Mr. Stevens, for so apt a comparison. You see, Sir, I am for this
service posted among Papists, Jacobites, and High Tories--a
generation which my very soul abhors. I am obliged to hear
traitorous expressions and outrageous words against Her Majesty's
person and Government and her most faithful servants, and to smile at
it all as if I approved of it."
"You are scarce the first person, Mr. De Foe, who has been
constrained to smile at what he disapproves."
"Well, his Lordship's instructions are positive."
"You have them, I think, from himself?" asked Stevens, deferentially.
"Through Mr. Buckley. I introduced myself to Mr. Mist in the
disguise of a translator of foreign news, with his Lordship's
approbation, who commissioned me, in this manner, to be so far
concerned in this weekly paper of Mist's, as to be able to keep it
within the circle of a secret management, and also prevent the
mischievous part of it; but neither Mist nor any of those concerned
with him have the least guess by whose direction I do it. You, Mr.
Stevens, are one of ourselves, so I speak freely to you."
"Quite so," answered Stevens, dryly.
"Some time ago," resumed De Foe, "I was concerned in the same manner
with Dyer's News-Letter. Old Dyer was just dead, and Dormer, his
successor, being unable by his troubles to carry on that work, I had
an offer of a share both in the property and management. Well, I
immediately sent to the Minister, who, by Mr. Buckley, let me know
'twould be a very acceptable piece of service, for that letter was
really very prejudicial to the public, and the most difficult to come
at in a judicial way in case of offence given. Upon this I took upon
myself (and do still take) the entire management of the paper, so
that the style still continues Tory, that the party may be amused,
and not set up another, which would destroy the design."[7]
"Of course your object was not wholly political?" smilingly suggested
Stevens.
"You mean, there was a matter of money betwixt us? Of course there
was--money or money's worth."
"We have it on good authority that 'the laborer is worthy of his
hire,'" answered Stevens, still smiling. "Ah! Mr. De Foe, 'tis in
truth such as you and I that rule kingdoms--not Kings nor Ministers."
When Stevens left the office of Mist's _Journal_, which was in truth
Mist's private habitation, he sauntered slowly for a while along the
busy streets; turned into a (Whig) coffee-house, which he frequented
every Tuesday morning, and called for a dish of coffee and the
_Postboy_; wandering on, turned into another (Tory) coffee-house,
which he frequented every Tuesday afternoon, and called for a glass
of usquebagh and the _St. James's Chronicle_. Having made his weekly
impression on the society of the two coffee-houses, he sauntered on
again until he reached Gray's Inn Road. Here his proceedings
suddenly changed. He walked up the Road with the air and pace of a
man who had no time to spare, and entering a whitesmith's shop,
inquired in a rather loud tone whether Butler (the whitesmith) could
attend to a little matter of business. Mrs. Butler, who was in the
shop, having informed him that her husband was at leisure to
undertake anything required, Stevens sinking his voice to a low
whisper, asked further--
"Is the old horse in the old stall?"
"He is, Sir," answered Mrs. Butler, in the same tone, adding, in a
louder one, "Pray go up-stairs, Sir, and speak with Butler yourself."
Stevens found his way without difficulty up a dark and rickety
staircase in the corner, with the intricacies of which he appeared
well acquainted, and pausing at a door on the right hand, at the head
of the stairs, placed his lips to the keyhole, and gave a low, soft
whistle. The door opened with a spring, and Mr. Stevens was admitted
to the chamber within.
In the room in question, two men were sitting at a green baize table
covered with books and papers. The younger was about the age of
Stevens himself, and he looked up with a nod and smile of recognition
to the new-comer: the elder, a bald-headed man with a fringe of white
hair, did not stir from his close examination of the papers on the
table until Stevens stood before him.
"Your blessing, Father!" requested the young priest.
The old man looked up abruptly. "Peace be with thee, Brother
Cuthbert," said he, in a harsh, brusque tone; and he went back
immediately to his papers. The younger man pointed to a seat at his
side, which Stevens took; but neither ventured to interrupt the
studies of the old priest, until he at last laid down his papers and
took off his spectacles.
"Well, Brother, what news?" said he, looking up at Stevens.
In answer to this query, Stevens gave him a condensed account of the
information which he had just received from De Foe.
"That is awkward, Father, is it not?" asked the younger of the
strangers.
"Not at all, my son," said the old Jesuit, placidly wiping his
spectacles. "The Protestants are welcome to work against us as much
as they please. They cannot combine; they have no organism; hence
their wiles are mere shadows compared with ours. They are sure to
fade and fail, sooner or later. However, we are not above learning
even from enemies. It might be as well to have a friend so employed
on some few Whig papers. Could you manage that?" he asked, suddenly
turning to the young stranger.
The person addressed smiled, but shook his head rather hopelessly.
"I do not think I could, Father Boniface," said he.
"No," assented the old man; "your talents do not lie in that
direction. Brother Cuthbert, here is employment for you--yours do."
"My talents commonly lie in any direction to which I find it
convenient to turn them, Father," said Stevens, with as modest an air
as if he were disclaiming praise instead of bestowing it upon
himself. "And as I hold a general dispensation for anything that may
be needful, I have no scruples in using it."
The old man, having finished a very careful cleansing of his glasses,
put them on, and inspected Stevens through them.
"Brother Cuthbert," said he, "had you been suffered to sink into the
abyss of heresy, as at one time seemed likely, it would have been a
great loss to the Church."
"Well, I rather think it would," was the cool reply of Mr. Cuthbert
Stevens.
"It was a blessed act of our Brother Arnold," resumed Father
Boniface, "an inspired thought, which led him to steal you away, an
infant untainted by heresy, from the cradle wherein your heretic
mother had laid you, while she went to watch the dancing on the
village-green. That was Brother Cuthbert's introduction to the
Church, Jerome," observed he, turning to his companion. "Our Brother
Arnold--he is among the blessed now, I trust, for I have myself
offered hundreds of masses for the repose of his soul--he found, in a
village in France, an infant in a cradle, by a cottage-door, with
none to watch over it. Impelled by philanthropy, he inquired how
this was from the next-door neighbor, and was told that a Huguenot
carpenter lived in the cottage; he was out at work, and his wife had
gone to see the dancers. 'This must not be,' said Arnold; 'I will
myself carry the infant to his mother, and reprove her for such
foolish conduct.' I should have told you that, the village being
full of these misguided heretics, Arnold, in his zeal to recover some
of these straying sheep to the true fold, had attired himself as a
heretic teacher. 'You will do well, Master Pastor,' said the
neighbor; 'for though she is kindly and well-meaning, 'tis her worst
fault to love gadding about, and she is very young and needs
teaching.' So Arnold took the babe, and instead of going to the
green, piously brought it to us at the monastery. Thou wert a sad
trouble for a long time, Brother Cuthbert; for the brethren were not
wont to deal with such tender young creatures, and thou wouldst eat
nothing presented to thee, and didst wail and howl ceaselessly."
And the old priest shook his head sorrowfully, as if he remembered
too well the trouble which the Huguenot baby had brought upon the
brotherhood. Stevens laughed, and so did Jerome; but the latter
seemed to enjoy the novel idea more of the two.
"Do you know the name of the village, Father? It might be a good act
to endeavor to win over some of these Huguenots."
"We thought it better, Brother Cuthbert, that you should not know the
name of your birthplace. Ties of kindred are strong at times; and,
as I have often observed to you, when a man becomes a priest, he
ceases to have any kindred ties. The Church is your mother, her
monks are your brethren, her nuns your sisters. Be satisfied."
Stevens was far too much accustomed to instant and implicit
submission to offer the slightest remonstrance to this slight
mandate. But this was the first time that he had ever received a
detailed account of his origin. He knew that he had been brought to
the monastery as an infant, but hitherto he had known nothing more,
and had naturally supposed himself to be a foundling. In this idea
he had grown up. He had never loved any human being, nor, so far as
he knew, had any human being ever loved him. But that afternoon a
vision rose before him of the poor Huguenot mother coming back from
her thoughtless expedition to find her darling gone. He wished he
could have found her. He would have tried to convert her to Romanism
if he had done so; for he honestly believed his Church the true one.
But she might perhaps have loved him; and nobody ever had done so
hitherto.
"In these papers, Brother Cuthbert," resumed the old Jesuit, "you
will find instructions in cipher. I need not charge you to keep them
carefully."
Stevens put them safely away in a private pocket.
"And I will detain you no longer."
Stevens had reached the door, when he turned back.
"Father Boniface, if you think it not an improper request, would you
tell me in what part of France I was found?"
Father Boniface looked into his young friend's face, and thought it a
very improper request. But he had his own reasons for not bluntly
refusing an answer.
"In Auvergne, my son," he said, shortly. "Ask no more."
Cuthbert Stevens passed out of the whitesmith's shop without stopping
for his customary five minutes' chat with Mrs. Butler.
"Ah, poor gentleman!" said she to herself; "he's had a bit of bad
news."
He had had something like it. He walked very rapidly up Gray's Inn
Road, knowing little and caring less whither he was going, till he
found himself in the fields beyond Clerkenwell. There he threw
himself on the grass, and resting his head upon his hands, gave
himself up for one hour to mournful and profitless visions of that
Auvergne home, and of the unknown father and mother who might have
loved him once.
"And I shall never see them!" he thought. "So near the Waldensian
valleys:--what a stronghold of heresy they must be! Ah, well! I can
say every day a mass with an intention for my parents. Who knows if
God may be merciful to them, after all? The soul is worth more than
the body, and eternal happiness is worth more than any amount of ease
or felicity in this world. From what a fate, therefore, have I been
rescued! I ought to be very thankful."
But gratitude and love are the last things into which a man can scold
himself, and Stevens did not feel so thankful as he thought he ought
to be. He might have been more so, had he known that Father Boniface
had not troubled himself to tell him the exact truth. It was from
the outermost village of the Val Martino, in the Waldensian valleys,
not from Auvergne, that he had been stolen away. And in that Val
Martino, though he was never to know it, every night knelt Lucetta
Carmagnoli, mourning before God--less for the martyred husband, or
for the two brave young sons slain in battle, than for the lost
first-born, whose fate she could guess only too well. Wavering from
hour to hour between the passion of hope--"Oh that Ishmael might live
before Thee!"[8]--and the passion of despair--"Would God I had died
for thee! O Absalom, my son, my son!"[9]
Such prayers and tears seem lost sometimes. But "are they not in Thy
book?"[10] "What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know
hereafter."[11] It is not only Simon the son of Jonas who is asked,
now in the tempest, now in the still, small voice, "Lovest thou Me
more than these?"[12]
Stevens rose from his green couch, and walked back to London. His
heart had been dormant all his life till now, and it went easily to
sleep again. His conscience the Jesuits had crushed and twisted and
trained so early that it never troubled him with a single pang. By
the time that he had reached Fleet Street, and had solaced his inner
man with a second dish of coffee (and something in it) at the Tory
coffee-house, Mr. Cuthbert Stevens was himself again. And if he did
look back on the hour spent in the fields at Clerkenwell, it was only
to reflect with momentary annoyance that, as he would have phrased
it, he had made a fool of himself. And it was very rarely indeed
that he thought that substantive applicable in the slightest degree
to the Rev. Cuthbert Stevens.
"Well, there is one comfort," he meditated, as he sat imbibing the
mixture: "nobody saw me do it."
And fortified by this consideration, and the coffee, &c., Mr. Stevens
walked into the residence of the Editor of the _Postboy_, and
expressed his desire for an interview with that rather awful
individual. There was a smile on his lips when he came out. He was
engaged at a high salary to supply foreign news to the columns of the
Whig paper. Mr. Buckley, the Ministerial agent, had spoken very
highly of Mr. Stevens to the Editor. Mr. Stevens was rejoiced to
hear it, and he told the truth for once when he said so. The Editor
thought Mr. Stevens set a rather high value on his services. Mr.
Stevens could assure him that he had received innumerable
applications from the Tory side, and it was only his deep attachment
to the Whig cause, and his respect for the _Postboy_ in particular,
which had led him, by asking so little, rather to underrate the
importance of the information he could supply. The importance,
indeed, of the information which Stevens could have supplied would
not have been overrated at double the figure; but of this little fact
the Editor of the _Postboy_ was unconscious.
Here we part with the Rev. Cuthbert Stevens. The rest of his life
was a mere repetition, with variations, of what we have seen. The
Whigs continued to take him for a Whig spy, the Tories for a Tory,
while he himself cared in reality for neither, and was devoted but to
one thing, and ready to be either, neither, or both, in the service
and at the command of that Church which supplied to him the place of
home, and parents, and friends, and God. And at the close of such a
life followed the priest, and the crucifix, and the unction, and the
false hope which shall perish, and the death that has no bands.
Ere this Rome has employed, and destroyed, many a Cuthbert Stevens.
What do the crushed devotees matter to the idol? Let the car of
Juggernaut roll on! "Thou art become guilty in thy blood that thou
hast shed, and hast defiled thyself in thine idols which thou hast
made."[13] "In the cup which she hath filled, fill to her
double."[14]
Perhaps the greatest of Lucetta Carmagnoli's mercies was what she
thought the bitterest of her sorrows--that she never knew what became
of her lost child.
It is time for us to return to France.
On one of these spring afternoons of 1712, Celia stood looking out of
her bedroom window. They were in Lady Ingram's country-house at St.
Germain-en-Laye. She was very curious, and yet almost afraid, to see
the Palace--that house in which, as she knew, he dwelt whom Squire
Passmore called the Pretender, and Lady Ingram the King. Celia
herself had owned to no politics at all. She found it quite work
enough to steer between her religious Scyllas and Charybdises,
without setting up political ones. In all things not absolutely
wrong, she was resolved meekly to submit to Lady Ingram, so that her
step-mother might have no just cause for dissatisfaction with her in
respect to those few points which to her were really matters of
conscience. When Patient came quietly in with an armful of the linen
which she was unpacking and putting away, Celia said--
"Patient, do you know where the _château_ is?"
"The Pretender dwells over yonder, Madam," answered Patient, pointing
in the direction which she wished to indicate.
"So you call him the Pretender!" observed Celia, smilingly.
"I was taught, Madam, when a wean, that the people should have nought
to do with an uncovenanted King. Moreover, the reign of His Highness
the Lord Protector being so much better for the faith, hath perhaps
turned me a little against this one and all his."
Celia laughed softly to herself. What would Squire Passmore have
said, from whose lips the gentleman so respectfully designated by
Patient was, at the gentlest, "that scoundrel Oliver"? She began to
wonder how many more phases of political feeling she should find.
"I ask your pardon if I have grieved you, Madam," said Patient, when
Celia remained silent, "I would not willingly do that. Sir Edward, I
know, was strong for King James, and would doubtless have been so for
his son: and 'tis most like you will feel with your father. Only we
were taught otherwise. When King James was driven out of London, I
heard that, the Sabbath after, in Scotland, a certain godly minister
did discourse from that word--'And death shall be chosen rather than
life by all the residue of them that remain of this evil family,
which remain in all the places whither I have driven them, saith the
Lord of hosts.'"[15]
"I think that was rather too strong, Patient," said Celia, doubtfully.
"Perchance so, Madam. Indeed, I know there be some that do think
King Charles the First safe--in Heaven, I mean. God grant it! I
only know that he was a deceitful man, and an uncovenanted King."
"I have always heard him called a martyr, Patient."
"He was not _that_!" said Patient, less calmly than usual. "At
least, not if a martyr be a witness for the Lord's truth. Did he not
try to force Prelacy upon Scotland? Call such a man a martyr! A
martyr to Prelacy, forsooth! a martyr to deceit, and broken faith,
and cruel oppression! We were the martyrs, Madam." And Patient shut
a drawer wrathfully, for her.
"I don't know much about it, Patient," said Celia, honestly. "I have
been taught to believe that King Charles was a good and misfortunate
man. But now I can hardly tell what to believe among you all.
My--Squire Passmore thinks that King Charles was a good man and a
martyr, yet calls this man the Pretender, and will scarce hear him
named with patience. My step-mother thinks them both good; and you
think them both bad. I cannot tell what to think."
Celia came from the window as Lady Ingram entered the room.
"Patient," she said, "lay out Mrs. Celia's new court-dress on the
bed--you know which it is. My dear, this afternoon I will lead you
to kiss the Queen's hand. Your manners are slightly improved, and I
wish you to show respect to the Court."
"Very well, Madam," resignedly answered Celia.
"You will enter behind me; stop, and go forward, when I do. When I
draw aside, come forward, kneel, and kiss the Queen's hand when she
offers it. Should she speak to you, remain kneeling while you
answer, unless she command you to rise. If she do not speak, rise,
draw to one side, as I shall have done, and stand there."
"Yes, Madam."
"Do not look about you: keep your eyes on the Queen. Don't look
awkward. Be self-possessed."
"I will do my best, Madam."
Lady Ingram tapped Celia's cheek with her fan, a sign, that she was
unusually gracious. "Be ready in an hour," she said, and departed.
Thérèse came next to dress Celia's hair. Patient, in solemn and
evidently disapproving silence, helped her to dress. She found
herself, when the process was over, in a quilted pink satin
petticoat, a bodice and train of white satin, trimmed with gold
braid, white satin shoes, long white gloves, pearl necklace and
bracelets: her hair was dressed very high, and adorned with pink
roses and pearls. As Celia looked at herself in the glass, she felt
much inclined to sing with the celebrated little old woman, "Sure
this is none of I!" but much time was not allowed her for the
indulgence of that feeling.
"Your servant, Madam!" observed Philip's voice in the corridor,
accompanied by a tap at the door. "Don't keep us waiting,
please,--we shall be very cross if you do. I protest! aren't you
smart!"
Mr. Philip himself was scarcely less so. He wore a light blue coat
embroidered in gold, a white satin waistcoat and breeches, white silk
stockings, and white satin shoes with large rosettes. In the
drawing-room stood Lady Ingram, attired in white and gold.
"Turn round!" was her greeting to Celia and Philip. "Nonsense, not
you!" as Philip made a _pirouette_ in answer. "That will do. Now,
follow me; and whatever you feel, don't look awkward or afraid."
Celia meekly followed her step-mother to the carriage, which rolled
away with the trio, and in a few minutes deposited them at one of the
half-dozen doors of a large and stately mansion. On the terrace,
before them, ladies and gentlemen were walking and chatting, most of
them in rather shabby, though full, court-dress. Lady Ingram bowed
to two or three, gave her hand to her son, and once more enjoining
Celia to keep close behind, passed on into the Palace.
"This is English ground, Madam," observed Philip, over his shoulder.
Celia wished it were. Up lofty staircases, through suites of rooms,
past groups of servants in the royal livery of England, worn and
faded, she followed Lady Ingram and Philip, until in one apartment a
lady dressed in black rose to meet them, and shook hands with Lady
Ingram.
"You can go in to the Queen, my friend," she said; "there is only His
Majesty with her."
There were only two persons in the room beyond. A gentleman stood at
the window reading the _Gazette_; a lady in mourning sat writing at a
very shabby little table in the middle of the room. A glance at each
assured Celia that they were mother and son; and she speedily
discovered who they were, by Lady Ingram's kneeling before the
quiet-looking lady in mourning, who sat at the shabby little table.
"Ah, _ma chère_!" said the lady, in a soft voice, turning to her;
adding, "I am very glad to see you. It is long since I had the
pleasure."
Lady Ingram answered in French, and still kneeling, "I have been in
Paris, Madame, and in England for a short time. I had the honor to
inform your Majesty that I was going there to fetch my step-daughter."
"This is your daughter?" asked the Queen, turning with a smile to
Celia.
Lady Ingram drew aside to leave room for her. "She scarcely speaks
French yet," she observed.
As Celia knelt and looked up into the face before her, she was much
struck with that smile. It changed the aspect of the whole face.
The air of subdued sadness which had dwelt upon the classic regular
features and in the quiet soft eyes, passed away, and a brighter
expression lighted them brilliantly while the smile remained. She
could fancy what that face might have been in the old days, when, at
the close of the coronation, nearly thirty years before, the
Westminster students had called up that smile by their spontaneous
shout of "_Vivat Regina Maria!_" Celia forgot all about kissing the
Queen's hand, until she heard Lady Ingram's voice beside her whisper,
in a subdued tone, "_Cette folle!_" Then she blushed painfully and
hastily performed her homage. The charm which enfolded the Jacobites
had been cast around her; the spell of voice, and eyes, and smile,
which she would never forget any more.
"Why so hurried, my child?" asked the soft voice, in Celia's own
tongue. "Do not be frightened of me, I pray you."