they that are God's children, I believe, cannot sin but it dims their
eyes. Even of them, perchance more 'see men as trees walking.'[25]
than as having the full use of their spiritual eyes. Well, it
matters little how we see men, if only we have eyes to see Christ.
Yet which of us, after all, ever really hath seen Him? But anent
crosses, Madam, I have a word to say, if you please. There's a
wonderful manufactory of crosses ever a-working among all God's
saints. Whatever else we are unskilful in, we are uncommon skilled
in making of rods for our own backs. And very sharp rods they are,
mostly. I had a deal sooner with David, 'fall into the hand of the
Lord' than into the hands of men:[26] but above all, may the Lord
deliver me from falling into mine own! There is a sharp saying,
Madam, which maybe you have heard,--'He that is his own lawyer hath a
fool to his client:' I am sure he that ruleth his own way hath a fool
to his governor. Yet every man among us would be his own God if he
might. What else are all our murmurings and disputings of the will
of the Lord?"
"But, Patient, you don't call grieving murmuring? You would not say
that every cry of pain was a murmur? Surely when God uses His rod to
us, He means us to feel it?"
"Certainly, Madam, He means us to feel it; else there were no use
laying it on us. There is a point, doubtless, where grieving doth
become murmuring; and where that is the Lord knoweth better than we.
He makes no mistakes. He will not account that murmuring which he
that crieth doth not intend to be such. I think He looks on our
griefs not as they be to Him, nor perchance to others, but as they
are to us; just as a kindly nurse or mother will comfort a little
bairn greeting over a bit plaything that none save itself accounted
the losing of worth naming."
"We are very foolish, I am afraid, sometimes," said Celia,
thoughtfully.
"Foolish! ay we are so!" returned Patient. "Setting our hearts, like
Jonah, on bit gourds, that grow up in a night, and are withered in a
night[27]--quarrelling with the Lord when His wisdom denies us our
own will--mewling and grumbling like ill bairns, as we be, at a
breath of wind that crosses us--saying, all of us at our hearts, 'I
am, and none else beside me'[28]--'Who is the Lord, that I should
obey Him?'[29] The longer I live, Madam, the more I am ever
marvelling at the wonderful grace, and patience, and love, of the
Lord, that He should bear with such ne'er-do-weels as we are, even at
our very best. 'I am the Lord, I change not; _therefore_ ye sons of
Jacob are not consumed.'"[30]
Patient was silent for a while, and Celia broke the silence.
"Patient, what became of Roswith? I never hear you name her now, but
always as belonging to past time."
Patient did not answer for a moment. Then she said, her voice a
little less calm than usual:
"There is no time, Madam, for her. She will never grow old, she will
never suffer pain, she will never weep any more. The Master has
been, and called for her."
"She is dead!" said Celia, sympathizingly.
"Dead? Nay, alive for evermore, as He is. 'Because He liveth, we
shall live also.'[31] She is in the beatific vision, before the face
of the Father, and shall never sin, nor suffer, nor depart any more.
And we, here in this body of pain and sin, call them 'dead!' O
Roswith! O my soul, my love, my darling! my wee bit bonnie bairn,
sister and daughter in one, whom I loved as David Jonathan, as mine
own soul! surely I am the dead, and thou art the living!"
Celia sat amazed at this sudden flow of passionate words from her
usually imperturbable companion. She had seen her moved, only a
short time before, but not like this. Patient bent her head low over
her work, and did not look up for some minutes. When she spoke, it
was to say, very softly:
"She never looked up rightly after the harrying of Lauchie. She
lived, but she never laughed rightly again. The Doctor deemed that
the ship wreck--the shock and the cold and the hunger--had wrought
the ill. Maybe they had. But she never was a strong, likely lassie.
She was ever gentle and quiet in all her ways, and could no bear much
putting upon. And after that she just pined and wasted away. It was
after Miss Magdalene died--after my Lady that is now was wedded--that
the end came. It was one Sabbath afternoon, and I, poor fool!
fancied her a wee bit better that day. She was lying on the bed in
our chamber, and we had been cracking of divers things--of our Lord
Christ and His resurrection, and that sweet prayer of His in John,
and the like. Her voice was very low and soft--but it was ever that,
I think--and her words came slowly and with pauses. And when we
ended our crack, she saith, 'Patient, Sister! sing to me.' I asked
her, 'What, dear heart?' and she saith, 'The Twenty-third Psalm.' So
I sang:
"'The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want.
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green: He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.'
"And now and then, just for a line, I heard her weak voice joining
in. I sang to the end, and she sang the last lines:
"'And in God's house for evermore
My dwelling-place shall be.'
"When I had done, I thought the place felt so still, as if the angels
were there. Surely they were so! for in a few minutes after I made
an end of singing, she arose and went to the Father.
"I have been alone with God since that night Roswith died. I shall
go some day, but it seems afar off now. Perchance it may be nearer
than I deem. The Lord knoweth the time, and He will not forget me."
There was a long silence when Patient's voice ceased. Celia spoke
first.
"Patient, you said once that you would tell me how my father met with
my step-mother. But I want to know also why no one ever sought me
out until now."
"There was no chance, Madam, so long as you were a child. The
troubles in England were too great to allow of Sir Edward returning
himself. I believe he charged my Lady on his deathbed to seek you
out, and wherefore she tarried I know not. I had a mind once to go
myself, and I named it to her, but was called a fool for my pains,
and bidden to sit quiet and sew. But I was glad to see you."
"Thank you, dear Patient," said Celia, affectionately. "And now tell
me about the other."
"Do you know, Madam, that my Lady was a widow when she wedded Sir
Edward?"
"No!" exclaimed Celia. "I never heard of that. But Philip--he is
really my brother, is he not?"
"Oh yes, Madam! Mr. Philip is your brother. I will tell you:--After
my Lady Magdalene died, Sir Edward was for a time sore sick, and the
doctors bade him visit and go about for the recovery of his health.
I am scarce certain that it was the best thing he could do, howbeit
he did as they bade him. Among the gentlemen whom he used to visit,
where he whiles took his son Master Edward, and me as his nurse, was
the Marquis of La Croix, and another was one Mr. Camillus De
L'Orient. The Marquis was a stately old French gentleman, a kindly
man to his own, I think, but one that held himself mortal high, and
seemed to think that laboring men and the like were no better, if so
good, as his dogs and his horses. The Marchioness, his wife, was
much of the same sort, only I'm thinking she wasn't quite so stiff as
he. They had no son--and very grieved they were for it--only three
daughters: Madam Claudia, Madam Sophia, and Madam Amata. The last
young lady is dead; she died a maid, and to my thinking she was a
hantle the best of the three. Madam Sophia you saw the other
evening; she wedded the Duke of Montausier. Madam Claudia is my Lady.
"I had never any great taking for Frenchmen, but to my thinking Mr.
Camillus De L'Orient was the best and pleasantest Frenchman I ever
saw. There was something about him so douce and kindly to everybody;
and 'tis very seldom the case with the French nobles. Sir Edward
came one day into the nursery, as he often did, to play him with the
bairn; and, said he, 'Patient, next week I shall go to Monsieur De La
Croix's _château_ in the provinces, and Mademoiselle Aimée has begged
for Edward to come too; so get him and yourself ready. Mademoiselle
De La Croix is to be married to Monsieur De L'Orient." Well, we went
to the castle; and surely there were fine doings: Madam Claudia in
white satin, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen--they were quite a
picture to look at. After the wedding and the revellings were over,
Madam Claudia and her husband went up to Paris for a while, and then
to pay a visit to Mr. Camillus' father and mother, who lived some way
off. Sir Edward meanwhile thought of going home too, but Monsieur
and Madam they begged of him to stay till Mr. Camillus came back, and
Madam Amata, who was mighty fond of children, and took wonderfully to
little Master Ned, she begged him not to take the bairn away; so the
end of it was that he stopped ever so long, and Master Ned and me, we
stopped too. About two months after the wedding, Mr. Camillus and
his new wife came back to the castle, and the fine doings began
again. There was nought but feasting and junketing for a fortnight;
and one morning, at the end of that time, Sir Edward, and Mr.
Camillus, and one Mr. Leroy, and three or four gentlemen more that
were staying at the castle, they went out for a stroll in the park.
"I know not rightly how it was, but there arose some words among
these gentlemen, and they came to quarrelling. Sir Edward held fast
by Mr. Camillus, who was a great friend of his; but Mr. Leroy, whose
blood was up because of something that had been said, at last struck
Mr. Camillus a blow. Everybody cried directly that he must fight
him. Sir Edward ran back to the castle for pistols, for the
gentlemen were not armed; and he came in all haste into the chamber
where I was sewing, with little Master at his horn-book, and bade me
tell Madam Claudia as gently as I could that there was to be a duel
between Mr. Camillus and Mr. Leroy. I went up into the chamber where
the three young ladies were together, and Madam Sophia was trying of
a new gown. I told as quiet as I could what had happened. Madam
Amata cried out, and ran to her sister, and clipped her round the
neck. She said, 'Claude, _ma soeur, ma bonne, ma belle!_ go, go to
Camille, and ask him not to fight!' I looked at Madam Claudia. She
went as white as a sheet the first minute; but the next she lifted
her head up proudly, and she said, 'Shall I ask him not to revenge an
affront to his honor? _Noblesse oblige, ma soeur_.' 'You are such a
child, Aimée!' was all Madam Sophia said, as she looked round from
her tiring-glass. 'You always call me so,' said Madam Amata; 'but
this is dreadful--it is death, perhaps, my sisters!' Madam Sophia
took no heed of her, but went on trying her new gown, and showing her
woman where it did not please her. For a minute I thought that Madam
Claudia was going to give way and have a good cry; but she did not.
I scarce knew then that 'tis not our deepest sorrow that we weep for.
She sat down, still very white, and taking no heed to her sister's
new array, though she, poor thoughtless maid! kept calling to her,
didn't she like this and did she no think that was too long and
t'other too narrow? Madam Amata came softly up to me, and whispered
'_Ma bonne_, go down and bring us the first news.' So I slipped out
and down-stairs. About half an hour after a gentleman came in--a
French gentleman, but I forget his name now--who I knew had been at
the fighting. I called to him and asked him to pardon me for being
so bold as to speak to him, but for the love of God to tell me the
news. 'News?' quoth he, 'what! of the duel? Oh! they have fought,
and Monsieur De L'Orient has fallen: Sir Edward Ingram is carrying
him here'--and Mr. Somebody, I don't mind who it was. 'Is he dead,
Sir?' I said, all of a tremble. 'I really don't know,' says he,
quite careless; 'I think not quite.'
"I hadn't the heart to speak another word to such a man. I crept up
again to the young ladies' chamber, and I knelt down by Madam
Claudia, and told her she must make ready for the worst. She
shivered all over, and then, scarce opening her white lips, she said,
'Is it all over?' I said, 'They think not quite; but Sir Edward is
bringing him hither.' When she heard that, she rose and glided down
the stairs to the hall, Madam Amata following her, and I likewise.
Even Madam Sophia was a trifle touched, I think, for she said a bad
word, as those French ladies do when they are astonished; but Madam
Amata was very white and crying, for if Mr. Camillus had really been
her brother born, I don't think she could have loved him much better
than she did.
"Just as Madam Claudia reached the hall, Sir Edward came in, and the
other gentleman, bearing poor Mr. Camillus covered with blood. There
was a marble couch in the hall, with silken cushions; they laid him
down there, and he just spoke twice. First he said to Sir Edward,
'Tell my mother gently, and take care of my Claude.' And then when
Madam Claudia came and knelt by him, he said, '_Dieu vous garde,
mamie_!' Then he laid his head back and died. But when he died,
Madam Claudia threw her arms about him, and laid her head down on his
breast in spite of the blood: and then suddenly springing to her
feet, she flung up her arms wildly in a way that sent a shudder
through me, and the next minute she would have fallen on the ground
if Sir Edward had not caught her first. 'Let us carry her up,
Patient, to her own chamber, poor soul!' he saith. So we took her
up, I and he, and I laid her quiet on her bed. Madam Amata followed
us, and, poor young maid! it was pitiful to see her. She had never
been taught to do more than make fancy-work and play the violin and
such, and now she wanted to nurse her sister, and did not know how to
set about it. 'Do tell me, _ma bonne_, what I can do for Claude?--my
poor Claude!' she kept saying to me. 'Twas a long while ere Madam
Claudia came round, and when she did, she wept and mourned every
minute of the day for four days. I don't think she ever quite loved
anything again as she had loved him."
Celia could hardly associate the idea of such mourning as this with
her cold, fashionable, impassive step-mother.
"You think it scarce like, Madam?" asked Patience, seeing her thought
in her face. "I know what you think--ay, and more than you have
thought that. If you will forgive me to say it, you deem her cold
and hard. So she is. Ah Madam! wherever sorrow softens and
sanctifies not, it chills and hardens. I am sure, if I had known her
but now, I could never have thought her that bright lassie whom I saw
in her early maidenhood. You see, Madam, the Lord sends sorrow to us
all; but where He has to touch one of His chosen with it, He brings
it Himself. And there is a vast difference between the two. There
be to whom the having been with grief is the having been with Jesus;
and that always softens and tenders the heart. I think we hardly
come to know the Lord's best comforts, till we come to know how
sorely He can afflict whiles. But grief without Jesus--ah! that is
worth calling grief!
"There is little more to tell now, Madam, for you know the end--that
Sir Edward wedded Madam Claudia. I will confess I did think they
might have waited a trifle longer, if it were only to the end of the
year after Mr. Camillus' death. He had scarce been dead six months,
and my Lady Magdalene not the year out, when they were married.
Howbeit, that was their business, not mine. Madam Sophia said, in
her odd way, that if her sister did not care, she saw no reason why
she should: but the tears stood in Madam Amata's eyes, though she
said nought. I liked Madam Amata very much. She died about two
years thereafter."
"Patient, whom do you think Philip like?--his father or his mother?"
"Neither much, Madam. Sir Edward is like his father, only that he
hath his mother's mouth.
"Do you know when he will be back, Patient? I do so long to see my
_own_ brother."
"No, Madam. He went off rather unexpected. Now, Madam Celia, if you
please to try this gown?"
"Why, Patient! what have you done to that blue gauze?" inquired Lady
Ingram, entering so noiselessly that neither knew of her presence
until she spoke. "It is cut absurdly short in front. Turn round, my
dear. _Mais c'est affreux_! Pull the rag off, I beg of you. Is
that Thérèse's cutting or yours, Patient?"
"Thérèse's, Madam."
"_Incroyable_! I shall scold her right well for it. It is
atrocious. _C'est une chose à déchirer de coeur!_"
Celia looked up into Lady Ingram's eyes, saw how calm and careless
they were, and wondered if there were left in her anything of that
early Claude De La Croix, whose sad story she had been hearing.
[1] Matt. xxii 42.
[2] 2 Sam. xxiii. 5.
[3] 1 Cor. iii. 23.
[4] John viii. 11.
[5] John ii. 16.
[6] Heb. x. 25.
[7] Matt. vii. 20.
[8] Rom. i. 28.
[9] October 22, 1685.
[10] By Henri IV. of France, April 13, 1508.
[11] "It is said that Thomas Wilson endeavored to relieve his sisters
from confinement, but did not succeed. He kept himself in
concealment till the Revolution, when he entered the army, and served
King William in Flanders."--_Nicholson's_ "_History of Galloway_."
For a full account of these Scottish Martyrs of Wigtown, I am
indebted to the kindness of a (personally unknown) correspondent.
[12] David Graham.
[13] Colbran.
[14] This word, so very odd in such a connection, is the old Scottish
term for _executed_.
[15] She sang part of the 25th Psalm.
[16] Rom. viii.
[17] Nicholson's "History of Galloway."
[18] Psalm cxxxvii. 1.
[19] Psalm cxxvi. 6.
[20] Heb. ii. 17.
[21] Heb. v. 8.
[22] Psalm xlii. 3.
[23] Mark x. 21.
[24] 2 Cor. xii. 9.
[25] Mark viii. 24.
[26] 2 Sam. xxiv. 14.
[27] Jonah iv. 6-11.
[28] Isaiah xlvii. 10.
[29] Exod. v. 2.
[30] Mal. iii. 6.
[31] John xiv. 19.
VIII.
WANTED, DIOGENES' LANTERN.
"Smile, hypocrite, smile! It is no such hard labor,
While each stealthy hand stabs the heart of his neighbor:
Faugh!--Fear not; we've no hearts in Vanity Fair."
MISS MULOCH.
We have been absent for a long time from Ashcliffe Hall. In fact,
nothing has occurred there since Celia's departure of sufficient
moment to be recorded. But on Easter Tuesday of 1712, Harry returned
home for a short time. He brought plenty of town news, political and
otherwise.
"Twelve new Tory peers were created on New Year's Day"--
The Squire swore at this piece of information.
"And the Duke of Marlborough[1] has fallen in disgrace"--
"So we heard, lad, so we heard," said his father, discontentedly.
"Somebody ought to be ashamed of himself."
"And Prince Eugene[2] is come to England on a visit to Her Majesty,
'tis thought to plead for the Duke."
"O Harry! have you seen Prince Eugene?"
"Yes, Lucy, several times. Do you wish to know what he is like?
Well, fancy a small, but well-made man, with a dark complexion, a
large Roman nose, black eyes, lively and piercing, and black hair."
"Do you think the Queen will listen to his pleading for the Duke?"
"I doubt it. 'Tis scarce so much with the Duke as with the
Duchess[3] that she is herself displeased; and Prince Eugene has
already offended her by coming to court in a bag-wig instead of the
peruque. She said to her ladies that next time she supposed he would
come in his night-cap. Prince Eugene, you see, is a soldier,
accustomed to think very little of matters of this kind; and in all
points of etiquette the Queen is mighty particular."
"And what other news is there, Harry?"
"Well, Sir, the Secretary for War, a young man named Robert Walpole,
has been sent to the Tower for bribery."
"Why on earth have they sent him there for _that_?" asked the Squire,
sarcastically. "Does not every one of the Ministers sell all his
Secretary-ships? Didn't he buy his place, to begin with?"
"Doubtless, Sir," answered Harry; "and every year the Duchess of
Marlborough, whose perquisite they are, either gives or sells the
Queen's old gowns; but when the blame must be laid on some one, 'tis
easy to find a man to bear it."
"Any other piece of roguery?" asked his father.
"No, Sir, I remember none," said Harry. "Just before I left London,
the Queen was touching for the evil.[4] 'Tis a solemn ceremony, I am
told, though I was not able to see it. 'Tis stale news, I fear, that
there hate been prosecutions of newspaper writers for attacks on the
Ministry.
"No, Harry, I had not heard of that," said the Squire, quickly.
"Likely enough! A set of beggarly printers daring to bring out
lampoons on gentlemen in the Queen's service! Served 'em right!"
"There have been a good many of the lampoons, I believe."
"Is it only the Whig Ministers who suffered from these rascally
newspapers?" asked his father.
"Both sides, Sir," answered Harry.
"Well, I am glad the Tories got a bit of it." chuckled Squire
Passmore.
"There are gentlemen on the other side, Sir, I think," hinted Harry
quietly.
"Nothing but rogues on the other side, my lad," said his father.
"Why, how could they be on the other side if they weren't rogues?"
"Why, Father!" said Lucy, who could take more liberties with that
gentleman than any one else, and knew it; "you don't think everybody
wrong who isn't on the same side as you?"
"There can be only one right side," said the Squire, as evasively as
oracularly. "I am on it because 'tis right."
"Well, my politics," said Charley, yawning, "are that 'tis right
because I'm on it."
A piece of exalted egotism which provoked universal laughter.
"I met in London with a rather pleasant fellow," remarked Harry, "who
told me he had been at Ashcliffe, and had the honor, quoth he, of
dining with you. A man of the name of Stevens."
"Ob, aye! a painter," said the Squire.
"Well, he had been in a painter's employ," returned his son, "but is
now in a newspaper office: he is employed on the _Gazette_."
"What made him change his trade in that way?"
"He told me that the painter who had employed him had been but a
temporary patron, and having now done with him, he had been unable to
get further employment in that line. And having some parts in the
way of writing, he had offered his services to one or two of the Whig
papers, and is now in the _Gazette's_ office."
"He is a sensible fellow," said his father. "A right Whig, I could
see, and a thorough conscientious man."
Could any person have lifted up the veil, and revealed to him the
history and identity of one George Shepherd, he would have felt both
amazed and humbled.
At the moment that this conversation was going on at Ashcliffe, the
thoroughly conscientious man of whom they were speaking was seated in
the back-parlor of a newspaper office in London. He had two
companions, a man in a fair wig, and another in a black one. The
wearer of the black wig, a large-limbed, long-faced, solemn-looking
man, had just folded up some letters after perusal.
"Well, Mr. Mist, what say you?" asked he, laying down the letters.
"If you prefer to sever our connection, rather than engage to do as I
wish, of course you are at liberty to do so. But unless you will
keep measures with me, and be punctual in these things, I cannot
serve you further, nor be concerned any more."
"I really beg you not to name such a thing, Mr. De Foe!" replied
Mist, bowing and nervously twisting a piece of paper. "I am your
very humble servant in these matters--all of them; and I engage
readily to conduct the _Journal_--Will you repeat your terms, Mr. De
Foe?"
"The Government, Mr. Mist, have treated you with lenity and
forbearance," resumed De Foe,[5] oracularly. "They permit you to
seem on the same side as before, to rally the _Flying Post_ as much
as you please, and all the Whig writers, and even the word 'Whig;'
and to admit any foolish trifling things in favor of the Tories, such
as really can do them no good, nor the Government any harm."
"Well, Mr. De Foe," said Mr. Mist, with a sigh, "that is liberty
enough. I am resolved that my paper shall for the future amuse the
Tories, but not affront the Government."
"That, Mr. Mist," announced his dictator, "is the only way to keep
yourself from a jail, and to secure the advantages which now rise to
you from it; for you may be assured the complaint against you is so
general that the Government can bear it no longer."[6]
"Would you mind telling me from whom you speak, Sir?" Mr. Mist meekly
wished to know.
"I should mind it very much, Mr. Mist. Be satisfied that you have
been spoken to--ay, and warned."
Mr. Mist was fully convinced of that.
"You will write, Mr. Mist, a declaration, full enough to satisfy the
Government, of your intention to make no further attack upon them?"
Mr. Mist would do anything he was told. The poor little mouse was
entirely at the mercy of the lion. He withdrew to pen his
declaration, and left the arch-conspirators together.
"You see, Mr. Stevens, what difficulties we Government spies have to
contend with!" sighed the author of _Robinson Crusoe_. "But you know
that, of course, as well as I do."
"'Bowing in the House of Rimmon,'" responded Stevens, with a peculiar
smile. "I fancy the spies on the other side have their difficulties
also."
In which observation, though De Foe was completely unaware of it, Mr.
Stevens was alluding to himself.