born. He that was called Prince of Wales was born in the same
month;[5] and in October King James fled away, sending his wife Queen
Mary[6] and the babe to France. When King William landed, it was
expected that he would seize all belonging to the malignants;[7] this
was not so entirely, yet so much that Sir Edward was sore afeared to
lose his. He kept marvellous quiet for a time, trusting that such as
were then in power would maybe not think of him. But when King James
landed in Ireland, he was constrained to join him, but he left my
Lady behind, and me with her, at his own house in Cheshire. After
the battle of Boyne Water,[8] whereat he fought, it happed as he
feared, for all his property was escheated to the Crown. At this
time Mr. Francis Grey came back into the country, and for a time Sir
Edward and my Lady abode with him at a house which he had near the
Border, on the English side: but Sir Edward by his work on the Boyne
had made the place too hot for to hold him, and he bethought himself
of escaping after King James to France. So about March, 1691, we
began to journey slowly all down England from the Border to the south
sea. Sir Edward was mortal afeared of being known and seized, so
that he would not go near any place where he could possibly be known:
and having no acquaintance anywhere in the parts of Devon, made him
fix upon Plymouth whence to sail. It was in the last of May that we
left Exeter. We had journeyed but a little thence, when I saw that
my Lady, who had been ailing for some time, was like to fall sick
unto death. I told Sir Edward that methought she was more sick than
he guessed, but I think he counted my words but idle clavers and
foolish fancies. At last she grew so very bad that he began to
believe me. 'Patient,' he said to me one morn, 'I shall go on to
Plymouth and inquire for a ship. Tend your Lady well, and so soon as
she can abide the journeying, she must come after. If I find it
needful, I may sail the first.' It was on a Monday that Sir Edward
rode away, leaving my Lady and the little Master, with me and Roswith
to tend them, at a poor cot, the abode of one Betty Walling."
"Betty Walling of Ashcliffe? Why, Patient, I know her!"
"Do you so, Madam? She knows you, I guess, and could have told you
somewhat anent yourself. Not that she knew my Lady's name: I kept
that from her. It was on the Friday following that you were born.
Saving your presence, Madam, you were such a poor, weak, puny babe,
that none thought you would live even a day. Betty said, I mind,
'Poor little soul! 'twill soon be out of its suffering--you may take
that comfort!' I myself never reckoned that you could live. I
marvel whether Madam Passmore would remember Betty Walling's coming
unto her one wet even in June, to beg a stoup of wine for a sick
woman with her? That sick woman was my dear Lady. It was the
Saturday eve, and she died on the Sunday morning. I laid her out for
the burying, which was to be on the Wednesday, and was preparing to
go thence unto Plymouth afterward, with Roswith and the babes, when
on the Tuesday night I was aroused from sleep by a rapping on the
window. I crept to the casement and oped it, and was surprised to
hear my Master's voice saying softly, 'Patient, come and open to me.'
I ran then quickly and let him in; he looked very white and tired,
and his dress soiled as if he had ridden hard and long. Quoth he,
'How fares Magdalene?' As softly as I could break it, I told him
that she would never suffer any more, but she had left him a baby
daughter which he must cherish for her sake. He was sore grieved as
ever I saw man for aught. After a while, he told me much, quickly,
for there was little time. He had not entered Plymouth, when, riding
softly in the dark, another horseman met him, and aroused his wonder
by riding back after him and away again; and this he did twice over.
At length the strange horseman rode right up to him, and asked him
plainly, 'Are you Sir Edward Ingram, holding King James's
commission?' And when he said he was, then said the horseman, 'If
you look to sail from Plymouth, I would have you know that you are
expected there, and spies be abroad looking for you, and you will be
taken immediately you show yourself. If you love your life, turn
back!' Sir Edward desiring to know both who he was and how he knew
this, the horseman saith, 'That I may not tell you: but ride hard, or
they will be on your track; for they already misdoubt that you are at
Ashcliffe, where if your following be, I counsel you to remove thence
with all the speed that may be.' Sir Edward said that he had ridden
for life all through three days and nights, and now we must move away
without awaiting aught. 'And we will go,' quoth he, 'by Bideford;
for they will expect me now, if they find I have given them the slip,
to take passage by Portsmouth or Southampton, and will scarce count
on my turning westward.' It grieved us both sore to leave my Lady
unburied, but there was no help; and Betty passed her word to follow
the body, and see that she was meetly laid in her grave. 'And how
will I carry the babe?' quoth I. 'Nay, truly,' said he, sorrowfully,
'the babe cannot go with us; it will bewray all by its crying. We
must needs leave it somewhere at nurse, and when better times come,
and the King hath his own again, I will return and claim it.' For
Master Edward was a braw laddie, that scarce ever cried or plained;
while you, Madam, under your leave, did keep up a continual whining
and mewling, which would have entirely hindered our lying hid, or
journeying under cover of darkness. So I called Betty when it grew
light, and conferred with her; and she said, 'Leave the babe at the
gate of the Hall, and watch it till one cometh to take it.' Madam
Passmore, she told us, was a kindly gentlewoman, that had sent word
she would have come to see my Lady herself if she also had not been
sick; and at this time having a little babe of her own, Betty thought
she would be of soft heart unto any other desolate and needful babe.
So I clad you in laced wraps, and pinned a paper on your coat with a
gold pin of my Lady's, and Sir Edward wrote on the paper your name,
'Celia,' the which my poor Lady, as she lay a-dying, had felt a fancy
to have you called. He said he had ever wished, should he have a
daughter, to name her Grissel, which was my Lady his mother's name;
'But,' quoth he, 'if my poor Magdalene in dying had asked me to name
the child Nebuchadnezzar, I would not have said her nay.' He was
such a gentleman as that, Madam; in his deepest troubles he scarce
could forbear jesting. So I carried you to the Hall, and laid you
softly down at the gate, and rang the bell, and hid and watched among
the trees. There first the Master rode up, looked strangely on you,
though pitifully enough, but touched you not: and anon came out a
kindly-looking woman of some fifty-and-five or sixty years, and took
you up, and carried you away in her arms, chirping pleasantly unto
you the while. So I was satisfied for the babe."
"That was Cicely Aggett," said Celia, smiling: "dear old Cicely! she
told me about her finding me."
"The next hour," pursued Patient, "saw us thence. We got safe to
Bideford, and away, the Lord aiding us, and after some tossing upon
the sea, landed at Harfleur in fourteen days thereafter. Thence we
came up to Paris, unto Mr. Francis Grey's house, which he had given
unto my Lady in dowry; and Sir Edward bought another house at St.
Germains, for he had had prudence to put some of his money out to
interest in this land, so that all was not lost."
"And now tell me, Patient, how did he meet my step-mother?"
"I must pray you to leave that, Madam, for the time, and try on this
skirt. Thérèse hath given me the pieces for the bodice."
[1] John Graham, of Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, was the eldest
son of Sir William Graham and Lady Jane Carnegy his wife. He was a
descendant of the royal line of Scotland, through his ancestress the
Princess Mary, daughter of King Robert III. He fell at Killicrankie,
July 16, 1689. In person he was eminently beautiful, in politics
devoutly loyal; in character, a remarkable instance of the union of
the softest and most genial manners with the sternest courage and
most revolting cruelty in action. His least punishment as a General
was death; and his persecution of the hapless Covenanters was
restrained by no sense of humanity or compassion.
[2] Ps. lxxix.
[3] 2 Sam. xxiv. 14.
[4] Embraced.
[5] At St James's Palace, June 10, 1688.
[6] Maria Beatrice Leonora, only daughter of Alfonso IV., Duke of
Modena, and Laura Martinozzi; born at Modena, October 5, 1658;
married (by proxy) at Modena, September 30, and (in person) at Dover,
November 21, 1673, to James Duke of York, afterwards James II.; died
of cancer, at St. Germain-en-Laye, May 7, 1718, and buried at
Chaillot.
[7] This name was given, both during the Rebellion and the
Revolution, by each party to its opponents.
[8] Fought July 1, 1689.
VI.
THE TROUBLES OF GREATNESS.
"Good Majesty,
Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you,
But when you are well pleased."
SHAKESPEARE.
"Very fair! Turn round. Yes, I think that will do. Now, do you
understand how to behave to people?"
"If you please, Madam, I do in England, but I don't know about
France," said Celia, in some trepidation as to what her step-mother
might require of her.
"Absurd!" said Lady Ingram. "Good manners are the same everywhere,
and etiquette very nearly so. Now, how many courtesies would you
make to a Viscountess?"
"I should only make one to anybody, Madam, unless you tell me
otherwise."
"_Incroyable_! I never saw such a lamentable want of education as
you show. You have no more fine breeding than that stove. Now
listen, and remember: to a Princess of the Blood you make three
profound courtesies, approaching a little nearer each time, until at
the last you are near enough to sink upon your knees, and kiss her
hand. To a Duchess, not of the Blood, or a Marchioness, three
courtesies, but less profound, and not moving from your place. To a
Countess or Viscountess, two; to any other person superior or equal
to yourself, one. Inferiors, of course, you will not condescend to
notice. Do you understand, and will you remember?"
"I will do my best, Madam, but I am afraid I shall forget."
"I believe you will, first thing. Now listen again: I expect
to-night the Duchesses of Longueville and Montausier, the Marchioness
de Simiane, and other inferior persons. What kind of seat will you
take?"
"Will you please to instruct me, Madam?" asked Celia, timidly--an
answer which slightly modified Lady Ingram's annoyance.
"You are very ignorant," said that Lady. "It is one comfort that you
are willing to be taught. My dear, when we are merely assembled _en
famille_, and there is no etiquette observed, you can sit on what you
like. But if there be any person present in an assembly of higher
rank than yourself, you must not sit on a chair with a back to it;
and whatever be the rank of your companions, on no occasion must you
occupy an arm-chair. You will take your place this evening on an
ottoman or a folding-stool. You will remember that?"
"I will remember, Madam," replied Celia.
"Should any member of the Royal House condescend to honor me by
appearing at my assemblies--I do not expect it to-night--you will
rise, making three deep courtesies, and remain standing until you are
desired to seat yourself."
"Yes, Madam."
"Very well. Now go down into the drawing-room, and find a stool
somewhere in the corner, where nobody will see you."
Thus graciously dismissed, Celia retired from her step-mother's
dressing-room, with a long look at Lady Ingram, whom she had never
before seen so splendidly attired. She wore a blue robe, with a long
sweeping train, robe and train being elaborately embroidered with
flowers, in white, crimson, and straw-color; a petticoat of the
palest straw-colored satin, a deep lace berthe, and sleeves of lace
reaching to the elbow; long white gloves advanced to meet the sleeve,
and jewels of sapphire and diamond gleamed upon the neck and wrists.
Her hair was dressed about a foot above her head, and adorned with
white plumes, sapphires, and diamonds. Celia descended to the
drawing-room, feeling stiff and uncomfortable in her new yellow silk
and white satin, and nervously afraid of losing her bracelets and
necklace, of topaz and diamonds, which Lady Ingram had lent her for
the occasion. In the drawing-room she discovered Mr. Philip
resplendently arrayed in white and crimson, and occupied in surveying
himself intently in the mirrors.
"O Celia!" said he, when she uttered his name, "I am glad you have
come early. It is such fun to see the folks come in, and do all
their bowing and courtesying; and I shall have some amusement
to-night in watching your innocent astonishment at some things, my
woodland bird, or I am mistaken. Please be seated, Madam; here is a
place for you in a nice little corner, and I shall keep by your side
devotedly all the evening. Has my Lady-Mother seen and approved that
smart new gown of yours?"
Celia smiled, and answered affirmatively.
"That is a comfort!" quoth Mr. Philip. "Now, I liked the looks of
you a good deal better in that brown cashmere. But I am an absolute
nobody, as you will find very shortly, if you have not done so
already."
"The brown cashmere will go on again to-morrow, and I shall not be
sorry for it. But, Philip"--
"Stop! look out--somebody is coming."
A gentleman in dark blue led in a lady very elaborately dressed in
pink. As they entered by one door, Lady Ingram came forward to
receive them from another. She stood and made three courtesies, to
which the lady in pink responded with one. Then Lady Ingram came
forward, and, taking the hand of her guest, turned to Celia and
Philip in the corner.
"_Bon soir, ma tante_," observed the latter unceremoniously from his
station behind Celia's chair.
"Celia, this is my sister, the Duchess de Montausier," Lady Ingram
condescended to say; and Celia, rising, made two low courtesies,
having already forgotten the number of reverences due.
"Three," whispered Philip, too low to be overheard, thus saving his
sister a scolding.
The Duchess returned the compliment with a single courtesy, Celia
thought a rather distant one. But her astonishment had not yet left
her at the meeting between the sisters.
"Is that really your aunt?" she asked of Philip.
"Yes, my mother's sister," answered Philip, smiling. "Why?"
"They courtesied so!" was Celia's ungrammatical exclamation.
"Ah! you think it unsisterly? The one, my dear, is a Duchess, the
other only the widow of a Baronet. You must not consider the
sistership."
Celia laughed within herself to think how the Squire and Madam
Passmore would look, if they saw her and Isabella courtesying away at
each other in that style.
"Now don't lose all these folks," resumed Philip, as more people
entered. "That little man dressed in black, with a black wig, to
whom my mother is courtesying now,--do you see him?"
"I was just looking at him," replied Celia. "I cannot say that I
like him, though I have no idea who he may be."
"Why?--because he is so short?"
"Oh no! I hope I should never dislike a man for any natural
infirmity. I thought he looked very cross."
"He has the happy distinction of being the crossest man in France,"
said Philip.
"Well, he looks like it," said Celia.
"But one of the most distinguished men in France, my dear. That is
the great Duke de Lauzun,[1] who has spent ten years in prison for
treason, who aspired to the hand of Mademoiselle, the King's own
cousin, and whom King James trusted to bring the Queen and the Prince
of Wales over here from England."
"I wonder he trusted him," observed Celia.
"I never wonder at anything," philosophically answered Mr. Philip
Ingram. "Now look to your right! Do you see the lady in black, with
fair hair, and blue eyes, who seems so quiet and uninterested in all
that is passing?"
"I think I do."
"That is a cousin of my mother's, who would not have appeared here if
it had not been a family assembly. She is a Jansenist. Thirty years
ago she was a famous beauty, and a very fashionable woman. Now all
that is over."
"What is a Jansenist, Philip?"
"Ah! there you puzzle me. I thought you would want to know that.
You had better ask my Cousin Charlotte--she can tell you much better
than I can."
"I do not like to speak to any one," said Celia, timidly. "Can you
not tell me something about them?"
"Well, this much I can tell you--they are very bad people, who lead
uncommonly holy lives--ergo, holiness does not make a saint."
"Philip, you are laughing at me."
"No, my dear; I am laughing at the Catholic Church, not at you. The
Jansenists are a sort of heretic-Catholics, whom all real Catholics
agree to call very wicked. They hold all manner of wrong doctrines,
according to the Bishops and my Lady-Mother; and they lead lives of
such austerity and purity as to put half the saints in the calendar
to shame. Now this very Cousin Charlotte of mine, who sits there
looking so quiet and saintly, with her blue eyes cast down, and her
hands folded on that sombre black gown,--when my mother was a girl,
she was the gayest of the gay. About fifteen years since she became
a Jansenist. From that day she has been a very saint. She practices
all kinds of austerities, and is behaved to almost as if she were a
professed nun. Of course, in the eyes of all true Catholics, her
Jansenism is her worst and wickedest action. I don't quite see
myself how anything can be so very wrong which makes such saints of
such sinners. But you see I am a complete _extern_, as the religious
call it."
"I should like to know something more about these people, Philip.
What doctrines do they hold?"
"Now, what a remarkable attraction anything wrong and perilous has
for a woman!" observed Mr. Philip Ingram, with the air of a
philosopher. "Well, my dear, I have only heard one; but I believe
they have a sort of confession or creed, indicating the points
whereon they differ from the Church. That one is, that there is no
such thing as grace of congruity, and that men are saved by the favor
of God only, and by no merit of their own."
"But, Philip, that is the Gospel!" exclaimed Celia, turning round to
look at him. "That is what we Protestants believe."
"Is it, my dear? Well, I have no objection. (Now, return to your
condition of a statue, or you will have a lecture on awkwardness and
want of repose in your manners. Oh! I know all about that. Do you
think I was born such a finished courtier as you see me?) As to
merit, I have lived long enough to find out one thing, and that is,
that people who are always talking of merit are generally least
particular about acquiring it, while those who believe that their
good deeds are worth nothing, have the largest stock of them."
"That is natural," said Celia, thoughtfully.
"Is it?" asked Philip again. "Well, it looks like the rule of
contrary to me. But you see I have no vocation. Now look at the
lady who stands on my mother's left--the one in primrose. Do you see
her?
"I see her," said Celia. "I like her face better than some of the
others. Who is she?"
"The Marchioness de Simiane,[2] daughter of the Countess de Grignan,
and granddaughter of the late clever Marchioness de Sévigné. Her
flatterers call her an angel. She is not that, but I don't think she
is quite so near the other set of ethereal essences as a good many of
the people in this room."
"What an opinion you have of your friends, Philip!"
"My friends, are they?" responded Philip, with a little laugh. "How
many of them do you suppose would shed tears at my funeral? There is
not one of them who has a heart, my dear--merely lumps of painted
stone, as I told you. These are not men and women--they are only
walking statues."
"Do you call that cross little man a walking statue?" asked Celia,
smiling.
"He!--scarcely; he is too intensely disagreeable."
"I should rather like to see the lady to whom you said that man took
a fancy, Philip. Is she here?"
"Ah! my Sister," answered Philip, in a graver voice than any in which
he had yet spoken, "you must go to the royal vaults at St. Denis, and
search among the coffins, to do that. She was buried twenty years
ago.[3] She was so unfortunate as to have a heart, and he has a
piece of harder marble even than usual. So when the two articles
met, the one broke the other."
"I never can tell whether you are jesting or serious, Philip."
"A little of both generally, my dear. Don't lose those ladies who
are going through the courtesying process now--they are distinguished
people. The elder one is the Duchess du Maine,[4] one of the
daughters of the Prince of Condé, who is emphatically '_the_ Prince'
in French society. The younger is Mademoiselle de Noailles,[5] the
daughter of the Duke de Noailles--a famous belle, as you may see.
She will probably be disposed of in a year or two to some Prince or
Duke--whoever offers her father the best lump of pin-money. We don't
sell young ladies in the market here, as they do in Barbary; we
manage the little affair in private. But 'tis a sale, for all that."
"It sounds very bad when you look at it in that light, Philip."
"A good many things do so, my dear, when you strip off the gilding.
His Majesty gave a cut of his walking-stick once to a gentleman with
whom he was in a passion, and was considered to have honored him by
that gracious notice. Now, if he had been the Baron's son, and the
other the King, whipping to death would have been thought too good
for him after such an insult to Majesty. We live in a droll world,
my Sister."
"But, Philip, there must be differences between people--God has made
it so."
"Aren't there?--with a vengeance! On my word, here comes Bontems,
the King's head _valet-de-chambre_. Now we shall have some fun. You
will learn the kind of differences there are between people--Louis
XIV. and you, to wit."
"What do you mean by fun?"
"You shall hear. Here is a chair, Monsieur Bontems, and I am
rejoiced to see you."
"Sir, I am your most obedient servant," responded a dapper little
gentleman, dressed in black and silver, with a long sword by his
side, and large silver buckles in his shoes. He sat down on the seat
which Philip indicated.
"I trust that His Most Christian Majesty enjoys good health this
evening?" began that young gentleman, with an air of the greatest
interest in the reply to his question.
"Sir, I am happy to say that His Majesty condescends to be in the
enjoyment of most excellent health."
"Very condescending of him, I am sure," commented Philip, gravely.
"May I venture to hope that His Royal Highness the Duke de Berry[6]
is equally condescending?"
"Sir," answered Monsieur Bontems, looking much grieved, "I regret
exceedingly to state that Monseigneur the Duke is not in perfect
health. On the contrary, he has this very day been constrained to
take medicine."
"How deeply distressing!" lamented Mr. Philip Ingram, putting on a
face to match his words. "And might I ask the kind of medicine which
had the felicity of a passage down Monseigneur's most distinguished
throat, and the honor of relieving his august sufferings?"
"Sir," answered Monsieur Bontems, not in the least perceiving that he
was being laughed at, "it was a tisane of camomile flowers."
"I unfeignedly trust that it has not affected his illustrious
appetite?"
"Sir," was the reply, always commencing by the same word, "I am much
troubled at the remembrance that His Royal Highness's appetite at
supper was extremely bad. He ate only two plates of soup, one fowl,
fifty heads of asparagus, and a small cherry tart."
"Ah! it must have been very bad indeed," said Mr. Philip, with a
melancholy air. "He generally eats about a couple of geese and half
a dozen pheasants, does he not?"[7]
"Sir?" said Monsieur Bontems, interrogatively. "I am happy to say,
Sir, that all the members of the Royal House have tolerably good
appetites; but scarcely--two geese and six pheasants!--no, Sir!"
"Yes, I have gathered that they have, from what I have heard you
say," answered Philip, gravely. "Monsieur Bontems, I am anxious to
inform my sister--who speaks no French--of the manner in which His
Majesty is served throughout the day. I am not sure that I remember
all points correctly. It is your duty, is it not, to present His
Majesty's wig in the morning, and to buckle his left garter?"
"The left, Sir?" asked Monsieur Bontems, somewhat indignantly. "The
right! Any of His Majesty's ordinary valets may touch the left--it
is my high office to attend upon the august right leg of my most
venerated Sovereign!"
"I beg your pardon a hundred thousand times!"
"You have it, Sir," said Monsieur Bontems affably. "A young
gentleman who shows so much interest in His Majesty's and
Monseigneur's health may be pardoned even that. But you are a little
mistaken in saying 'buckle.' His Majesty is frequently pleased to
clasp his own garters; it is my privilege to unclasp them in the
evening."
"Would you kindly explain to me, that I may translate to my sister,
His Majesty's mode of life during each day?"
"Sir, I shall have the utmost pleasure," replied Monsieur Bontems,
laying his hand Upon his heart. "Madam," he continued, addressing
himself to Celia, though she could understand him only through the
medium of Philip, "first thing in the morning, when I rise from the
watch-bed which I occupy in the august chamber of my Sovereign,
having noiselessly dressed in the antechamber, I and Monsieur De St.
Quentin, first gentleman of the chamber, reverently approach his
royal bed, and presume to arouse our Sovereign from his slumbers.
Then Monsieur De St. Quentin turns his back to the curtains, and
placing his hands behind him, respectfully presents the royal wigs,
properly curled and dressed, for His Majesty's selection."
"Pardon my interrupting you; I thought the King's attendants never
turned their backs upon him?"
"Sir, His Majesty cannot be seen without a wig! Profanity!" cried
Monsieur Bontems, looking horrified. "This is the only part of our
service in which we are constrained to turn our ignoble backs upon
our most illustrious Master."