so
were John Rowe and Charley. As Celia crossed the room just behind
the assembled elders, Madam Rowe's hand detained her.
"Come and talk with me, my dear. 'Tis an age since I saw you. You
don't grow any taller, child!"
"I have done growing," said Celia, with a smile.
"Well, so I suppose. How different you are from all your sisters, to
be sure! I am sure Mrs. Bell must be a head taller than you are."
"Not quite so much as that," said Celia, still smiling.
"Short and sweet, Madam Rowe!" observed Squire Harvey, who overheard
her.
"Ay, I won't contradict you there," she said. "And how old are you
now, my dear? Seventeen?"
"Nineteen, Madam."
"Dear me! well, how time does go! To be sure, you and your sister
are just a year older than Johnny, I remember. You should hold
yourself up more, my dear: always make the best of yourself. You
don't bridle so well as you might, either.[1] Really, you use not
all your advantages."
"Madam Rowe, that is what I am always telling her," said Isabella,
with a faint assumption of energy, "and she takes no more notice"--
"Well, my dear," answered Madam Rowe, administering a dose of
flattery, "you know we cannot all be as handsome as you."
Isabella bridled, colored, and remained, though silent, evidently not
displeased.
Supper followed about six o'clock, and afterwards the basset-table
was wheeled out by Harry, and the three Squires sat down with Dr.
Braithwaite to enjoy their favorite game. After basset came prayers.
As Dr. Braithwaite was present, of course he officiated; and, casting
aside his cards, gravely took the Bible in his hand instead of them.
A prayer followed--long, prolix, involved, and stony: more like a
sermon than a prayer, nor a very simple sermon neither. The party
now took their leave. Dr. and Mrs. Braithwaite walked to the
vicarage, which was very near. As it was only a short distance from
Ellersley to Ashcliffe, Squire Harvey and his wife came and returned
in their coach; the distance to Marcombe was longer, and the Rowes
were on horseback. Harry went out and assisted the ladies to mount,
Mrs. Rowe riding behind her son, and Anne behind her father.
"Now, Miss Lucy, my dear, come you away to bed," said Cicely, taking
sudden possession of that personage. "What could I have been
thinking of not to come for you before, I should like to know? To
think of you being up at this time! A quarter to nine, I do declare!"
"I don't know what you were thinking of, but I wish you would think
about it every night!" answered Lucy, resigning herself to fate in
the person of Cicely.
"Well, I shall go to bed also," said Isabella, yawning, and rising
from the embroidery-frame. "I protest I am as tired as if it were
Sunday evening! That John Rowe is the most tedious young man."
"You had better all go, my dears," responded Madam Passmore.
"Good-night to you all. Good-night, Celia."
Celia fancied that her mother repeated the greeting to her with a
tenderness in her voice which was scarcely usual with her. Was she
thinking of the coming revelation?
She found Cicely helping Lucy to undress.
"Cicely," she asked, sitting down, "how do you pray?"
"Oh, that horrid Dr. Braithwaite!" cried Lucy. "I nearly fell asleep
before he had half done."
"Make haste, Miss Lucy, my dear. You'd ought to have been a-bed long
ago. How I pray, Mrs. Celia? Why, just like anybody else."
"Like Dr. Braithwaite? Oh, me!" said Lucy, parenthetically.
"No; not like Parson Braithwaite, my dear. Why, I couldn't even
follow Parson, he said such hard words."
"I never tried," said Lucy, calmly. "I'm too sleepy to talk any
more. Good-night." And she composed herself on the pillow and
closed her eyes.
"You don't pray like Dr. Braithwaite, I am sure, Cicely," said Celia.
"But how do you pray?"
"Well, my dear, the prayers my mother taught me, there was three on
'em--the 'Our Father,' and the 'I Believe,' and 'Matthew, Mark, Luke,
and John.' I says the 'Our Father' yet, and 'I Believe' now and
then; but I've left off to say Matthew and them, for when I comes to
think, it sounds like the Papishes; and I don't see no prayers like
it in the Book neither. I mostly prays out of the Book now, just the
words that David did, and Moses, and the like of they; unless I wants
somewhat very particular, and then I asks for it quite simple like,
just as I'd ask you for a drink of water if I couldn't get it for
myself."
Celia lay silent and thoughtful, but "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,"
roused Lucy in a minute.
"What's that about Matthew, Cicely?"
"Well, my dear, I'm not sure that 'tis more than foolishness. But my
mother taught it me, and I used to say it a many years:
'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed I lie upon;
Four parts around my bed,
Four angels guard my head.
I lay me down upon my side,
I pray that God my soul may guide;
And if I die before I wake,
I pray that God my soul may take.'"[2]
"O Cicely!" exclaimed Lucy, laughing.
"It does sound rather like praying to the apostles, Cicely,"
suggested Celia; "but the end of it is better."
"That's where it is, Mrs. Celia; and that's why I dropped it. Now
don't you begin talking to-night--go to sleep, there's dears.
There'll be as many hours in to-morrow as to-day. Eh! but, my dear,
did you ask Madam, as I said?"
"Yes, Cicely," said Celia, half-rising. "She will tell me to-morrow."
The troubled look in old Cicely's face deepened. But she only said,
as she took up the light, "Go to sleep, dear hearts!"
"I ask your pardon, Madam!" said Cicely, courtesying low, as Madam
Passmore opened her bedroom-door in answer to her tap. "But could I
have a minute's speech with you, if you please?"
"Come in, Cicely, and sit down. Is anything the matter?"
"Well, Madam," said Cicely, glancing round the room, as if to make
quite sure there were no listeners, "I'm afeared there's somewhat up
about Mrs. Celia. This afternoon, as I was a-going down the lane to
Mally Rihll's, with the cordial water and jelly you was pleased to
send for sick Robin, there was a fellow met me, that I didn't half
like the looks of. I should know him again, for he stopped me, and
began to talk;--asked the way to Moreton (and I doubt if he really
wanted to go, for he took the t'other turning when he come to it),
and asked whose the Park was, and if Master was at home; and was
going on to what family he had, and such like impudent questions.
'If you want to know all that,' says I, 'you'd better go up and ring
the bell, and ask Squire his own self,' I says. Well, he didn't ask
me no more questions after that, but went shuffling on his way, and
took the wrong turning. But when I got to Mally's, and while we sat
a bit, she tells me that my gentleman had been there asking for a
drink of water, and a lot more impertinence. And asked her right out
if there warn't a young lady at the Park of the name of Celia, and
how old she were, and when her birthday were, and all on like that.
And Mally--(you know, Madam, she's but a simple soul)--I could hear
from her story, she up and told him everything he asked, and maybe
more than he asked, for aught I know. And what does he do but
(seeing, no doubt, what a simple soul she was) outs with a
table-book, and actually sets down in black and white what she was
a-telling of him. 'The impudent rascal!' say I to Mally, when I
hears that: 'and why couldn't you have given it him hot and strong,
as I did?' I says. And she says he looked so like a gentleman, for
all his shabby coat, with nigh a quarter of a yard of lace pulled off
the bottom, and all a-flapping about in the wind, as is both full and
cold to-day, as she hadn't the heart to say nothing impertinent, says
she. But 'Impertinent!' says I; 'I think, after all the impertinence
he'd given you, you might have give him a dose without hurting of him
much,' says I. So I thought I'd come and tell you, Madam, at once."
"You have done right to tell me, Cicely," said her mistress. "I
think--I am afraid--there will be some inquiry for the dear child,
before long."
"Well, Madam, and that's what I'm afeared on, too," said Cicely.
"And to see Mrs. Celia sitting there so innocent like!"
"She must know, Cicely--she must know soon."
"If I was you, Madam, I'd tell her now," said Cicely,--"asking your
pardon for being so bold as to say it to you."
"Yes, Cicely, so I shall," replied Madam Passmore, in a very
despondent tone.
"Madam," said Cicely, suddenly, "would you be offended with me if I
said a word to you?"
"My good Cicely, why should I? Speak your mind."
"Seems to me, Madam," said Cicely, confidentially, "as you haven't
asked the Lord about this trouble. And though He knows all things,
yet He likes to be asked and told about 'em: He says so somewheres.
Now, if I was you (asking your pardon, Madam), and didn't like for to
tell Mrs. Celia (and I'm sure I shouldn't), I'd just go and tell Him.
It'd come a sight easier, would telling her, after that. You see,
Madam, the Lord don't put troubles on us that He don't know nothing
about. He's tried 'em all Himself, and He knows just where they
pinches. And when He must needs be bring one on us, or we shall be
running off down the wrong road like so many chickens, He whispers
like with it, 'Don't be down-hearted, child; I've tried it, and I
know.'"
"Cicely, how did you come to know all this?" inquired her mistress in
astonishment.
"Bless your heart, Madam, I don't know nothing!" humbly disclaimed
Cicely,--"never did, nor never shall. 'Tis with the Lord's lessons
like as with other lessons;--takes the like of me a month or more to
spell out a word, where there be folks'd read it off plain. I knows
nothing, only I knows the Lord."
Madam Passmore made no answer, but in her secret heart she wondered,
for the first time, whether the one thing which Cicely owned to
knowing were not worth a hundredfold all the things which she knew.
"Sit down, Celia, my dear. I will now tell you all I know."
Madam Passmore spoke rather sadly, and Celia sat down with a beating
heart.
"Celia," said her mother again, "would you like me to tell you right
at once, or by degrees?"
"At once, if you please, Mother. Let me know the worst."
"I am not sure that I know that, my dear," sighed the lady.
"However, I will say the worst I know. Celia! you are not my
daughter."
"Mother!" was Celia's inconsistent but very natural exclamation.
"I have told the truth," said Madam Passmore, gently.
"But who--who are my father and mother?" asked Celia, in a bewildered
tone.
"I know not, my dear Celia. Only you are not our child, nor akin to
us. I will tell thee all about it. It was on the 10th of June, my
dear, when Bell was seven days old, nineteen years ago"--
"Is Bell not my sister, then?"
"No. I know nought of any of thy kindred. But hark!"
"I beg your pardon, Mother. Please go on."
"My husband came up into my chamber, where was only Cicely beside
with the babe on her lap; and he said, 'Lucy, my dear, there is a
strange thing happened at the Park gates. A little babe lies there
all alone,--it would move thy motherly heart to see it. Shall we
send and take the poor little soul in?' I said, 'Send Cicely to see
and fetch it.' So Cicely brought it in--a poor, weak babe that had
scarce strength to breathe. It was lapped in fine white linen, laced
with real point, and there was a gold pin fastening a paper on its
little coat, with but one word--'Celia.' Well, to be sure, Cicely
had some work to bring it round! For hours we feared it would die.
But at last it seemed a little easier, and we thought it breathed
stronger. And when my husband next came up he said, 'Well, Lucy,
shall we send the babe away?' But I said, 'Nay, John, it seems
fairly to ask pity from us: let us keep it, and bring it up as our
own, and call it Bell's twin-sister. It will never harm
us--perchance bring a blessing with it, for truly it looks as if God
Almighty had sent it to us.' So we did that. I do not know, my
dear, whether it was quite right of us to call you Bell's
twin-sister: I am afraid not, for certainly it is not true. But as
to your having brought a blessing with you, that's true enough. But
that is how it was."
Celia sat still and silent, feeling crushed and cut off from all she
loved by this disclosure.
"You have no thought," she said slowly, at last, "who I was, nor
whence I came?"
"Well, my dear, my husband thought you might be the child of some
Jacobite forced to fly, who must needs leave you behind. 'Twas plain
you were not forsaken because your father was too poor to keep you,
for he must have been well to do, to judge from the lace on your
clothes and the gold pin. Mayhap some nobleman, for aught I know."
"Mother," said Celia, with a great effort, "think you that my
parents, whosoever they were, could be--Papists?" The last word was
scarcely more than whispered. It conveyed to the Passmore mind the
essence of all that was wrong, cruel, and fearful.
"I trust not, indeed, my dear," replied Madam Passmore, kindly, but
evidently struck and distressed by Celia's question, "for I know
nought. Now, Celia, child, don't take this to heart. Remember thou
art as much our daughter, bound to us by every bond of love and
custom, as before I spoke a word regarding this. There is ever a
home for thee at Ashcliffe, child; and truly I scarce love my own
better than I do thee. Let it not trouble thy mind. Go and chat
with Harriet and Bell, to keep off the vapors.[3] Farewell, my dear!"
Madam Passmore kissed Celia, and let her go. She did not follow her
advice to go and chat with her sisters, but walked very slowly along
the passage which led to her own room. She felt as if all around her
were changed, and she herself were isolated and lost. Heretofore the
old house and its furniture had seemed a part of herself: now they
felt as if suddenly placed at an immense distance from her. Even the
portrait in the passage of the Squire Passmore who had fought at
Edgehill, brandishing his sword fiercely--even the china dragons
which faced the hall-window--old familiar objects, seemed to scowl at
her as she went by them. She would be Celia Passmore no longer. At
another time she would have smiled at the superstitious fancy--only
natural now--that these disowned her as a daughter of the house. She
turned aside sadly, mechanically, into the little room where old
Cicely sat sewing and singing. Her joint occupations ceased when she
saw Celia's face.
"Eh, my dear! I see Madam's told you. Come hither and sit down a
bit. Is it very sore, dear heart?"
"Cicely, do you know any more?" Celia asked, without answering her
question.
"I know nought more than Madam," said Cicely. "I went and fetched
you, sweet heart, and a nice little babe you was, though you did keep
crying, crying on for everlasting. Such beauties of clothes as
they'd wrapped you in! I never see a bit of finer lace than was on
them, nor never want; and the cambric was just beautiful! I have
them laid by, if you'd like to see."
"Oh! let me see them, Cicely! I meant to have asked Mother."
What a mockery the last word seemed now!
Cicely unlocked one of her cupboards, and produced the clothes, very
handsome ones, as she had said, yellow with time, and edged with rich
point. The gold pin was still there, with the paper, on which a
manly, yet delicate, Italian hand had written the one word which
alone remained to Celia of her unknown origin. She wondered whether
it were her father's writing.
"Cicely," she said, suddenly, "was I ever baptized?"
"Whether afore we had you or not, Mrs. Celia, I can't say," replied
old Cicely, quietly. "Madam thought this here"--pointing to the
paper--"meant as you wasn't, and they'd like you to be christened
'Celia;' and Master thought it meant as you was christened already.
So old Parson Herring--him as was here afore Parson Braithwaite--he
christened you in church, as it stands in the prayer-book, 'if thou
hast not been baptized,' or what it is. Squire thought that'd do
either way."
"And you saw nothing when you went to fetch me, Cicely?"
"Nothing at all, my dear. There might have been somebody a-watching,
you know--the place is so thick with trees--but I see nought of any
sort."
The long pause which followed was broken by Cicely, who perceived
that Celia's handkerchief was coming surreptitiously into requisition.
"If I was you, Mrs. Celia, I wouldn't trouble, my dear. Very like
nobody'll ever come after you; and if they did, why, a grown lady
like you might sure say where you'd be--without your own father and
mother asked you; I'd never counsel you to go again them; though it
would be a sore job parting from you, to be sure. You see, my dear,
you've lived here nineteen years, and never a word said."
"But that man, Cicely!" said Celia, under her breath.
"Well, that man, my dear," repeated Cicely doubtfully, "he's very
like of no kin to you, only somebody as knowed who you be."
"He was a Papist," said Celia, in the same tone. "But even so,
Cicely, should I make no search for my father and mother? I am
theirs, whoever they were; even if they were Papists." And the
handkerchief came out openly.
"Cry it out, my dear; you'll be all the better for it after. And if
you'll list me, Mrs. Celia, you'll never trouble no more about this
by yourself, but just go and tell the Lord all about it. He knows
who they be, child, and He made you their child, knowing it. And, my
dear, I do find 'tis no good to carry a burden to the Lord, so long
as I just get up and lift it on again. I'm very much given to
lifting on again, Mrs. Celia, and perchance you be. But when I find
that, why, I just go and go again, till I can lay it down and come
away without it. Takes a deal of going sometimes, that do! But what
would you think of me, if I says, 'Mrs. Celia, you carry this linen
up-stairs, if you please;' and then goes and walks off with it
myself?"
Old Cicely's homely illustration was just what Celia wanted.
"Thank you, Cicely," she said; "I will try to leave the burden
behind."
Father Cuthbert Stevens sat in his lodging at Moreton, complacently
turning over the contents of his portfolio. To his landlady he had
told the same tale as to Squire Passmore, representing himself as an
artist in the employ of Sir Godfrey Kneller; and had, to her
thinking, verified his story beyond all doubt, by producing in
part-payment of his debt a new shop-sign, representing a very fat and
amiable-looking lion, standing on one leg, the other three paws
flourishing in the air, while the eyes of the quadruped were fixed on
the spectator. Mrs. Smith considered it a marvellous work of art,
and cut off a large slice of Mr. Stevens' bill accordingly. Mr.
Stevens passed his sketches slowly in review, tearing up the greater
part, and committing them to the safe custody of the fire. But when
he came to the staircase at Ashcliffe, he quietly placed that in
security in a special pocket of the portfolio. He was too wise to
speak his thoughts aloud; but had he done so he would have said:
"I have not done with this yet. To-morrow I propose to pay a visit
to Marcombe, and this will secure me an unsuspected entrance into Mr.
Rowe's family, where I may obtain some further information, on which
a little paper and lead will be well spent."
Gilbert Irvine had rather remonstrated on Stevens' telling the same
tale to Mrs. Smith as to the Squire at Ashcliffe, reminding him that
it was well to have two strings to one's bow. Stevens answered, with
that calm confidence in his own wisdom which never forsook him, "It
is sometimes desirable, my good Gilbert, not to have too many strings
to one's bow. This is my official residence. Mr. Passmore, or some
other country gentleman, may find that I am lodging here. What do I
gain, in that case, by representing myself to this excellent woman as
a retired sea-captain or an officer on leave of absence? No; I am an
artist at Ashcliffe, and I am an artist at Moreton. My private
residence is----elsewhere. I am a citizen of the world. I am not
troubled by any inconvenient attachment to country or home. I can
sleep on a feather-bed, a green bank, or a deal board; I can eat
black bread as well as _pâté aux truffes_."
"Ah! but can you do without either?" growled Gilbert, in reply.
To return from this episode. Mr. Stevens was now alone, having, as
we saw, parted with Gilbert that afternoon, the latter returning to
the hiding-place at Ashcliffe, very much against his inclination.
The former worthy gentleman had supped on a hashed partridge,
obtained in an unsportsmanlike manner which would have disgusted
Squire Passmore; for while Stevens could talk glibly against poaching
or anything else, when he required a savory dish, he was not above
setting a snare on his own account. He had just placed safely in the
pocket of the portfolio such sketches as he deemed it politic to
retain, when a slight noise at the door attracted his attention, and
looking up, he saw Gilbert Irvine, with white face and dilated eyes,
standing in the doorway.
"We are betrayed!" hissed the latter.