knees with a smile in answer to the Queen's. What fright she felt
was not for Her Majesty, but for Lady Ingram. As she regained her
feet, she suddenly saw that the Queen's son was standing beside his
mother. The formidable mortal, whom Squire Passmore would have
knocked down as his first greeting, and Patient have sermonized as an
uncovenanted King! Hardly knowing what she did, Celia knelt again
and kissed the hand that was extended to her. It was a soft white
hand, which did not look as if it would hold the sceptre very
harshly, and on one finger glittered a large gold ring set with a
balas ruby, upon which a cross was engraved. Celia would have
regarded that jewel with deep interest and veneration had she known
its romantic history, stranger than any romance. This was the last
relic of James's fallen fortunes, the ancient coronation-ring, "the
wedding-ring of England," which had gleamed from many a royal hand
before, and had been employed to many a strange end. While Philip in
his turn performed his homage, Celia studied the royal persons before
her.
First, the King. He was tall, very tall[16]--a man whom few would
pass without wondering who he was; rather thin, but with all this not
ungraceful, and with an air of much distinction about him. An oval
face he had, with a bright complexion; a forehead smooth and high,
but not at all broad; arched eyebrows; eyes of a dark, rich
brown,[17] large, and very soft; a mouth rather too large for strict
proportion, but bearing an expression of mingled sadness and
sweetness, which grew into fascination when he smiled. His smiles
were rare, and his voice seldom heard; but very often Celia caught a
momentary upward glance of the eyes, accompanied by a silent motion
of the lips, and she wondered if it were possible that he was
praying.[18] He wore no wig, only his own dark chestnut hair curling
over his shoulders.
This was the King whom England had cast out. She would have none of
him, under any pretext. Rather than be ruled by this son of her own,
she had set "a stranger over her, which was not her brother."[19]
Celia wondered, for the first time in her life, whether England had
done well. She turned with a sigh from the son to the mother, who
was conversing familiarly with Lady Ingram, seated beside her.
The Queen, Maria Beatrice, or Mary, as the English called her, Celia
thought a most fascinating woman. She resembled her son in height
and form, being very tall,[20] and slender.[21] Her face was
oval,[22] her complexion clear and fair, but very pale;[23] her mouth
rather large,[24] but her smile to Celia perfectly enchanting; her
hair, eyebrows, and eyes were black. The eyes were very large,
clear, and brilliant;[25] though when they smiled, as they were doing
now--
"It was as if remembering they had wept,
And knowing they should some day weep again."[26]
"And now tell me all about it, my dear," the Queen was saying to Lady
Ingram. "Sophia gave you my message about the Bishop?"
"Yes, Madam; and I am quite delighted to think of it. Your Majesty
is aware that the Tories are in greater power than ever?"
"Dean Atterbury said so in his last note," replied the Queen, opening
her desk, and apparently searching for the letter. "He has written
often lately, and very kindly."
Celia listened in much surprise, to hear that an unsuspected
Protestant dignitary was in constant and familiar correspondence with
the Court of St. Germains.[27]
"Your Majesty has not heard from the Duke?"
"From Blenheim? no, not since I saw you: but the Duchess of
Tyrconnel[28] was here not long ago, and she tells me that there
seems no hope of the Duke's return to power."[29]
Celia's astonishment grew.
"Does your Majesty fear that the Princess"--suggested Lady Ingram.
"No, my dear, no," replied the Queen, rather sadly; "I do not think
she can have discovered. She is not naturally suspicious, and you
know that the Duchess has been her dearest friend for many years."
"I scarcely think much of that," answered Lady Ingram. "Beside, as
your Majesty knows, this woman Abigail, who has crept up to power on
the wreck of hers, and who is a better friend of ours than ever she
was, has all the influence now over the Princess Anne; and she would
doubtless willingly let her know if she discovered it, simply to
spite the Duchess, and prevent her return to power. Of course the
supplanter would not like to be supplanted."
"I know it, my dear Lady Ingram, I know it," responded the Queen,
with a sadder air than ever.
"Also your Majesty will remember"----But here Lady Ingram bent
forward and spoke low, so that Celia could hear no more. She had
heard quite enough already to make her doubtful of the truth and
honesty of everybody in the room but Philip.
"Is this your first visit to France?"
Celia looked up suddenly to find herself addressed by the King.
"Yes, Sir," she said, hesitating very much, coloring, and doubting
whether, in saying "your Majesty," she would have been doing right or
wrong. "Yes, this is my first visit."
"Do you like it?"
"Not so well as England."
"Spoken like a true Englishwoman!" said the King, with his rare
smile. "Neither do I."
Remembering that he had been carried away as an infant in arms, Celia
wondered what he knew about it.
"I hope you are one of my friends?" was the next question.
Celia looked up, blushed, and looked down again. "I do not know,
Sir," she said.
"I compliment you on your honesty," said he. "'Tis a rare quality."
Celia was beginning to think it was.
"I beg your pardon, Sir," she replied, timidly; "I was brought up to
think otherwise."
"Let us hope to convert you," he answered. "I assure you that your
friends can hope for no great degree of prosperity till they become
mine;[30] and I am not without hopes of changing all England on that
question. Do you think it impossible?"
"I almost do, Sir," said Celia, smiling, and playing with her fan a
little nervously.
"We shall see who is right," added the King, "Ingram, have you seen
Colville lately?"
"And I assure your Majesty," said Lady Ingram rising, "that I shall
make the fullest inquiries about it, and direct Sophie to do so."
"So be it, my dear," said the Queen, quietly. "Farewell! You will
bring this little maid again? I _had_ a daughter--you know. In
Arcadia--once! '_Fiat voluntas Tua._'"
The last words were spoken very low and falteringly. The beloved
Princess Louise, surnamed by her father _La Consolatrice_, had been
taken away from her mother's eyes as with a stroke, only six weeks
before.[31]
And for one minute Celia forgot dishonesty and Popery and everything
else on the part of the exiled House, as she looked pityingly into
the tear-dimmed eyes of the almost desolate mother. There were four
graves at Westminster[32] beside the one at Chaillot, and the young
man who stood beside the Queen was the last of her children: "the
only son of his mother, and she was a widow!"[33]
And the verdict Celia whispered to her own heart at the close
was--"Yes, England has done well--has done right. But oh, if it had
not been necessary!"
"Chocolate!" announced Mr. Philip Ingram to himself, simultaneously
with the presentation of himself at his sister's boudoir-door.
"Patient, bring me a cup--there's a good soul. Why, how long is it
before supper?"
"Scarcely two hours, I know," said Celia; "but I had very little
dinner, and I am hungry."
"You dined on your coming interview with the Queen, did you? Well,
how do you like her?"
"I like her face very much, and feel very sorry for her."
"You like her face!" repeated Philip, putting his hands in his
pockets. "What a droll answer! Do you mean that you dislike her
voice, or what part of her?"
"Nothing in that way. Philip, I wonder if there is a scrap of
honesty left in the world!"
"Precious little, my dear--I can tell you that. Patient, you are a
diamond of the first water!" The last remark by way of receipt for
the chocolate.
"Well, I think so! I never could have imagined that such men as the
Duke of Marlborough and Dean Atterbury were eating the Queen's bread,
and deceiving her every day by writing to these people and offering
help."
Philip laughed. "So that is what has angered and astonished you?
Why, any man in Paris could have told you that months ago. 'Tis no
secret, my innocence--from any but the Princess Anne."
"'Tis rank dishonesty!" exclaimed Celia, warmly. "I don't complain
of their helping this Court, but of their want of truth. If they are
Jacobites, let them have the manliness to say so."
"You are such an innocent!" responded Philip, still laughing. "Why,
my simple little sister, all is fair in politics, as in love and war."
"I don't see that 'all is fair' in any of the three. What is right
is right, and what is wrong is wrong."
"Excellent, my logical damsel! But what are right and wrong? That
is the first question. Is there a certain abstract thing called
right or virtue? or does right differ according to the views or
circumstances of the actor?"
"I do not understand you, Philip. To do right is to obey God, and to
do wrong is to disobey God. There was no wrong in Adam's and Eve's
eating fruit: what made it wrong was God's having forbidden them to
touch that one tree. St. Paul says, 'Where no law is there is no
transgression.'"[34]
"Upon my word, you are a regular divine! But--leaving St. Paul on
one side for the present--how, according to your theory, shall we
discover what is wrong?"
"Just by not leaving St. Paul on one side," answered Celia, smiling;
"for the Bible is given us for that purpose."
"Very few definite rules are to be found in the Bible, my doctor of
divinity."
"Quite enough for all of us, Philip."
"Pardon me! The very thing, I think, is, that there are not enough.
A few more 'thou shalts' and 'thou shalt nots' would be of infinite
service. Your view, if I understand it, is to bring the Bible to
bear upon every act of life; but how you contrive to do so I can't
imagine. Now, look here! I will give you a case, my fair casuist.
Would it be right or wrong for me, at this moment, sitting on this
sofa, to take a pinch of snuff?"
"I must ask you a few questions before I can answer."
"Catechize, by all means. 'What is my name?' Philip Eugene. 'Who
gave me this name?' Don't recollect in the least. 'What did they do
for me?' Why, one of them gave me a gold goblet, and another a set
of silver Apostle-spoons:[35] and I am not aware that they did
anything else for me."
"Philip, Philip!" remonstrated Celia, laughing in spite of herself.
"Please don't let us jest upon these serious subjects. I don't want
to ask those questions."
"Well, I won't jest, my dear. I will be very quiet and grave."
"Does your mother object to your taking snuff?"
"Not exactly. I don't think she much likes it."
"Then your question is answered. If she does not like it, it is--for
you--wrong."
"Oh! you arrive at your conclusions in that roundabout sort of way?
That is rather clever but I will see if I cannot puzzle you yet."
"I have no doubt you can, very easily," said Celia. "You may readily
propound fifty such cases which I could not answer. You see, those
are not my circumstances: and we can scarce expect that God will give
us grace to see what is right in difficulties which He does not lay
upon us. Do you not think so, Patient?"
"I do so, Madam. I have ever found it harder to see the way out when
I had hedged up mine own way, than when the Lord, as with Noah, had
shut me in."
"Ah! there you come round to your divinity," said Philip, lightly.
"Whatever I ask you, you always centre there; and Patient will say
Amen to all your propositions, I have no doubt. But to return to our
point of departure: I hardly see your 'rank dishonesty' in the acts
of the Court. I believe this--that if the Queen thought it
dishonest, she would not do it. She is considered here a very
religious woman: not in your way, I dare say. But we freethinkers,
you know, do not set much value on small differences. If a man be
sincere, that is the chief thing; even some of the more enlightened
of the Catholic Fathers allow that. Does not the Bible say that
there are twelve gates to Heaven?[36] There is a reference for you."
"A reference that'll no hold water, Mr. Philip," said Patient,
looking up. "For though there be twelve gates into the City, there's
only door into the Fold:[37] and I'll be fain to know how you are
shaping, without passing the one door, to get in at any of the twelve
gates. For whoso 'entereth not in by the door into the sheepfold,
but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a
robber.'"[38]
"Philip," added Celia, softly, "there is but one gate and one way to
life, which is Jesus Christ."
"Ah! at it again!" said Philip, lifting his eyebrows, and finishing
his chocolate.
"Always at it," answered Celia, in the same tone. "'Out of the
abundance of the heart the mouth' must speak.[39] Philip, your idea
about sincerity will lead you terribly astray--I am sure it will.
There is but one truth; and if a man believe falsehood, will his
thinking it truth make it so? Sincerity is not the chief thing. The
chief things are faith and love in us, and the Lord Jesus Christ out
of us. 'He that hath the Son hath life: and he that hath not the Son
of God hath not life.'[40] O Philip! listen to me this once! 'It is
not a vain thing for thee, because it is thy life!'"[41]
Philip looked into his sister's earnest eyes, rose and kissed her,
and sat down again.
"You are a capital little sister," he said, "and admirably cut out
for a _réligieuse_. I am quite glad the Protestants don't take to
that amusement, or I should certainly lose you, and I like you too
well to afford it."
Celia sighed. Her words did not appear to have made the faintest
impression.
"What a sigh!" said Philip. "My dear little Celia! do you take me
for an utter reprobate, that you think it necessary to mourn over me
in that way?"
"Philip," said Celia, very solemnly, "a man must be either inside the
sheepfold of Jesus, or outside it. Without is without, whether the
door which he refuses to enter be a yard from him or a thousand
miles. Without the Fold now, without the City hereafter. And
'without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers,
and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.'"[42]
"I know mighty few people who are in, then," said Philip, whistling,
and considering the carpet.
"I am afraid so," answered Celia, shortly. "But the one question for
us, Philip, is--Are _we_ in?"
A question to which Mr. Philip Ingram made no reply.
[1] John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, second son of Winston
Churchill and Elizabeth Drake his wife: born at Musbury, 1650; died
at Windsor Lodge, June 16, 1722; buried in Westminster Abbey, August
9, 1722.
[2] Eugenio Francesco, fifth and youngest son of Eugenio Maurizio,
Prince of Carignano, and Olympia Mancini his wife: born at Paris,
October 18, 1603; died at Vienna, April 10, 1736.
[3] Sarah, daughter and co-heir of Richard Jennings: born at
Holywell, St. Albans, May 29, 1660; married, in the spring of 1678,
John Churchill; died at Marlborough House, October 18, 1744; buried
at Blenheim.
[4] Queen Anne was the last Sovereign who performed this ceremony.
[5] Daniel De Foe, author of "Robinson Crusoe:" born 1663; died in
London, April 24, 1731.
[6] The account of his dealings with Mist, which are little to De
Foe's credit, has lately been brought to light. It is contained in a
series of letters from himself, recently discovered in the
State-Paper Office. They have been printed in the _London Review_,
June 4-11, 1864, and in _Notes and Queries_, 3d S., vi. 527. These
letters show painfully the utter demoralization of parties at the
time in question. The account given above of De Foe's interview with
Mist is taken almost verbatim from his own letters, and has received
no further change than was necessary to throw it into the form of
dialogue; but the event has been ante-dated by six years. It really
took place in 1718, and Lords Townshend and Sunderland were De Foe's
employers.
[7] See De Foe's Letters, quoted above.
[8] Gen. xvii. 18.
[9] 2 Sam. xviii. 33.
[10] Ps. lvi. 8.
[11] John xiii. 7.
[12] John xxi. 15.
[13] Ezek. xxii. 4.
[14] Rev. xviii. 6.
[15] Jer. viii. 3.
[16] Gray, the poet, who gives a very spiteful portrait of James, as
if he had some personal pique against him, speaks of his "rueful
length of person," and "extreme tallness and awkwardness." Spence
describes him as "a tall, well-limbed man, of a pleasing countenance.
He has an air of great distinction."
[17] His Stonyhurst portrait gives him gray-blue eyes, and some
others dark blue, but the majority have brown.
[18] Gray cynically remarks that "he has extremely the air and look
of an idiot, particularly when he laughs or prays; the first he does
not often, the latter continually."
[19] Deut. xvii. 15. This passage was very frequently cited by the
Jacobites as barring the accession of William of Orange, though his
mother was the eldest daughter of Charles the I., and he stood next
in succession to the children of James II. It was much more
applicable to the House of Hanover, which was further from the
original English stock.
[20] "Tall and admirably shaped," said Lord Peterborough, in
describing her to his royal master when negotiating the marriage in
1673. She was then fourteen. In 1688 Mademoiselle Do Montpensier
thought her "_une grande créature mélancolique_." Lady Cavendish
(_née_ Rachel Russell), writing to a friend, describes Mary II. as
"tall, but not so tall as the last Queen" (Maria Beatrice).
[21] "_Fort maigre_"--Mdlle. De Montpensier.
[22] "Face the most graceful oval."--Lord Peterborough.
[23] "Complexion of the last degree of fairness."--Lord Peterborough.
"Complexion clear, but somewhat pale."--Mad. De Sévigné. "_Assez
jaune_."--Mdlle. De Montpensier.
[24] "Mouth too large for perfect beauty, but her lips pouting, and
teeth lovely."--Mad. De Sévigné.
[25] "Hair black as jet; eyebrows and eyes black, but the latter so
full of light and sweetness, that they did dazzle and charm
too."--Lord Peterborough. "Her eyes are always tearful, but large,
and very dark and beautiful."--Mad. De Sévigné. Some of her
portraits give her very dark brown hair and eyes.
[26] Mrs. Barrett Browning's "Aurora Leigh."
[27] Francis Atterbury, second son of the Rev. Lewis Atterbury and
Elizabeth Giffard his wife: born 1662; consecrated Bishop of
Rochester, July 5, 1713; was deprived for treason, May 16, 1723, and
died in exile at Paris, February 15, 1732. At this period he was
Dean of Carlisle.
[28] Frances, eldest daughter of Richard Jennings, and sister of
Sarah Duchess of Marlborough, celebrated at the Court of Charles II.
as La Belle Jennings: married Richard Talbot, Duke of Tyrconnel; died
at Dublin, March 7, 1730.
[29] The Duke of Maryborough corresponded with the royal exiles,
especially towards the close of Queen Anne's reign, and appears
sometimes to have held out hopes to them which it is doubtful whether
he ever intended to fulfil.
[30] James said this to Mr. Spence about a dozen years later.
[31] Louise Marie Thérèse, born at St. Germains, June 28, 1692; died
at the same place, after a few days' illness, of small-pox, a disease
very fatal to the House of Stuart, April 18, 1712.
[32] Katherine Laura, buried October 5, 1675; Isabella, buried March
1681; Charles, buried December 1677; and Charlotte Maria, buried
October 1682.
[33] Luke vii. 12.
[34] Rom. iv. 15.
[35] Apostle-spoons were spoons whose handles were carved into
figures of the Apostles. Twelve went to a set.
[36] Rev. xxi. 12.
[37] John x. 7.
[38] Ibid. 1.
[39] Matt. xii. 34.
[40] 1 John v. 12
[41] Deut. xxxii. 47.
[42] Rev. xxii. 12.
IX.
INSIDE AND OUTSIDE.
"But sure he is the Prince of the world; let his nobility remain in
his Court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to
be too little for pomp to enter: some, that humble themselves, may;
but the many will be too chill and tender; and they'll be for the
flowery way, that leads to the broad gate and the great fire."
--SHAKSPEARE, "_All's Well that Ends Well_," Act iv. Scene 5.
"My Dearest Mother,--(For I cannot bear to call you anything else)--I
have so much to tell you that I know not where to begin. I am now,
as you will see by my date, at St. Germains, which is a rather pretty
place. My step-mother is kind to me, in her way, which is not
exactly your way; but I am quite comfortable, so pray be not troubled
about me. I like Philip, my younger brother, very much; he oft
reminds me of Charley. My elder brother, Edward, I have not yet
seen, he being now absent from home. I have seen the Pretender and
the late Queen Mary,[1] both of whom are very tall persons, having
dark hair and eyes. I have made no friends here but one; you shall
hear about her shortly. So much for my news.
"And now I wish very much to hear yours. Are you all well? And pray
tell me anything of note concerning any person whom I know. All news
from England has great interest for me now.
"Pray give all manner of loving messages for me. Tell my dear father
that the people here hunt a great deal, but always stags. There is
no cock-fighting, at which I am glad, for 'tis but a cruel sport to
my thinking; nor no baiting nor wrestling, but a great deal of
duelling. I like the French gentlemen ill, and the ladies worse.
Bell should come here to see the modes; 'twould give her infinite
pleasure. I can speak French tolerable well now, and if my father
and you choose, could teach Lucy on my return. For I am looking
forward to that, Mother dear--sometimes very much indeed. To think
that 'tis six months, nearly, since I saw one of you! and if you have
writ I have not had your letters. If aught should bring Harry to
Paris, do pray bid him visit me; I should be so infinitely glad.
Pray give my love to Cicely, and tell her I would she knew my woman
here, whom I like mightily, and so would she. I hope Charley is a
good boy, and that Lucy tries to fill my place with you. At the end
of this month, if my Lady Ingram say nought, I shall ask her when she
will part with me. I beg that you will write to me, if 'twere but a
line. Indeed I should like dearly to hear from every one of you.
Anything you like to write will be infinitely welcome to--
"Madam,
"Your dutiful child and faithful servant,
"CELIA INGRAM.[2]
"ST. GERMAIN-EN-LAYE,
_May_ 15, 1712."
Celia folded her letter, addressed it, and sat thinking. How would
they receive it? She pictured Lucy rushing into the parlor, waving
it above her head, and Isabella languidly rebuking her for her rough
entrance. She could guess the Squire's comments on many things she
had said, and she knew that the very mention of the Pretender would
call forth some strong participles. Madam Passmore would fold up the
letter with "Dear child!" and drop it into her ample pocket. Cicely
would courtesy and ask if Mrs. Celia was a-coming. One month more,
and then surely Lady Ingram must be satisfied. But then came another
thought. She would be very sorry to leave Philip and Patient, even
to return to Ashcliffe. Would Lady Ingram be induced to let her take
Patient with her? As to Philip, surely he could visit her if he
chose.
"Mademoiselle!" said the voice of Thérèse beside her.
Celia turned, and saw that Thérèse was holding a little pink note,
which having delivered, the French maid departed. She broke the
seal, and discovered to her surprise that the note was from Lady
Ingram herself. It ran thus:
"MY DAUGHTER,--I shall not be able to receive you this afternoon, as
I am suffering from megrims.[3] I will send Philip to keep you
company. I wish you to know that when I return to Paris, which will
be in four days, I will lead you to kiss the hand of the King of
France. After this you will be able to enter into company.
"CLAUDE INGRAM."
Celia dropped the note in the trepidation which it caused her. She
had no desire to be presented to the originator of the Dragonnades.
And what was "entering into company?" She was sure it meant what she
would not like, and might think actually wrong.
"Do you drive out this afternoon, Madam?" asked Patient, appearing at
the door.
"No, Patient," said Celia, hesitatingly, for she was still thinking
of the note. "Mr. Philip will drink a dish of chocolate with me
here."
"Yes, Madam," replied Patient, and disappeared.
Celia changed her dress with a heavy heart, and came back into her
boudoir, where preparations for the chocolate were made. She found
Mr. Philip Ingram very comfortably established on her sofa.
"Good evening, Madam," observed that gentleman, without any
alteration in his attitude of repose.
"Philip, what is it to go into company?"
"To dress fine and tell lies. Why?"
Celia gave him the note in answer.
"Ah!" remarked he. "Megrims, has she? Let me see now--the megrims
are Père Letellier; yes, Père Dumain is a cold on the chest."
"What do you mean, Philip?" asked Celia, in bewilderment.