between your Protestant teachers? You shall go where you like. The
Consul has been so good as to place one of his carriages at my
disposal, and as I shall remain here all the day, I place it at
yours. I will bid William ask where your great Doctor preaches."
Celia went slowly back to her own room, feeling very strange, very
lonely, and very miserable, though she hardly knew why. As soon as
she reached it, she proceeded to contravene all Lady Ingram's orders
by a good cry. She felt all the better for it; and having bathed her
eyes, and comforted herself with a few words out of her Book, she was
ready when Thérèse came to summon her to go down to breakfast with
her step-mother. They breakfasted in a room down-stairs, the Consul
and his wife being present; the latter a voluble French woman, who
talked very fast to Lady Ingram. The days passed drearily to Celia;
but she kept looking forward to the Sunday, on which she hoped to
hear a sermon different from Dr. Braithwaite's. When the Sunday
arrived, the carriage came round after breakfast to take Celia to
hear Dr. Sacheverell, who, William had learned, was to preach at St.
Andrew's that morning. To Holborn, therefore, the coach drove; and
Celia entered St. Andrew's Church alone. She was put into a great
pew, presently filled with other ladies; and the service was
conducted by a young clergyman in a fair wig, who seemed more
desirous to impress his hearers with himself than with his subject.
Then the pulpit was mounted by a stout man in a dark wig, who
preached very fluently, very energetically, and very dogmatically, a
discourse in which there were more politics than religion, and very
much more of Henry Sacheverell than of Jesus Christ.
All the attention which Celia could spare from the service and the
preacher was concentrated in amazement on her fellow-worshippers.
They were tolerably attentive to the sermon, but on the prayers they
bestowed no notice whatever. All were dressed in the height of the
fashion, and all carried fans and snuff-boxes. The former they
flourished, handled, unfurled, discharged, grounded, recovered, and
fluttered all through the service.[6] Whenever the fans were still
for a moment, the snuff-boxes came into requisition, and the amount
of snuff consumed by these fashionable ladies astonished Celia. They
talked in loud whispers, with utter disregard to the sanctity of
place and circumstances; and the tone of their conversation was
another source of surprise to their hearer.
"Do you see Sir Thomas?"
"I am sure he is looking this way."
"There is Lady Betty--no, on your left."
"Lady Diana has not come this morning."
"How modishly she dresses!"
"Look at the Duchess--what a handsome brocade!"
"That lace cost five guineas the yard, I am certain."
Then came a fresh flourishing of fans, varied by the occasional
rising and courtesying of one of the ladies, as she recognized an
acquaintance in the fashionable crowd. Did these women really
believe themselves in the special presence of God? thought Celia.
Surely they never could! There was one point of the service at which
all their remarks were hushed, their fans still, and their attention
concentrated. This was during the singing. Celia found that no
member of the congregation thought of joining the psalmody, which was
left to a choir located in the gallery. At the close of each chant,
audible comments were whispered round.
"How exceeding sweet!"
"What a divine voice she hath!"
"Beautiful, that E-la!"
And when the prayers followed, the snuff-boxes and fans began
figuring again.
On the whole, Celia was glad when this service was over. Even Dr.
Braithwaite was better than this. And then she thought of her
friends at Ashcliffe, and how they would be rumbling home in the old
family-coach, as she stepped in her loneliness into the Consul's
splendid carriage. Did they miss her, she wondered, and were they
thinking of her then, while her heart was dwelling sadly and
longingly upon them? She doubted not that they did both.
"_Et bien?_" said Lady Ingram, interrogatively, when she met Celia
after dinner. "Did you like your great preacher?"
"Not at all, Madam."
"Not at all? Then I wonder why you went. You look disappointed, _ma
belle_. You must not look disappointed--It gives awkward lines to
the face. Here--take some of this cake to console you; it is
particularly good."
Celia took the cake, but not the consolation.
"At eleven o'clock on Tuesday, my child, we depart for Paris. Do not
give yourself any trouble. Thérèse will do all your packing. Only
you must not walk in Paris, until you have some clothes fit to be
seen. I will order stuffs sent in at once when we arrive, and set
the women to work for you."
"Do you know, Madam, if you please"--Celia hesitated, and seemed a
little uncomfortable.
"Go on, child," said Lady Ingram. "Never stop in the middle of a
sentence, unless you choose to affect the pretty-innocence style.
Well?"
"Do you know, Madam, whether there be any Protestant service in
Paris?"
"I imagine there is a Huguenot _prêche_ somewhere--or was one. I am
not sure if I heard not something about His Majesty having stopped
them. Do not put your Protestantism too much forward there--the
Court do not like it."
"I have nothing to do with the Court, Madam," said Celia, with sudden
firmness; "and I am a Protestant, and I cannot disguise my religion."
"Oh dear! your Protestant consciences!" murmured Lady Ingram. "But
you have to do with the Court, my friend; it is to the Court that I
am taking you. Do you suppose that I live in the atmosphere of a
recluse? When I am an old woman of eighty, _ma chère_, very likely I
shall repair to a convent to make my salvation; but not just now, if
you please."
"I am not an old woman--" Celia was beginning, but Lady Ingram
interrupted her.
"Precisely, _ma belle_. The very reason why it is so absurd of you
to make a recluse of yourself, as I see you would like to
do,--unless, indeed, you had a vocation. But, so far as I know,
Protestants never have such things."
"What things, Madam?"
"Vocations, my dear--calls to the religious life."
"Madam!" exclaimed Celia, very much astonished, "ought we not all to
lead religious lives?"
"You are so absurd!" laughed Lady Ingram. "You absolutely do not
understand what is meant by the religious life. My dear child (for a
child you are indeed), the life which we all lead is the secular: we
eat, drink, talk, sleep, dance, game and marry. These are the
seculars who do these things. The religious are those who, having a
call from Heaven, consecrate themselves entirely to God, and deny
themselves all pleasures whatever, and so much of necessaries as is
consistent with the preservation of life. Their mortification is
accepted by Heaven, when extreme, not only for their own sins, but
for the sins of any secular friend to whom they may desire to apply
the merit of it. Now do you understand? _Ma foi!_ what a grave,
saint-like conversation you provoke!"
"Not at all, Madam."
"Let me hear your views then."
Had Celia been left free to choose, Lady Ingram was about the last
person in her little world to whom she would have wished to give a
reason for the hope that was in her. But she felt that there was no
choice, and she must make the effort, though not in her own strength.
She lifted up her heart to God for wisdom, and then spoke with a
quiet decision which surprised her step-mother.
"Madam, I believe all persons to be religious who love God, and whom
God loves. Because God loved us, He gave His Son to die for us, that
we who believe in Him might have eternal life. It is He who saves
us, not we who make our own salvation; and it is because we love God
that we wish to serve Him."
"Well, my dear," answered Lady Ingram, slowly, as if considering
Celia's speech, "I can see very little difference between us, except
that you would have all men hermits and friars instead of some. We
both believe in Jesus Christ, of course; and no doubt there is a
certain sense in which the religious feel love to God, and this love
inclines them to the cloister. I do not therefore see wherein we
differ except on a few unimportant points."
Celia saw an immense distance between them, on points neither few nor
unimportant; but the courage which had risen to a high tide was
ebbing away, and her heart failed her.
"Well, this will do for to-day, my fair divine," said Lady Ingram,
with a smile. "Now bring me my silk-winders, and hold that skein of
red silk while I wind it--or stay, is that a matter of conscience, my
little votaress?"
"On the Lord's Day, Madam, it is, if you please."
"Very well, let the silk alone; I can wind it to-morrow just as well.
Would it be breaking the Sabbath for you to tell Thérèse that I wish
to speak with her? Pray don't if you feel at all uncomfortable."
Celia gave the message to Thérèse, and then locked herself into her
own room, and relieved her feelings by another fit of crying.
[1a][1b] A Devonshire phrase, as well as an American one, signifying, in
the former case, "she belonged to, or lived at," the place.
[2] Foxe's "Acts and Monuments," ed. Townsend, 1846, vol. v., p. 550.
[3] Abigail Hill was a cousin and dependent of Sarah Duchess of
Marlborough, and supplanted her in the Queen's favor. She was a
violent Tory. She married Samuel Masham, one of the Queen's pages,
created Baron Masham, December 13, 1711.
[4] Elizabeth Percy, only child of Josceline Earl of Northumberland,
and Elizabeth Wriothesley: born 1665-6; married (1) 1679, Henry
Cavendish, Lord Ogle, (2) 1681, Thomas Thynne Esq., (3) 1682, Charles
Seymour, Duke of Somerset; she died December 1722, and was buried in
Salisbury Cathedral. The Duchess of Somerset succeeded the Duchess
of Marlborough in the office of Mistress of the Robes to Queen Anne.
[5] Matt. xxviii. 20.
[6] For the meaning of these technical phrases in "the exercise of
the fan," see the _Spectator_ of June 27, 1711.
V.
THE HARRYING OF LAUCHIE.
"'Have I received,' he answered, 'at thine hands
Favors so sweet they went to mine heart-root,
And could I not accept one bitter fruit?'"
LEIGH HUNT.
"Now, use your eyes, my young anchorite--if it be not wicked to look
out of the window: this is the Rue de Rivoli, the finest street in
Paris. By the way, you ought not to have been ill in crossing the
Channel--so very undignified. Here is my town-house--that with the
portico. Till your manners are formed, I shall give you a private
closet as well as a bedroom, and an antechamber where you can take
lessons in French and dancing.---- Good evening, St. Estèphe! Is
Monsieur Philippe here?"
"Monsieur Philippe is not at himself, Madame; he ride out with
Monsieur Bontems."
Lady Ingram knitted her brows, as if the information were not
agreeable to her. She alighted, and desired Celia to follow her
up-stairs. Through suites of spacious rooms, splendidly furnished,
and along wide corridors she led the way to a quiet suite of
apartments at one end of the house--an antechamber, a bedroom, and a
small but elegant boudoir.
"These are your rooms," she said. "I will give you a new attendant,
for I must have Thérèse to myself now. These will be entirely at
your disposal, within certain restrictions. I shall visit you every
morning, to have your masters' opinions as to your improvement, and
you will take a dish of coffee or chocolate with me in my boudoir at
four o'clock every afternoon. Until you are formed, you must dine
alone, except when I dine entirely _en famille_. Your masters will
attend you in the antechamber every morning. No one must be
permitted to cross the threshold of your boudoir, except myself and
your brothers, your own attendant, or any person sent by me. Do you
dislike that?"
"No, Madam; I am very glad to hear it."
"Ah! my Sister of St. Ursula!" said Lady Ingram, laughing. "But
remember this is only until you are formed, and the sooner that
happens the better pleased I shall be."
"I am anxious to obey your wishes in everything not forbidden by my
conscience, Madam."
"Very well," said Lady Ingram, still laughing. "The conscience
requires a little formation too, _ma belle_, as well as the manners.
Farewell! I will send your attendant."
She sailed away with her usual languid stateliness, and Celia went
forward into the bedroom. She was vainly endeavoring to find an
unlocked drawer in which to place her hood and cloak, when a low,
quiet voice behind her said:
"Here are the keys, Madam. Will you allow me to open them for you?"
Celia looked up into a face which won her confidence at once. Its
owner was a woman of middle height, whose age might be slightly under
sixty. Her dress was of almost Quaker simplicity, and black. Her
hair and eyes were of no particular color, but light rather than
dark; her face wore no expression beyond a placid calm. But Celia
fancied that she saw a peculiar, deep look in the eyes, as if those
now passionless features might have borne an expression of great
suffering once.
"Oh, thank you!" said Celia, simply. "Is it you whom my Lady
promised to send?"
"I am to be your woman, Madam. I am her Ladyship's sewing-woman; my
name is Patient Irvine."
The "lady's woman" of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was
the ancestress rather of the modern companion than of the maid. She
was called by her Christian or surname, sewed for her mistress, and
assisted her in dressing; but in every other particular the mistress
and maid were upon equal terms. The "woman" was her lady's constant
companion, and nearly always her _confidante_. She sat at her
mistress's table, went with her into company, and appeared as a
member of her family when she received her friends. As a rule, she
was the equal of her lady in education, and not seldom her superior.
Her inferiority lay in birth and fortune, sometimes in the latter
only.
"And what would you like me to call you?--Patience or Irvine?" asked
Celia of her new acquaintance.
"Patient, if you please, Madam."
"Patient--not Patience?"
"I was not baptized Patience, Madam. My father was a Scottish
Covenanter, and he named me, his first-born child,
'The-Patient-Waiting-for-Christ.'"
"What a strange name!" involuntarily exclaimed Celia.
"Yes, Madam; very strange, I doubt not, to such as have never met
with our Puritan practice of Scripture-text names. I have known
divers such."
"Do the Puritans, then, commonly give their children such names?"
"Very often, Madam. I had an aunt who was called
'We-Love-Him-Because-He-First-Loved-Us.'"
"They called her Love for short, I suppose?"
"Yes, Madam," answered Patient, in her calm, passive manner.
Celia thought this very odd indeed, and turned the conversation, lest
she should get comic associations with texts of Scripture of which
she could not afterwards divest herself. She wondered that Patient
did not feel the ludicrous strangeness of the practice, not knowing
that all sense of the ludicrous had been left out of Patient's
composition.
"And how long have you lived in France, Patient?"
"Since I was of the age of twenty years, Madam Celia."
"You know my name, then?" said Celia, smiling.
"I know you, Madam, much better than you know me. I have borne you
about in mine arms as a babe of a few hours old. And just now, when
I saw you, you looked to mine eyes as the very image from the dead of
my dear Miss Magdalene."
"Patient! do you mean my mother?"
"Yes Madam. I ask your pardon for calling her such a name, but it
ever sounds more natural to mine ear. She was my Lady Ingram for so
short a time, and I knew her as Miss Magdalene when she was but a wee
bonnie bairn."
"What was her name?"
"Magdalene Grey, Madam. She was the Minister's daughter at the Manse
of Lauchie, where my father and I dwelt."
"Then she was a Scottish lady?"
"Yes, Madam, at least she was born in Scotland, and her mother was
Scottish. Her father, Mr. Grey, was English by descent, though his
fathers had dwelt in Scotland for three generations afore him."
"And where did my father meet with her? He was not Scottish?"
"He was not, Madam. And I will tell you all the story if it please
you; but will you not dress now?"
"You can tell me while I comb my hair, Patient. I want to know all
about it."
"May I do it for you, Madam? I can speak now, if that be your
pleasure; but 'tis almost necessary that I tell mine own story in
hers."
"Will it pain you, Patient?" asked Celia, kindly.
"No, Madam; I am far past that," answered Patient, in her calm,
passionless voice.
"Then please to let me hear it."
"My father's name, please you," Patient began, "was Alexander Leslie,
and he dwelt on Lauchie Farm, near to the Manse. And sith Mr. Grey,
our Minister, wedded Mrs. Jean Leslie, of the same clan, it fell out
that Miss Magdalene and I were somewhat akin, though in worldly goods
she was much beyond us. For Mr. Grey was not one of our poor
ministers of Scotland, but a rich Englishman, who made his way into
what the English deemed our wild valleys, for no cause but only the
love of Christ. Miss Magdalene being an only bairn, without brother
or sister, it so fell that I and Roswith were called up whiles to the
Manse to divert her."
"You and who?"
"Roswith, my sister."
"What strange names your father gave his daughters!"
"Ay, that was a strange name, and all said so. It came out of an old
chronicle that he had, a very ancient book, and he deemed it a fair
name, and gave it in the baptizing to his youngest-born. Those were
evil days, Madam, on which we fell. Yet why should I call them evil,
when they were days of growing in the truth, and of the great honor
of suffering for the Lord's sake? Mr. Grey, your grandfather, Madam,
was a very gracious man, and did preach most savory discourses.
Wherefore, he was one of the first on whom the blow fell. And when
King Charles sent his troopers into our parts, under command of
Claverhouse,[1] bidding them hunt and slay all that would not conform
unto his way, they came, one of the first places, into our valley.
Many an humble and honest husbandman, that feared God, was hung up at
his own door by the wicked Claverhouse and his troopers, and many a
godly man and woman was constrained to dwell in caves and dens of the
earth until this enemy was overpast. I could tell many a tale of
those days that would stir your blood, Madam, if it pleased you to
hear it. We were amongst those whom the Lord was pleased to honor by
permitting them to suffer for His name's sake. Mr. Grey refused to
fly. He was dragged down, one Sabbath morn, from the pulpit in
Lauchie Kirk, Claverhouse himself being at the door. He had been
preaching unto us a most sweet, godly, and gracious discourse of
casting care upon the Lord, and standing firm in the truth. And just
when he was speaking that great and precious promise of the Lord,
'Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world,' the
troopers burst in. Then the whole kirk thronged around our Minister,
and sought to free him from the evil men. Mine uncle Jock Leslie,
fell, thrust through with the swords of the troopers, and many
another. But at length they had their wicked will, and bound us,
men, women, and children, two and two, with one strong rope, like a
gang of slaves going to the market-place. I was greatly honored to
have the next place to Mr. Grey, hand in hand with whom walked Miss
Magdalene, a sweet young maid of scarce fourteen years. His godly
wife was bound, just before, with Janet Campbell, an old wife of nigh
eighty. So we were marched down eleven miles to the shore. Ah! but
my heart ached for Miss Magdalene and Roswith ere we reached it! It
was a grand comfort to find Roswith bound with me, for she was but a
wee wean of eight years, and I a grown maiden of twenty. Doubtless
this was the Lord's mercy. When we came to the sea, we saw a great
ship lying afar off, and we were all thrust into boats to carry us
thither. When we were aboard, the troopers, some of whom came with
us, did drive us below, and shut down the hatches upon us: which, it
being summer time, was hot and painful, and many women and children
fell sick therewith. Whither we were to go we knew not, only Mr.
Grey surmised that they thought either to sell us for slaves in
Barbary unto the heathen there, or else to convey us unto the King's
plantations in Virginia or those parts; though if they were bound
unto Virginia he knew not wherefore they should set sail from the
eastern part of the kingdom. For three days and nights we were thus
kept under hatches, to our much discomfort, and the ship sailing
northwards with all the speed the sailors could make. During which
time we were greatly comforted with the thought of Christ our Lord,
and the three days and three nights which He was in the heart of the
earth. Likewise Mr. Grey did oft exhort us, and prayed us to bear
all that should come upon us meekly and bravely, and as unto the
Lord. Then some of us which were mighty in the Scriptures did say
certain parts thereof for the comfort of the rest; in particular, old
Jamie Campbell, Janet's guidman, and Elsie Armstrong, his sister's
daughter. So passed these three days until the Wednesday even. And
then arose a great and mighty tempest, with contrary winds, driving
the ship down, so that, notwithstanding all the skill of the shipmen,
she lost in one day and night more than she had gained in all the
three. Verily she fled like a mad thing afore the violence of that
wind. And on the Thursday night, a little on the hither side of
midnight, she flying as thistledown afore the wind, we felt a mighty
shock, and suddenly the water came in at our feet with a great rush.
Mr. Grey said he thought the ship must have lighted on some rock, and
that a hole was driven in her. Then the shipmen opened the hatches,
and in dolorous voices bade us come up on deck, for we were all like
to drown. Wherefore we ascended the ladders, thirty-five in all our
company, I alway holding tight the hand of my wee sister. When we
were upon deck, we found from the words of the shipmen that they were
about to loose the boats. So when all the boats were loosed, the
troopers filled two of them and the seamen the third, and no room was
left for the prisoners. Then in this time we thought much on Paul
and his shipwreck, and how the seamen were minded to kill the
prisoners lest any should escape: and we marvelled if they counselled
to kill us, seeing there was no room for us in the boats."
"O Patient! surely they laid no hands on any of you?"
"No, Madam; they left that to the wind and the sea. The three boats
cast off, and we prisoners stood alone on the deck of the sinking
ship. We had neither wit nor material to make any more boats nor
rafts. And when we saw our death thus before us--for our ship, like
Paul's, was stuck fast in the forepart, but the sea beat freely on
the hinder--we stood like men stupid and amazed for a short season.
But then above all the noise of the storm came Mr. Grey's voice,
which we were used to obeying, saying, 'Brethren, in a few hours at
most, perchance in a few minutes, we shall stand before God. Let our
last hour be employed in His worship.' Then we gathered all around
him, on that part of the ship which was fast on the rock, and he led
the exercise with that Psalm:[2]
'O God, the heathen entered have
Thine heritage; by them
Defiled is Thine house: on heaps
They laid Jerusalem.'
"After the Psalm there was an exhortation. Our Minister bade us
remember that we were the Lord's freedmen--doubly so now, since our
enemies had cast us away from them, and we were left only on the
mercy of our God. Moreover, he recalled that of David, saying in his
strait, 'Let me fall into the hand of the Lord, for His mercies are
great.'[3] Then he prayed with us; and while the exercise yet
lasted, and Mr. Grey was still praying, and entreating the Lord to
deal with us in his mercy, whether for life or for death,--but if it
should be death, as there seemed no other, to grant, if it so pleased
Him, an easy dying unto the little children in especial--while he
prayed, the ship parted asunder with a great crash, and the waves,
leaping up on that part which stuck fast, swept every soul of us out
into the boiling sea."
"O Patient, what a dreadful story! And how many were saved?"
"Four, Madam."
"Only four out of thirty-five!"
"Ah, Madam! the thirty-one were happier than any of the four!"
"Who were saved, Patient?"
"Miss Magdalene, and wee Jamie Campbell--old Jamie's grandson--and
Roswith, and me.'
"And not one of the others?" said Celia, pityingly.
"Not one. They were carried by the angels into the rest of the Lord,
and He would not grudge them the crown of martyrdom."
"And how did you get ashore?"