say 'God forgive them!' but truly I misdoubt whether God _can_
forgive them that tear the flesh and rent the hearts of His saints!
What they did to that poor young thing in that torture-chamber, God
knoweth. I make no doubt 'tis all writ down in His book. But Mrs.
Anne she stood firm, and not one word could they get out of her; and
my Lord Chancellor, who was there, he was so mad angry with her, that
he throwed off his gown and pulled the rack with his own hands. At
last the doctors said--for they had doctors there, the devils! to
tell them how much the poor wretches could bear--the doctors said
that if Mrs. Anne had any more, she would be like to die under it.
So then they took her down; but afore they let her be, they kept her
two hours longer a-sitting on the bare floor, and my Lord Chancellor
a-talking at her all that ever he could. Then at last, when they
found her too much for them, they took her away and laid her to bed.
'As weary and painful bones,' quoth she to my great-grandmother, 'had
I as ever had patient Job. I thank my Lord God therefor!'[2] And if
that warn't a good Christian saying, my dear, I'd like to hear one.
Well, for some months after that she laid in prison; the wicked
priests for ever at her, wearying her life out with talk and such.
So at the end of all, when they saw it was no good, they carried her
out to Smithfield, there to die.
"They carried her out, really; for every bone in her was broken, and
if she had lived fifty years after, she could never have set her foot
to the ground again. But Mrs. Anne she went smiling, and they said
which saw her, as joyful as if she were going to her bridal. There,
at the stake, with the faggots round, they offered her, last thing, a
pardon if she would come round to their evil ways. Ah! they knew not
the strength within her! they saw not the angels waiting round, when
that poor broken body should be ashes, to take up the glad soul to
the Lord's rest. What was pardon to her, poor crushed thing? She
had seen too much of the glory of the Lord to set any price on their
pardons. So when they could do nought more with her, they burned her
to ashes at the stake."
Old Cicely added no comment. Was any needed? But if she had known
the words spoken at one such holocaust by the mother of the martyr,
she might fitly have ended her tale with them:
"BLESSED BE JESUS CHRIST, AND HIS WITNESSES!"
"_Bon jour, ma chère_. You look a little better this morning--not
quite so English. _Et bien!_ you are ready to come?"
Celia had never felt so English as at that moment. She forced back
the tears, which felt as if they would work their way out in spite of
her, and said, in a very low voice, "I am ready, Madam."
"Let us lose no time, then," said Lady Ingram, rising, and allowing
her hoop to spread itself out to its full width. "I wish you a
_very_ good morning, Madam."
She swept slowly and statelily across the room, leaving Celia to
exchange passionate kisses with all the members of the family, and
then, almost blinded by the tears which would come at last, to make
her way to the coach which was standing at the door.
"There, there, my dear!" said Lady Ingram, a little querulously, when
the coach had been travelling about five minutes; "that is quite
enough. You will make your eyes red. There is nothing, absolutely
nothing, so unbecoming as the red eyes. These people are not your
family--not at all so good. I do not see anything to cry about."
"She does not mean to be unkind," thought Celia to herself. "She is
only heartless."
True--but what an _only_!
Lady Ingram, having done her duty to her step-daughter, leaned back
in the coach and closed her eyes. She opened them again for a
moment, and said, "We arrive on Tuesday in London, I start for Paris
not until the next Tuesday." Then the dark languishing eyes shut
again, rather to Celia's relief. The ponderous vehicle worked its
way slowly along the muddy roads. Celia sat by her step-mother, and
opposite was Lady Ingram's maid, a dark-browed Frenchwoman; both were
remarkably silent. Lady Ingram went to sleep, and the maid sat
upright, stony, and passive, frequently scanning the young stranger
with her black eyes, but never uttering a word. That evening the
coach clattered into Chard, where they slept. The Friday saw them at
Shaftesbury, the Saturday night at Andover, where they put up for the
Sunday. On the Monday evening they reached Bagshot, Lady Ingram
declaring that she must have the morning to pass Bagshot Heath, and
adding a few anecdotes of her past troubles with highwaymen which
terrified Celia. Two men travelling on horseback, who were staying
at the inn, joined their forces to the carriage, and the heath was
passed without any attack from the highwaymen. About ten o'clock,
when they were a little past the heath, Lady Ingram desired Celia to
keep her eyes open. "We are just entering Windsor," she said; "and
though I have not time to stop and let you see the Castle, yet you
may perhaps get a glimpse of it as we pass." They passed the Castle,
and drove down the park. Suddenly the coach came to a full stop.
"The stupid man!" exclaimed Lady Ingram. "What does he?"
The question was very soon answered, for William, the footman, sprang
from his perch, and presented himself at the carriage-window. Lady
Ingram let down the glass.
"What is the matter?" she asked, testily.
"If you please, Madam," was the answer, "there is a coach coming with
gentlemen on horseback, and two running footmen in attendance; and
Shale thinks it must be the Queen's."
"Draw to one side immediately," commanded Lady Ingram, "and then open
the door and we will alight."
All alighted except the coachman, and Lady Ingram took Celia's hand,
and stood with her just in front of her carriage. The running
footmen passed them first, carrying long wands, and dressed in
scarlet and gold livery. Lady Ingram's practised eye detected at
once that the liveries were royal. Then came three gentlemen, two
riding in front, the third behind. The coach, a large, handsome, but
very unwieldly vehicle, lumbered slowly after them. In it were
seated three ladies--one alone facing the horses, the others on the
opposite seat.
"Which is the Queen, Madam?" asked Celia, excitedly.
"The Princess Anne will sit alone, facing the horses," replied her
step-mother.
The lady who occupied the seat of honor, and whom alone Celia
noticed, was the fattest woman she had ever seen. She had a fat,
round face, and ruddy complexion, dark chestnut hair, and regular
features. Her eyes were gray, and the expression of her face, though
kindly, was not indicative of either liveliness or intellect. She
wore a black dress trimmed with ermine, and a long black hood lined
with the same fur. Not until the Queen had become invisible to her
did Celia notice her ladies on the opposite seat. One of them was
remarkable for a nose not extremely beautiful, and abundance of curls
of a dusky red streamed over her shoulders. Celia glanced at the
other, and came to the conclusion that there was nothing particular
about her.
"So that is Abigail Hill!"[3] said Lady Ingram, in a peculiar tone,
when the coach had driven past. "I thought she had had more in
her--at least to look at."
"Is that the lady with the red hair, Madam?"
"No, my dear--the other. The red-haired one is the Duchess of
Somerset."[4]
Lady Ingram still stood looking after the royal carriage with a
meditative air.
"I should like to see Abigail Hill," she said, as if to herself. "I
cannot tell how to do it. But we must not delay, even for that. Get
in, my dear."
Celia got into the coach, wondering what reason her step-mother could
have for wishing to see Lady Masham, and also why she did not give
her the benefit of her title. Lady Ingram resumed her own seat in
silence, and leaned back in the carriage, apparently cogitating
deeply. Mile after mile the travellers journeyed on, until the dusk
fell, and at the little inn at Bedfont the coach pulled up. William
appeared at the window.
"Please your Ladyship, we can cross the heath to-night," he said.
"There's a regiment of Colonel Churchill's just before: the host says
they haven't been gone five minutes."
"Then bid Shale hasten on, without stopping to bait," answered his
mistress. "We must overtake them, for I do not mean to stop on the
road another night, unless it cannot be helped."
The horses were urged on as fast as they could go, and in about a
quarter of an hour they came up with the regiment, under whose
guardianship they crossed the dreaded Hounslow Heath without fear of
molestation. At Hammersmith the coach stopped again. After a little
parley between William and the innkeeper, four men came out of the
inn with torches in their hands. Two of them placed themselves on
each side of the coach, and they slowly journeyed on again. It was
quite dark now. Gradually the road became busier and more noisy, and
houses appeared lining it at intervals. At length they had fairly
entered the metropolis. The coach worked its way slowly along the
muddy streets, for it had been raining since they left Staines, and
the shouts of the linkmen were almost deafening. As they proceeded,
another coach suddenly appeared and attempted to pass them. This
could not be permitted. The coachman whipped his horses, the linkmen
screamed, the great coach swayed to and fro with the unusual pace.
Lady Ingram opened the window and looked out, while the maid clasped
her hands and shrieked in her own tongue that she was killed.
"Not at all, _ma bonne_," was the calm response of the mistress.
Then turning to Celia, she asked, "You are not afraid?"
"Not unless you tell me there is something to fear, Madam," answered
Celia, in the quiescence rather of ignorance than of courage.
"Ah! I like that answer," replied Lady Ingram, smiling her approval,
and patting Celia's cheek. "There is good metal in you, _ma chére_;
it is only the work that asks the polishing."
Celia wondered what the process of polishing would be, and into what
kind of creature she would find herself transmuted when it was
finished.
"William," said Lady Ingram, putting her head out of the window,
"whose coach is that other?"
"Sir John Scoresby's, Madam."
"A baronet of three years later," observed Lady Ingram, quietly
sinking back into her seat; "it is impossible to give way."
"Ah, Madame!" faltered the _bonne_, in a shrill key. "Madame will
renounce her right? We shall be over! We shall be dead!"
"Impossible, my good Thérèse," was the placid answer. "I know what
is due to myself and to others. To a baronet of one day earlier I
should of course give place without a word; but to one of a day
later--impossible!" replied Lady Ingram, waving her hands with an air
of utter finality.
"But if we are all killed?" faintly shrieked Thérèse.
"Absurd!" said Lady Ingram. "But if I were, Thérèse, know that I
should have the consolation of dying in the discharge of my duty. No
soldier can do more."
"Ah! Madame is so high and philosophical!" lamented Thérèse.
"Madame has the grand thoughts! _C'est magnifique_! But we others,
who are but little people, and cannot console ourselves--hélas!"
Meanwhile the battle was raging outside the coach. Shouts of
"Scoresby!" and "Ingram!" violent lashings of the struggling horses,
oaths and execrations, at last the flashing of daggers. When things
arrived at this point, Lady Ingram again let down the glass, which
she had drawn up, and Celia, like a coward, shut her eyes and put her
hands over her ears. Thérèse was screaming hysterically.
"Ah!" remarked the Baronet's widow, in a tone of satisfaction,
replacing the window, "we shall get on now--William has stabbed the
other coachman. Thérèse, give over screaming in that way--so very
unnecessary! and Celia, my dear, do not put yourself in that absurd
position--it is like a coward!"
"But the man, Madam!--the poor coachman!--is he killed?" questioned
Celia, in a tone of horror.
"My dear, what does that signify?" said Lady Ingram. "A mere
coachman--what can it matter?"
"But will you not ask, Madam?" pursued Celia, in a very pained voice.
"Impossible, my dear!" replied Lady Ingram. "I could not demean
myself by such a question, nor must you. Really, Celia, your manners
are so wanting in repose! You must learn not to put yourself into a
fever in this way for every little thing that happens. Imagine! I,
Lady Ingram, stopping my coach, and yielding precedence to this
upstart Scoresby, to inquire whether this person--a man of no family
whatever--has had a little more or less blood let out by my footman's
thrust! Ridiculous!" And Lady Ingram spread out her dress.
Celia shrank back as far as she could into the corner of the coach,
and spoke, not in words, to the only Friend she had present with her.
"Oh! send me back to Ashcliffe!" was the strong cry of her heart.
"This woman has no feelings whatever. Unless there be some very
necessary work for me to do in Paris, send me back home!"
But there was very necessary work to be done before she could go home.
After another quarter of a mile spent in struggling through the mud,
the coach drew up at the door of a large house. William, who seemed
none the worse for his battle, opened the door, and held out his arm
to assist his ladies in alighting. Lady Ingram motioned to Thérèse
to go first, and the maid laid her hand on the arm of her
fellow-servant.
"Ah, bah!" exclaimed she, as she reached the ground. "Why you not
wipe de blood from de sleeve? You spoil my cloak--faugh!"
"You had better not use your dagger, William," observed Lady Ingram,
as she stepped out, "unless it be necessary. It frightens Madam
Celia." And with a peculiar smile she looked back at her
step-daughter.
Celia followed Lady Ingram into a lighted hall, where servants in
blue and gold liveries stood round, holding tapers in silver
candlesticks. They seemed to recognize Lady Ingram, though Celia
noticed that William's livery was different from theirs, and
therefore imagined that the house she was entering must be that of a
stranger. Lady Ingram walked forward in her usual stately manner
until she reached the head of the staircase, closely followed by
Celia and Thérèse. On the second step from the top stood a gentleman
in full dress, blue and gold. A conversation ensued between him and
Lady Ingram, accompanied by a great deal of bowing and courtesying,
flourishing of hands and shaking of heads, which, being in French,
was of course lost upon Celia; but could she have understood it, this
was what she would have heard.
"You do me such honor, Monsieur?"
"It is due to you, Madame."
"The second stair, Monsieur! I am entitled only to the head of the
staircase."
"Madame will permit me to express my sense of her distinction."
"You overwhelm me, Monsieur!"
"Pray let Madame proceed."
"Not until Monsieur has done so."
"Precedence to the ladies!"
"By no means before His Majesty's Consul!"
Here, then, appeared likely to be an obstacle to farther progress:
but after a good deal more palaver, the grave point of precedence,
which each was courteously striving to yield to the other, was
settled by Lady Ingram and the Consul each setting a foot upon the
top stair at the same moment. They then passed forward, hand in
hand, Celia as before following her step-mother. The three entered a
large, handsome drawing-room, where a further series of bowing and
courtesying ensued before Lady Ingram would sit down. Celia supposed
that she might follow her example, and being very tired, she seated
herself at the same time as her step-mother; for which act she was
rewarded with a glance of disapprobation from Lady Ingram's dark
eyes. She sprang up again, feeling puzzled and fluttered, whereupon
the Consul advanced to her, and addressed her in French with a series
of low bows. Celia could only courtesy to him, and look helplessly
at her step-mother. Lady Ingram uttered a few languid words in
French, and then said in English to Celia, "Pray sit down. You have
to be told everything."
So she sat, silent and wearied, until after a time the door flew
open, and half a dozen servants entered bearing trays, which they
presented first to Lady Ingram and then to Celia. The first tray
contained cups of coffee, the second preserved fruits, the third
custards, the fourth various kinds of sweetmeats. Celia mentally
wondered whether the French supped on sugar-plums; but the fifth tray
containing cakes, she succeeded in finding something edible. Lady
Ingram, she noticed, after a cup of coffee and one or two cakes,
devoted her attention to the sugar-plums.
"You are tired?" asked Lady Ingram, turning to Celia. "Very well,
you shall go to bed. I will leave the forming of your manners at
present; by and by I shall have something to say to you. Thérèse
will dress your hair in the morning. Adieu! come and embrace me."
Thérèse appeared at the door, and after giving her some directions in
French, her mistress desired Celia to courtesy to the Consul and
follow Thérèse. The maid led Celia into a tolerably large room, with
a French bed, which Thérèse informed her that she would have to
herself.
"Ah! dat you have de hair beautifuls!" said Thérèse, as she combed it
out. "I arrange it to-morrow. Mademoiselle like Madame?"
Celia liked no part of this speech. She knew that her hair was not
beautiful, and felt that Thérèse was flattering her; while whatever
might be her feelings on the subject of Lady Ingram, she had no
intention of communicating them to her Ladyship's maid. Her answer
was distant and evasive.
"Aha!" said Thérèse, with a soft laugh to herself. "Perhaps
Mademoiselle shall like Monsieur Philippe. Monsieur Philippe love to
hear of Mademoiselle."
Celia's heart warmed in a moment to her unknown brother. "How old is
he?" she asked.
"Nineteen," said Thérèse.
"And my eldest brother, how old is he?"
"Sir Edward?" asked the French maid. "Ah! I see him very little.
He is two, tree, five year older as Monsieur Philippe. He come
never."
Celia resolved to question Thérèse no further, and the latter
continued brushing her hair in silence.
"That will do, Thérèse," she said, when this process was completed.
"I will not keep you any longer," she explained, seeing that the
French girl looked puzzled.
"Mademoiselle undress herself?" asked Thérèse, with open eyes.
"Yes, thank you--I like it better. I wish to read a little first."
"De great ladies read never," laughed Thérèse. "Mademoiselle leave
de book in Englands. Madame not like de read."
"I will never leave you in England," whispered Celia to her little
Bible, resting her cheek upon it, when Thérèse was gone. "But oh!
how shall I follow your teaching here? I know so little, and have so
little strength!"
And a low soft whisper came into her heart,--"Lo! I am with you
alway, even unto the end of the world."[5]
"When Mademoiselle is ready, Madame wish speak with her at her
dressing-chamber."
This message was brought to Celia by Thérèse the next morning. She
was already dressed and reading.
"Ah! dat Mademoiselle is early!" exclaimed Thérèse, lifting her
eyebrows. "Mademoiselle read always."
There was a concealed sarcasm about everything this woman said to
her, which was particularly distasteful to Celia. She rose and
closed her book, only replying, "I will come to my Lady now."
Thérèse led her along the passage into a handsomely-furnished room,
where, robed in a blue cashmere dressing-gown, Lady Ingram sat, with
her long dark hair down upon her shoulders.
"Ah! good morning. Early!" was her short greeting to Celia, who bent
down and kissed her.
"Now, my dear," pursued Lady Ingram, "please to sit down on that
chair facing me. I have two or three remarks to make. You shall
have your first lesson in the polishing you need so much."
Celia took the seat indicated with some trepidation, but more
curiosity.
"Very well," said her step-mother. "Now, first, about blushing. You
_must_ get rid of that habit of blushing. There--you are at it now.
Look in the mirror, and see if it does not spoil your complexion. A
woman of the world, Celia, never blushes. It is quite old-fashioned
and obsolete. So much for that."
"But, Madam,"--Celia began, and hesitated.
"Go on, my dear," said Lady Ingram. "You are not putting enough
powder on the left side, Thérèse."
"If you please, Madam, I cannot stop blushing," pleaded Celia, doing
it very much. "It depends upon my feelings."
"Well, it looks as if you could not," answered Lady Ingram, with a
short, hard laugh. "But, my dear, you _must_. And as to feelings,
Celia, a modish woman never has any feelings. Feeling is the one
thing absolutely forbidden by the mode. Laugh as much as you please,
but mind how you feel merry; and as to crying, that is not allowable
except in particular circumstances. It looks well to see a girl weep
for the death of her father or mother, and, within reasonable limits,
for a brother or sister. But if you are ever left a widow, you must
be very careful not to weep for the loss of your husband: that would
stamp you instantly. And it is not _bien séant_ for a mother to cry
much over her children--certainly not unless they are quite babies.
A few tears--just a few--may be very well in that case, if you have a
laced handkerchief at hand. But you must never look astonished, no
matter what happens to you. And, Celia, last night, when the Consul
spoke to you, you absolutely looked perplexed."
"I felt so, Madam," said Celia.
"Is not that just what I am telling you?" replied Lady Ingram, with
that graceful wave of her hands which Celia had seen before. "My
dear, you must not feel. Feeling is the one thing which the mode
cannot permit."
"Pardon me, Madam," answered Celia, looking perplexed now; "but it
seems to me that you are trying to make me into a statue."
"Exactly so, my dear Celia--that is just it. A modish woman is a
piece of live marble: she eats, she drinks, elegantly and in small
quantities--she sleeps, taking care not to lie ungracefully--she
walks, glidingly and smoothly--she converses, but must be careful not
to mean too much--she distributes her smiles at pleasure, but never
shows real interest in any person. My dear, a heart is absolute ruin
to a modish woman! She may do anything she likes but feel. Now look
at me. Have you seen any exhibition of feeling in me since you have
known me?"
Celia felt herself quite safe in acquitting Lady Ingram on that count.
"No, of course not," continued her step-mother; "I hope I know myself
and the mode too well. Now, as to walking, what do you think the
Consul said to me last night when you left the room?"
Celia confessed her inability to guess it.
"He said, 'What a pity that young lady cannot walk!'"
Celia's eyes opened rather widely.
"It is quite true, you absolutely cannot walk. You have no idea of
walking but to go backwards or forwards. A walk should be a
graceful, gliding motion, only just not dancing. There--that will do
for this morning. As to walking, you shall have dancing lessons; but
remember the other things I tell you. You must not blush, nor weep,
nor eat more than you can help--in public, of course, I mean; you can
eat an ox in your own chamber, if you please--and above everything
else, you must give over feeling. You can go now if you wish it."
"Madam, you order impossibilities!" said Celia, with tears in her
eyes. "I will eat as little as you please, if it keep me alive; and
I will do my best to walk in any manner you wish me. I will try to
give over blushing, if I can, though really I do not know how to set
about it; but to give over feeling--Madam, I cannot do it. I do not
think I ought to do it, even at your command. I must weep when I am
sorrowful--I must laugh when I am diverted. I will not do it more
than I can help, but I cannot make any promise beyond that."
"Ah! there you are!" said Lady Ingram, laughing. "You island
English, with your hearts and your consciences, every man of you a
Pope to himself! Well, I will not be too hard upon you at first, _ma
belle_. That will do for the present. By and by I shall exact more."
Celia had a request to prefer before she went.
"Madam," she asked, trembling very much, "if it pleased you, and you
had no desire that I should do otherwise, would you give me leave to
hear Dr. Sacheverell preach on Sunday?"