doomed--for my sins, I suppose--to spend four mortal hours of every
day in dressing, breakfasting, dining, and supping. Moreover, I am
constrained to ride a horse. _Item_, I have to talk nonsense.
Fourth and lastly, I am the docile slave of my Lady-Mother. Is there
anything in the list I have just given you to make a fellow turn out
of bed three hours before he can't help it?"
"I should not think there was, except in the last item."
"Not in the last item, Madam, seeing that her gracious Ladyship does
not shine upon the world any sooner than I do--have you not
discovered that yet?"
"It seems to me, Philip, that you want something to do."
"Well, that depends," said Philip, reflectively. "It might be
something I should not relish."
"Well!" said Celia, a trifle scornfully, "I never would lead such a
useless life as that, Philip. 1 would either find something to do or
make it."
"How very like a woman you talk!" loftily remarked Mr. Philip Ingram,
putting his hands in his pockets.
Celia laughed merrily.
"I don't like it, Celia," resumed Philip, more seriously, "but what
can I do? I wish exceedingly that my mother would let me go into the
army, but she will not. Edward, you know--or you don't know--is a
Colonel in King James's army; so that he can find something to do. I
wish you would talk to my mother about it."
"_I!_" echoed Celia, in an unmistakable tone.
"You," repeated her brother.
"My dear Philip, you surely very much mistake my position with her.
I have no more influence with my Lady Ingram than--than her little
pug dog."
"A precious lot, then," retorted Mr. Philip, "for if anybody ruffled
the tip of Miss Venus's tail, they would not be asked here again for
a twelvemonth. It is you who mistake, Mrs. Celia. The only way to
manage my mother is to stand up to her--to let her know that you can
take your own way, and you will."
"Neither you nor I have any right to do that, Philip," replied Celia,
gravely.
"I have not, that I allow," said Philip. "I don't quite see that as
regards you. Her Ladyship is not _your_ mother."
"I think that she takes to me the place both of father and mother,
and that I have no more right to argue with or disobey her than them."
"That is your view, is it?" inquired Philip, meditatively. "Well, if
you look at it in that way, of course you cannot ask her. So be it,
then. I must be contented, I suppose, with my customary and highly
useful mode of life."
"I find no lack of occupation," observed Celia.
"No, you are a woman," said Philip. "And as Patient's old rhyme (of
which I never can remember the first line) says, 'Woman's work is
never done.' Women do seem to possess a marvellous and enviable
faculty of finding endless amusement in pushing a needle into a piece
of linen, and pulling it out again--can't understand it. Oh! has my
mother told you that we are going to St. Germains next week?"
"No," said Celia, rather surprised.
"Then there is a piece of information for you."
"She expects me to go, I suppose?"
"If you don't I won't," said Mr. Philip Ingram, dogmatically.
"Is the--the--Court"--began Celia, very hesitatingly.
"Is the Pretender there? Come out with it now--I shall not put my
fingers in my ears. Yes, Madam, the Pretender is there, and his
mother too, and all the rest of them."
"Oh!" sighed Celia, much relieved. "I thought you would be a
Jacobite."
"You are a Whig, then, Mrs. Celia?" asked Philip in an amused tone.
"I do not know that I am a politician at all," she answered; "but I
was brought up to the Whig view."
"All right!" said Mr. Philip, accommodatingly. "Don't let my mother
know it--that is all."
"I think my father--Squire Passmore, I mean"--Celia explained, a
little sadly, "told her so much at our first meeting."
"So much the better. And you expected to find me a red-hot Jacobite,
did you? To tell the truth, I don't care two pins about it; neither
does my mother, only 'tis the mode here, and she has taken it up
along with her face-washes, laces, and lutestring. Of course I would
not call the King anything but 'Your Majesty' to his face--it would
hurt his feelings, poor gentleman, and I don't see that it would do
any good. But if you ask me whether I would risk the confiscation of
my property (when I have any) in aiding a second Restoration,--why,
not I."
"Do you consider yourself an Englishman or a Frenchman, Philip?"
"Well, upon my word, Mrs. Celia Ingram, you are complimentary! 'Do I
consider myself an Englishman or a Frenchman!' I am an Englishman,
Madam, and proud of it; and I will thank you not to insult me by
asking me whether I consider myself a Frenchman!"
"I beg your pardon, dear Philip," replied Celia, laughing. "But you
have never been in England, have you?"
"Never--I wish I had."
"What is the Pretender like, Philip?"
"Well, Madam, the Jacobites say he would be only and wholly like his
father, if he were not so very like his mother: while you Whigs are
of opinion that he resembles some washerwoman at Egham, or bricklayer
at Rotherhithe--don't remember which, and doesn't matter."
"But what, or whom, do you think him like?"
"Not very like his mother, in my judgment, which is very unbiased,
except in his height, and the shape of his hands and mouth. Still, I
should not call him unlike her. Of his likeness to his father I can
say nothing, for I don't remember King James, who died when I was
only eight years old. The son is a very tall man--there is over six
feet of him, I should say--with a long face, nearly oval,--dark eyes,
rather fine,--and a pleasant, good-natured sort of mouth."
"Is he a pleasant man to speak to? Does he talk much?"
"To the first question--yes; he is by no means without brains, and is
very gracious to strangers. To the second--no, very little. If you
are looking for me, Thérèse, in your wanderings up and down, here I
am, at her Ladyship's service."
"It is not her Ladyship, Sir, dat want you. Dupont tell me to say
you dat Monsieur Colville is in your rooms."
"Colville! that is jolly!"
And Mr. Philip Ingram took his immediate departure. Celia guessed
that Mr. Colville was the solitary friend of whom he had before
spoken.
"Now, Patient, I want to hear about the Dragonnades. Oh! surely you
are not making up all those dresses for me?"
"Yes, Madam," answered Patient, in her passive way. "My Lady has
ordered it."
"Well," sighed Celia, "I wonder when I am to wear them?"
Patient gathered up one of the multifarious dresses--a blue gauze
one--and followed her mistress into the boudoir.
"You have never seen King Louis, Madam?"
"Never; I should like to have a glimpse of him some day."
"I never have, and I hope I never shall."
"Do you think so badly of him, Patient?"
"They call him The Great: methinks they might fitly give the same
title to the Devil. He is a man with neither heart nor conscience.
God forbid that I should judge any man: yet 'tis written, 'By their
fruits ye shall know them,'[7] and the fruits of this King are truly
dreadful. It doth look as if the Lord had given him 'over to a
reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient.'[8]
Privately, he is a man of very evil life; and publicly--you will hear
shortly, Madam, what he is. 'Tis now, methinks, nigh upon twenty
years since what they called the Edict of Nantes[9] was done away
with. That decree, passed by some former King of this country,[10]
did permit all the Protestants to hold their own worship, and to be
visited in sickness by their chosen ministers. This, being too
gentle for this King, he therefore swept away. His dragoons were
sent into every place throughout France, with orders to force the the
poor Protestants to go unto the wicked mass, and to harry them in all
manner of ways, saving only to avoid danger of their lives. One
Sabbath thereto appointed, they drave all in every place to mass at
the point of their swords, goading and pricking on such as lagged, or
showed ill-will thereto. I saw one crowd so driven, from a
window--for my Lady being a Papist, kept safe them in her house: or
else it was that I was not counted worthy of the Lord to have that
great honor of suffering for His sake. Poor souls! white-headed men
there were, and tender women, and little, innocent, frightened
children. It was a sight to move any human heart. I heard many a
tale of worse things they did. Breaking into the houses, destroying
and burning the household furniture, binding and beating the men,
yea, even the women; drumming with hellish noise in the chambers of
the sick, until they swooned away or were like to die; burning the
houses of some and the workshops of others: all this we heard, and
more."
"Patient, how dreadful!" said Celia. "Why, 'tis near what they did
in the days of Queen Mary."
"They only went a little further then on the same road--that was all,
methinks," answered Patient, calmly. "When the Lord readeth in the
Books before men and angels the stories of the persecutions in
England and in Scotland, He will scarce forget the Dragonnades of
France."
"I did not know that there had been any persecution in Scotland,
Patient--except what King Charles did; I suppose that was a sort of
persecution."
"Did you not, Madam?" asked Patient, quietly turning down a hem. "I
was not thinking of King Charles, but of the earlier days, when
tender women like Helen Stirk and Margaret Wilson perished in the
waters, and when the bloody Cardinal brent Master George Wishart,
that true servant of God and the Evangel, in his devil's-fire at St.
Andrews."
"I never heard of all those people, Patient."
"Ay, perchance so, Madam. I dare say their names and their
sufferings scarce went beyond their own land," replied Patient, in a
constrained voice, as if her heart were a little stirred at last.
"But the Lord heard of them; and Scotland heard of them, and rose and
bared her arm, and drave forth the men of blood from off her soil.
The Lord is their Avenger, at times, in this life--beyond this life,
always."
"Tell me something more about them, Patient. Who was Master Wishart?"
"He was a Scottish gentleman of good birth, a Wishart of Pitarrow,
Madam, who, giving himself up unto the service of God and the
Evangel, in Dundee and other towns, and bringing the blessed Word and
the blessed hope unto many a poor hungered soul, was seized by the
bloody Cardinal Beaton, and brent to death as the reward of his
labors, in the year of our Lord, 1546. They that did know him at
that time, and Master John Knox afterward, did say unto divers
persons, as I have heard, that even Master John was not fit to stand
up with George Wishart. He was a true man, and one that spake so
good and sweet words as did move the hearts of such as heard him. I
think the Lord knew how to ease him after his sore pain, and that,
now that he hath had rest in Heaven for one hundred and seventy
years, he accounts not that he bare too much for the Lord's sake,
that one bitter hour at St. Andrew's."
"And who was Helen--what did you say her name was?--and Margaret
Wilson?"
"Helen Stirk, Madam, was a wife that was permitted to die along with
her guidman for the name of the Lord, which she counted a grand
mercy. I can tell you a little more concerning Margaret Wilson, for
she died no so long since, and my father's sister's son, Duncan
M'Intyre, saw her die. It was at Wigtown, on the 11th of May, in the
year that King James became King. Duncan had business in the town,
where some of his kith on his father's side dwelt; and hearing that
two women were to be put to death, he, like a hare-brained callant as
he was, was set on seeing it. I heard not much about Margaret
Maclauchlan, who suffered at the same time, save that she was the
widow of one John Millikan, a wright of Drumjargan, and a woman
notable for her piety and discretion. But that of Maggie Wilson took
much effect upon mine heart, seeing that she was a young maid of just
eighteen years, mine own age. She and Agnes her sister, as Duncan
told us, were children of one Gilbert Wilson of Glenvernoch, who with
his wife were Prelatists. Maggie and Agnes, who were not able to
conform unto the ill Prelatical ways wherein their father and mother
were entangled, had joined many meetings of the Covenanters on the
hill-sides or in the glens, for preaching or prayer."
"How old was Agnes? Was she a married woman?"
"No, Madam; she was younger than Maggie--a maid of thirteen years."
"But, Patient! I never heard of such a thing--two girls, thirteen
and eighteen, setting themselves up to judge their parents' religion,
and choosing a different one for themselves!" said Celia, in
astonishment, for she could not help thinking of the strong
expletives which would have burst from Squire Passmore, if she and
Lucy had calmly declared themselves Presbyterians, and declined to
accompany that gentleman to church as usual.
"Madam, their father and mother were Prelatists," said Patient,
evidently of opinion that this settled the question. "They could not
go with them to church and read the mass-book."
"Oh! you mean they were Papists?"
"No, Madam--Prelatists," repeated Patient, a little perversely. "Not
that I see much disagreement, indeed, for methinks a Prelatist is but
a Papist with a difference. Yet I do trust there be Prelatists that
will be saved, and I can scarce think that of Papists."
"I don't understand you, Patient. I suppose these Prelatists are
some sect that I have not heard anything about," said Celia, with
much simplicity, for she never supposed that Patient's stern
condemnation was levelled against her own Church, and would have been
sorely grieved and bewildered had she known it. "Go on, if you
please."
Patient did not explain, and proceeded with her history.
"When the late King James became King, on the death of his brother,
he put forth a proclamation granting liberty of conscience unto all
sects whatsoever. For a time the Puritans rejoiced in this mercy,
thinking it a favor unto them, but later they became aware that 'twas
but a deceit to extend ease unto the Papists. Maggie and Agnes
Wilson, the which were in hiding, did shortly after this proclamation
venture into the town, being wishful to speak with their kinsfolk.
They never reached their kith, being betrayed by one Patrick Stewart,
who came upon them with a band of men, and lodged them in the
thieves' hole. Thence they were shifted to another chamber, wherein
Margaret Maclauchlan already abode. Thomas Wilson, their brother,
did strive to set them free, thereby but harming himself;[11] and
they were had up afore the Sheriff,[12] and the Provost,[13] and some
others. The indictment of them was for attending field-conventicles,
and for joining in the rebellion at Bothwell Bridge and
Airsmoss,--they, poor feeble souls, never having been near the same
places. The jury brought the charge in proven, and the three women
were doomed to be justified[14] by water. They were to be tied to
stakes below the mark of the tide, in the water of Blednoch, near
Wigtown, until they should be dead, the tide sweeping over them in
its flow. Howbeit the Lord restrained them of having their will upon
the young maid Agnes. Maybe they were nigh shamed to justify such a
bairn: however, they tarried in her case. But on the day appointed,
which, as I said, was May 11th, one named Windram, being in command
over a band of soldiers, did hale Margaret Maclauchlan and Margaret
Wilson to the place of execution. The first stake, whereto Margaret
Maclauchlan was tied, was fixed much deeper in the bed of the river
than the other, they hoping that Maggie Wilson should be feared at
her death, being the sooner, and so brought to recant. Moreover, one
of the town officers did with his halbert press and push down the
poor old wife, who, having the lesser suffering of the two, was soon
with the Lord. As she strave in the bitterness of death, quoth one
to Maggie Wilson, 'What think ye of that?' 'Nay,' quoth she, 'what
do I see but Christ in one of His members struggling there!' Then
Maggie, bring tied unto the nearer stake, after singing of a
Psalm,[15] did read a chapter of the Word,[16] and prayed, so that
all might hear. And while she was a-praying, the water overflowed
her. And to see the devilish cruelty of these men! they left her
till she was nigh dead, and then, lifting her out of the water, did
use all care and means to recover her, as if they meant mercy. But
it was but that she might die over again. They murdered her twice
over--poor, poor maid! for she was past feeling when they got her
out. Then, when she could speak, this Windram did ask her if she
would pray for the King. Much cause they had given her! She then
answered that she wished the salvation of all men, and the damnation
of none. Then a maid which stood by Duncan, and had sobbed and wept
aforetime, which he thought must be of kin or friendly unto her, did
cry most dolefully, 'Dear Margaret! oh say, "God save the King!" say,
"God save the King!"' 'God save him if He will,' quoth she, 'for I
desire his salvation.' Windram now drawing near, commanded her to
take the oath unto the King, abjuring of the Solemn League and
Covenant. 'I will not,' quoth she; 'I am one of Christ's children.'
No sooner had she thus spoken, than one of the town's officers with
his halbert thrust her back into the water, crying, 'Tak' anither
drink, my hearty!' So she died."
"Patient!" said Celia, in a low, constrained voice, "did God let
those men go scathless?"
"Not so, Madam. The town's officer that thrust her back was ever
after that tormented with a thirst the which no draught could slake;
and for many generations the children of the other, which kept down
the old wife with his halbert, were all born with misshapen hands and
feet."[17]
"Patient," said Celia again, in the same low reverent tone, "I wonder
that He suffers such things to be!"
"I marvelled at that, Madam, years agone. It seemed very strange
unto me that He suffered us to be haled down to the beach at the
harrying of Lauchie, and that the storm should come on us and cut off
so many lives of His servants. It exercised me very sore."
"And how did you settle it, Patient?"
"I do not know that I should have settled it, Madam, had I not met
with an ancient gentleman, a minister, that used at one time to visit
Mr. Francis in Paris here. He was a reverend man by the name of
Colville, one of mine own country, that had fled out of Scotland of
old time, and had been dwelling for many years in Switzerland and
Germany."
"Was he akin to this Mr. Colville who is Philip's friend?"
"This young gentleman is his grandson, Madam; and little good he doth
Mr. Philip, I fear. If he were a wee bit more like his grandsire, I
would be fain. Howbeit, grace goeth not by inheritance, as I know.
He was a very kindly gentleman, Madam, this old minister; and when he
had sat a while ben with Mr. Francis and Miss Magdalene, he oft would
say, 'Now let me go but and speak unto the Leslies.' And one
day--ah! that day!--when Roswith was very ill, I asked of him the
thing which did exercise me. And he said unto me, gently and kindly,
holding mine hand in his quavering hand, for he was a very ancient
gentleman,--'Dear child,' quoth he, 'dost thou know so little thy
Father? Thou mindest me of my little son,' saith he, 'when the fire
brake out in mine house. When I hasted up into his chamber, which
was above the chamber a-fire, and tare the blankets from his bed, and
haled him thence somewhat roughly, the bairn greet, and asked of me
what made me so angry.' Well, I could not choose but smile to think
of the babe's blunder; and he saith, 'I see thou canst understand
that. Why, dear child,' quoth he, 'thou art about just the same
blunder as my bairn. Thy Father sendeth a messenger in haste to
fetch thy soul home to Him; and lo! "Father," sayest thou, "why art
thou so angry?" We are all little children,' quoth he, 'and are apt
to think our Father is angry when He is but short with us because of
danger. And dost thou think, lassie,' he said, 'that they which saw
the face of God first thing after that storm, rebuked Him because He
had fetched them thither by water?' So then I saw mine error."
"Did this old gentleman teach you a great deal, Patient? I keep
wondering whence you have all the things you say to me. I don't
think such things as you do; and even Cicely Aggett, who is some
twenty years older than you, does not seem to know half so much about
God as you do. Where do you get your thoughts and your knowledge?"
"Where the Lord doth mostly teach His children, Madam--'by the rivers
of Babylon, where I sat down and wept.'[18] I think he that beareth
the precious seed commonly goeth forth weeping,[19] for we cannot
enter into the troubles and perplexities of others which have known
none ourselves. And if it behoved _Him_ in all things to be made
like unto His brethren, that He might be a merciful and faithful High
Priest,[20] who are we that we should grudge to be made like unto our
brethren likewise? That is a deep word, Madam,--'Though He were a
Son, yet learned He obedience by the things which He suffered.'[21]
I have not got half down to the bottom of it yet. But for the matter
of that, I am but just hoeing at the top of all Scripture, and scarce
delving any depth."
"Well, Patient," said Celia, with a perplexed, melancholy air, "if
you think you are but hoeing on the surface, what am I doing?"
"My dear bairn--I ask your pardon, Madam," corrected Patient.
"Don't ask it, Patient," replied Celia, softly; "I like that--it
sounds as if somebody loved me."
"Eh, lassie!" said Patient, suddenly losing all her conventionality,
and much of her English, "did ye no think I loved Miss Magdalene's
bairn? I was the first that ever fed you, that ever dressed you,
that ever bare you about. I was just fon' on you when you were a bit
baby." Patient's voice became suddenly tremulous, and ceased.
Celia rose from her chair, and kneeling down by Patient's side, threw
her arms round her neck and kissed her. Patient held her tight for a
moment.
"The Lord bless you, my ain lassie!" she faltered, "You are just that
Miss Magdalene o'er again--her ain brown eyes, and her smile, and her
soft bit mou'! The Lord bless you!"
Celia resumed her seat, and Patient her calm, respectful tone; but
the former understood the latter a great deal better after that
episode, and never forgot what a wealth of love lay hidden under that
quiet manner and somewhat stiff address.
"Well, Patient, what were you going to say to me?"
"I scarce think, Madam, that you have had much dwelling by the waters
of Babylon as yet. I don't mean that you have had no sorrow at all:
I misdoubt if any man or maid ever grew up to your age without
knowing what sorrow was. But there are griefs and griefs; and 'tis
one thing to visit a town, and another to abide there. David knew
what it was: 'My tears have been my meat day and night,'[22] quoth
he. And though in the main I conceive that and many another word in
David's Psalms to point unto Him that was greater than David, yet I
dare say 'twas no pleasant dwelling in the cave with all them that
were bitter of soul, neither fleeing on the mountains afore King
Saul, nor yet abiding in Gath. He felt them all sore crosses, I
little doubt."
"Do you think that is what our Lord means, Patient, where He says,
'Take up the cross, and follow Me'?"[23]
"I think he means whatsoever is undelightful to flesh and blood, that
cometh in the way of following Him. Is the gate strait? yet 'Follow
Me.' Is the way narrow? yet 'Follow Me.' Art thou faint, and cold,
and an-hungered, and a-weary? Yet 'Follow Me.' 'My grace is
sufficient for thee.'[24] My footsteps are plain before thee, My eye
is ever over thee. 'Follow Me.'"
"But, Patient, don't you think that sometimes the footsteps are not
so very plain before us?"
"We cannot see them when we don't look for them, Madam--that is
certain."
"Ah! but when we do--is it not sometimes very difficult to see them?"