gives an occasional _séance_ to her spiritual advisers, on which
occasion she tells the world--fibs."
"You do not really mean it?"
"Of course I do."
"But what does she do?"
"In her _séance_? Confesses her sins--that is, so far as I can judge
from my recollection of one such occurrence at which I was present
when a small kitten, she regales her spiritual pastor with some very
spicy tales of all her friends and acquaintances."
"I am sure you are joking, Philip. But please tell me what it is
that she wants me to do? Is it to go to all her assemblies?"
"Precisely, my Grey Sister--and to a few Court balls, and a play or
two."
"O dear!" sighed poor Celia. "I never can do _that_,"
"Don't sigh in that heart-rending style," said Philip. "As to
assemblies, there will not be above three more this summer, and we
may be in China by next year. What is your special grief?"
"It looks like conformity to the world," answered Celia, in a low
tone, for she did not expect Philip to understand her.
"Where is the world?" laughed that irreverent young gentleman. "That
superb satin gown of yours, or the chocolate, or the talk? Eh,
Patient? What do you say, my veteran prioress?"
"In your heart, Mr. Philip," answered Patient, setting down the
chocolate-pot which she had just brought in. "The world outside, and
an evil worldly human heart within, will work no little mischief.
I'll warrant it did _Him_ no harm dining with the Pharisee[4]--not
that Simon was an over-pleasant man to do with, I should say: and
when your heart is as pure and holy as His, why, Sir, I'm thinking
you may go, and welcome. But I've work enough cut out for me in
keeping the devil without mine own door, without calling at his to
ask how he fareth."
"Thank you, Dr. Patient. Rather a short sermon. Celia, my dear, I
have a scrap of information for you which will make you open your
eyes."
"The shortest sermon I ever heard of was one of the most salutary,
Sir,--to wit, when Nathan said to poor sinful David, 'Thou art the
man!'"[5]
"You are very disrespectful to His Israelitish Majesty," said Philip,
lightly. "Well, Mrs. Celia, know that I have succeeded at last in
obtaining her Ladyship's leave, and the King's commission, to go into
the army. Lieutenant Ingram, Madam, at your service!" and Philip
rose and made a bow which would not have disgraced Monsieur Bontems.
"Philip! Are you really a lieutenant?"
"Really. And the best half of the battle is the battle. There is a
prospect of the troops being called to active service."
Celia turned pale.
"Does your mother know that?"
"No."
"O Philip! you have not been deceiving her, have you?"
"Smooth your ruffled brow, my fair reprover. I did not know it
myself until after His Majesty had promised me a commission. Of
course, after this I must be a fervent Jacobite. So don't you talk
any politics in my hearing, Mrs. Patient Irvine, unless you wish me
to fight you."
"I shall scarce be like to do that, Sir, unless you give me the
starting," quietly responded Patient.
"Thank you, no! I will keep my hands off that gunpowder-magazine. I
know how you can go off sometimes when touched by a few odd matches.
So, my charmer, your interview with me on the 18th of next month will
be the last for a while."
"Where are you going, Philip?"
"We march to the Netherlands Border, and meet Prince Eugene. We are
to be at Landrécies by the 10th of July."[6]
"Mr. Philip, you shall not go hence without a Bible in your knapsack."
"Thank you very much. Am I to read it when I am not firing?"
"If I could help it, Sir, you would not go without one other thing,
but that I cannot give you."
"What thing may that be?"
"The grace of God in your heart, Sir."
"You think me entirely devoid of it?" asked Philip, gravely.
"I do so, Mr. Philip," said Patient, looking him full in the face.
"Well, you are candid, if not complimentary," said he. "'Tis
fortunate for me that my conscience gives a rather fairer report than
you do. I wish Edward were back. I should like to have gone into
battle under dear old Ned's wing, and I'm in his own regiment, too.
He must have got an awful furlough."
"Your conscience, Sir!" exclaimed Patient, in a peculiar voice. "Do
you think that when Adam fell he left his conscience out?"
"My dear Patient, I wonder what you mean? God has given to every man
his conscience as his ruler, counsellor, and guide. He who hearkens
to his conscience is hearkening to God."
Patient did not answer at once. Then she said:
"Sir, I desire to speak with due reverence of the Lord's dealings.
But 'tis my true belief that he did nothing of the kind you say. He
gave, 'tis true, a guide to every man; but that guide was His own
blessed Word and His own Holy Spirit, not the man's poor, miserable,
fallen conscience. Truly, I would not take my conscience, which is
myself, to be my 'ruler, counsellor and guide.' One is my Ruler,
which is in heaven. One is my Counsellor--the Wonderful
Counsellor.[7] And one is my Guide--the Spirit, in the Word which He
hath written. Conscience given us for a guide, Mr. Philip! Why,
Paul went according to his conscience when he kept the clothes of
them that stoned Stephen.[8] Peter went according to his conscience
when he withdrew himself from them that were not of the circumcision,
and refused to eat with them.[9] Alexander the coppersmith very like
went according to his conscience when he did the Church much
evil.[10] To come to our own day, I dare be bold to guess that King
Charles went according to his conscience,--Charles the First, I mean;
I doubt his son had none. And Claverhouse, and this King Lewis, and
the Pretender--ay, the Pope himself, poor old sinner!--I'll be bound
they go according to their consciences. Nay, nay, Mr. Philip! When
Adam fell in Eden, surely his conscience fell with him. And just as
there can be nothing more sweet and gracious than an enlightened
conscience and a sanctified will, so there is little worse than a
blind conscience and a carnal will."
"You have such a curious set of arguments as I never heard. You are
for ever talking about the fall of Adam, which you seem to fancy
accounts for the falls and slips of you and me. I never knew Adam, I
am sure, and I don't hold myself responsible for his taste in apples.
How do you know that Adam 'fell,' as you are pleased to call it? And
supposing that he did, what in the name of common sense has that to
do with me?"
"It has more to do with you than you think for, Mr. Philip. As
Christ is the Head of His saved Church, so is Adam the head of the
whole family of man. 'In Adam all die.'[11] And as to knowing that
Adam fell, to say nought of the Lord's record of it, I scarce think I
need more evidence of that than your doubting it, Sir. If you can
look upon this world, as it is at this moment, and doubt that man is
a fallen, lost, ruined, miserable creature, there must be something
sore wrong with the eyes of your understanding."
"Or of yours," suggested Philip. "Oh, I see evil enough in the
world, I warrant you: but I see good along with it. Now the
principle you are fond of laying down is according to a text which I
think you have quoted to me twenty times--'In us dwelleth no good
thing.'"[12]
"I wish you thought so, Mr. Philip."
"Thank you for wishing me such an agreeable view of myself. But
while you are fixing your eyes intently on all the evil in the world,
you leave the good unseen."
"Would you kindly point it out to me, Sir?"
"Willingly. Take only one point. There are hosts of people in the
world--Catholics and others, even Mahometans and idolaters, I dare
say--whom you would consign kindly and certainly to everlasting
perdition"--
"I consign no man to perdition, Sir. The keys of hell and of death
are not in my hands, thank God! But I read of 'the son of
perdition,'[13] who went to his own place.'"[14]
"Well, among all these very wicked people, there is a vast deal of
charity. Is that good or bad?"
"Charity is good, Sir," said Patient, cautiously. "Paul would have
counted himself nothing worth if he had not charity.[15] But"--
"Then they are good for indulging it?" interrupted Philip.
"Sir, 'charity' is a much misused word. You are speaking of mere
alms, the which are good for them that receive them, if they use them
rightly; and good for them that give them, when given in a right
spirit. But these are no more evidence of a man's standing before
God"--
"Patient Irvine, have you read the Twenty-fifth chapter of Saint
Matthew?"
"I have read the Twenty-fifth of Matthew, Sir," answered Patient,
dryly, leaving out the "Saint."
"And are not the good people commended in that chapter, and do they
not obtain everlasting life, simply and solely for their charity to
the poor?"
"No, Sir," said Patient, placidly.
"Well, upon my word!" exclaimed Philip.
"Sir," resumed Patient, gravely, "it takes but a kindly heart to give
alms for its own sake, or for the receiver's sake. But it takes a
renewed heart to give alms for Christ's sake. Not the giving of alms
was the title to life everlasting, but the giving them 'unto Him'[16]
was the seal and evidence of their grace. They that know Christ will
look for a savor of Him in all things, and such as have it not are
bitter unto them. And I would call to your mind, Sir, that 'tis 'he
that believeth'[17] which shall be saved: not he which giveth alms.
At least, there is no such passage in _my_ Bible."
"You always run off to something else," said Philip, discontentedly.
"However, to come back to our first point--as to my conscience,
begging your pardon, and with your gracious leave, I think that God
has given it to me as a guide, and that I am bound to follow it."
Patient laid down her work, and looked Philip in the face.
"I read in the Word, Mr. Philip, of different sorts of consciences.
There is a defiled conscience. 'Unto them that are defiled and
unbelieving is nothing pure; but even their mind and conscience is
defiled.'[18] There is an evil conscience. 'Having our hearts
sprinkled from an evil conscience;'[19] and nought in earth or heaven
will sprinkle them to this end save the blood of Christ. There is a
conscience lost and smothered in dead works. 'How much more shall
the blood of Christ ... purge your conscience from dead works?'[20]
Now, Mr. Philip, see your 'good' and charity to the poor. _Works_,
you see: but, coming from dead hearts and souls--_dead_ works. And
lastly, deepest and deadliest of all, I read of a conscience 'seared
with a hot iron.'[21] Ay, there have been some of those in our day.
The Lord protect us from it! The devil hath such a grip of them that
they cannot free themselves; and, poor blind souls! they never know
it, but think they are doing God's service. Are these consciences
given as guides, Mr. Philip?"
"Well, you see, all that is Saint Peter's opinion."
"I ask you pardon, 'tis Paul, not Peter.'
"Oh, St. Paul? Well, 'tis all the same."
"Ay, Mr. Philip, it is all the same, for it was the Holy Ghost that
spake through both of them. And _His_ opinion is scarce to be dealt
with so lightly, methinks, seeing that by His word we shall be judged
at the last day."
Patient took up her work again, and said no more. Philip was silent
for a time: when he next spoke it was on a different subject.
"Celia, I want you to come down at my mother's next assembly. I
should like to present my friend Colville to you."
"I am rather curious to see him," she admitted.
"Mr. Philip, if I might presume to say a word"--
"'Presume to say a word!' you may presume to say a thousand, my dear
old Covenanter. What's in the wind now?"
"I wish you went less about with that Mr. Colville."
"Why? Does he wear his cravats without starch?" asked Philip,
stretching himself out lazily.
"I am afraid, Mr. Philip, that he wears his soul without grace," said
Patient, determinately. "If he were such another as his grandsire, I
would wish no better than to see you in his company. But I am sore
afraid that he draws you off, Sir, to places where you should not go."
"He never draws me off, Reverend Mother, to any place where I don't
choose to go, I assure you. He would find that a hard matter."
"The case is scarce bettered by that, Mr. Philip," replied Patient,
mournfully. "Nay, rather worsened, I'm thinking. O Mr. Philip! bear
with me, Sir, for I have sobbed many a prayer over your cradle, and
many a wrestle have I had with the Lord for a blessing on your soul.
You little ken, Sir, how even now, whenever I see you go out with
that Mr. Colville, I lay the case before the Lord at once. I could
not rest else."
"My dear old darling!" said Philip, smiling, and very affectionately,
"I wish you did not look at me through such very black spectacles.
There are better men than I am--many a one; but I hope there are a
few worse."
"That won't satisfy me, Sir," answered Patient. "I would have Sir
Edward and you the two best men in the world."
"And we are not!--at least I am not; I am not sure that Ned is not.
What a pity!"
"Ay, Mr. Philip, a bitterer pity than you'll ken till you come to
stand before God. I have watched you for years, Sir, like a mother
her babe, trusting to see you quietened and calmed by grace: and
to-night you seem to me lighter and gayer than ever. 'Tis no manner
of use--no manner of use. 'I have labored in vain; I have spent my
strength for nought.'"[22]
"Dear Patient," said Celia, as the door closed on Philip, "have you
forgotten that verse we read last Sunday--'Though Israel be not
gathered, yet shall I be glorious in the eyes of the Lord, and my God
shall be my strength.'[23] It comes, you know, just after the text
you repeated."
"Ou ay, Mrs. Celia," answered Patient, dropping into Scotch, as was
usual with her when deeply stirred,--"ou ay, I mind that word. But
it was the gathering I wanted, Madam--it was the gathering!"
Back in Paris, and once more attired in full court costume, Celia
somewhat sadly joined her step-mother. This visit to the Tuileries
was even more distasteful to her than that she had paid at St.
Germains. The idea of kneeling to kiss the hand of the man who had
ordered the Dragonnades, came, she thought, very near the border of
absolute wrong; at the same time, she did not feel so certain of the
wrong as to make her resist Lady Ingram's order. Her position was
exceedingly disagreeable, since, while she could not be sure that she
was doing wrong, she felt very doubtful whether she was doing right.
Philip tried to rally her upon her sorrowful face, but his banter
fell flat, and he looked puzzled and compassionate.
"I am ready, my dear," said Lady Ingram as she came in. "But what a
face! Do you think that I am taking you to see an execution?"
"Madam," said Celia, summoning all her courage, "I wish your Ladyship
would allow me to remain at home."
"Is this wicked, my votaress?" asked Lady Ingram, with the scornful
smile which by this time her step-daughter knew so well.
"I cannot say that, Madam; but I am not quite sure that it is right.
Does your Ladyship wish me particularly to accompany you?"
"Of course I do, my clear. 'Tis an opportunity which it would be a
sin to lose. You consider it a venial sin, I suppose. Well, you can
say another prayer or two."
"I know nothing about venial sins, Madam. Sin is sin to me; but as I
am not sure that this is a sin, if your Ladyship absolutely commands
me, I will go: at the same time, I would much rather remain."
"Ah! I know what that means, my _réligieuse_," said Lady Ingram,
laughing; "you want an excuse for your conscience. Very well, then,
I command you. The coach is here. Come!"
Celia followed slowly. Lady Ingram had entirely misunderstood
her--in all probability was incapable of understanding her. Any
further explanation, she felt, would merely plunge her deeper into
the mire; so she sat grave and silent until the carriage drew up on
one side of the Place du Carrousel. Lady Ingram gave her hand as
usual to Philip, and Celia followed them in silence. After the
customary passage through suites of rooms, they paused at a door; and
on giving a gentle tap, a gentleman in black came out and bowed low
before them.
"Madam," said he, "my duty is my duty. I regret unspeakably to be
constrained to inform you that His Most Christian Majesty can receive
no person to-day."
"I regret it exceedingly also," answered Lady Ingram. "I can
proceed, I suppose, to visit the ladies?"
"Certainly, Madam."
Lady Ingram turned off through further suites of apartments, and the
gentleman in black, straightening himself up, disappeared again
behind the door. Celia felt relieved. There could be nothing wrong,
she thought, in paying respect to the Queen and Princesses, to whom
she supposed Lady Ingram to refer; and she followed with a lighter
step and heart than before. Her ignorance of the state of the Royal
Family of France was very great indeed. That state, in the summer of
1712, was a strange and lamentable one. There was no Queen, yet the
King was married; there were no Princesses save one, the Duchess de
Berry, yet three of the King's daughters sat round his table every
evening.
"Now, Celia!" said Lady Ingram, looking back, "we will pay our
respects first to the Duchess de Berry."
"Who is the Duchess de Berry?" Celia inquired softly of Philip.
"The wife of the King's grandson," he whispered in reply.
The Duchess de Berry could receive them, they were told, on asking;
and the gentleman usher opened the inner door, and gave access to a
large and handsome room, wherein about two dozen ladies and gentlemen
were seated at a table, playing cards. A much larger number stood
round the room, close to the walls, watching the players. Lady
Ingram made her way to a very young girl who sat at one end of the
lansquenet-table, and who, Celia thought, was scarcely seventeen.
This surely could be the wife of nobody, she mentally decided.
The girl certainly looked very young. Celia, on consideration,
doubted if she were seventeen. A soft, bright, innocent face she
had, laughing eyes, and a blooming complexion. She looked up with a
smile as Lady Ingram approached her, and said a few words in a low
tone. Lady Ingram took off her gloves, and sat down quietly at the
lansquenet-table, having apparently forgotten her companions.
"Are we to remain here?" asked Celia of Philip, in a tone inaudible
to any one but himself.
"Wait a minute, till I see the result of her first venture," answered
Philip, biting his lip.
Celia looked back at the card-table. She was accustomed to see
Squire Passmore play cards, but never for money, except when he
received or went into company; and even then, a few half-crowns were
all that changed hands. She gazed with surprise on the piles and
rouleaux of gold which lay upon this table, and the quantity of loose
pieces scattered about. Hands were constantly extended with a dozen
or two of louis in them, and one lady in particular Celia noticed,
who piled up her gold until the tower would go no higher, and each
time staked the heap on a single card.
"Who is that girl next my Lady Ingram, at the end of the table?"
Celia next inquired of her brother.
"That is the Duchess de Berry," said he.
"That the Duchess! Why, Philip! she is scarce more than a child!"
"She is the mother of two children herself," replied Philip.
"Perhaps you guess her younger than she is--eighteen."
"She looks so young and innocent," said Celia.
"Young, yes--but innocent! My dear, this girl of eighteen is already
one of the worst women in France. Deuce-ace--ah! She will go on. We
may go."
Philip slipped round the table to his mother's side, and whispered a
few words to her, to which she responded without turning her head.
Coming back to Celia, he gave her his hand and led her out of the
room.
"Is my Lady not coming?" she asked, glancing back.
"Not when she has thrown deuce-ace," said Philip, dryly. "She
considers that her lucky number, and always goes on playing when it
comes at the first throw. Now come with me for half-an-hour. You
will see a little of Court-life, and you shall go home when you are
tired. We will visit the great drawing-room."
He led her into a large, handsome room, hung with crimson. Round the
apartment lines of spectators, three or four deep, were standing, and
at a very large table in the midst about forty more were seated. The
game played here also was lansquenet, for such immense losses had
occurred at basset that the King had forbidden the latter game in all
rooms but the private boudoirs of the Princesses.
"Have we any right here, Philip?" whispered Celia, doubtfully.
"Yes," said Philip, coolly. "Any person known to the
gentlemen-ushers can enter. Come round a little to the right--there
is more room, and you will see better. I will be your directory.
That gentleman with the blue coat and the orders on his breast, at
the top of the table, is the Duke of Orleans.[24] If the King die
while his heir is under age, as is most likely, that man will be
Regent of France. He is considered a clever fellow."
Celia looked, and saw a man of middle height, and about forty years
of age. He had bright eyes, a laughing mouth, a florid complexion,
and a thick, flat nose. The hand which held his cards was as small,
white, and delicate as that of a woman.
"And who are the ladies beside him?" Celia wished to know.
"On the right, his cousin, the Grand Duchess of Tuscany,[25] and on
the left another cousin,[26] the Princess of Conti. Next to her is
her half-sister, the Duke's wife."[27]
"I do not quite like the Grand Duchess's face."
"She is not considered particularly amiable. One of her sisters[28]
was married to the Duke de Guise, which was so marvellous a
condescension that the poor man might never eat his dinner without
his wife's leave. Every day he stood beside her chair, and presented
her dinner-napkin: the cover was laid for her only; and he might not
presume to help himself even to a biscuit until Her Royal Highness
was graciously pleased to command a plate and chair to be brought for
Monsieur de Guise. Then he made a low, grateful bow to his very
superior wife, and might sit down and dine."
"Is that really true, Philip?" asked Celia, laughing softly.
"Perfectly true."
Celia turned her attention to the Princess of Conti. She liked to
look at her fair, quiet face, with its large, soft brown eyes; and
she was wondering what her character was, when suddenly a lady, who
had been staking extremely high, rose from her seat, flinging down
her cards, cursing and swearing in most voluble French. This was the
first time that Celia had heard a woman use such language, and she
hid her face, shuddering.
"Ruined!" said Philip, coolly. "You had better come away."
The ladies and gentlemen at the card-table set up a shrill chorus of
laughter.
"O Philip, take me home!" sobbed Celia. "I cannot bear this!"
She had heard Squire Passmore swear before now, but it was generally
when he was excited or angry, and was commonly accompanied by a
gentle "Hush, John!" from his wife. Philip led his sister out of the
room to the seats in the recess of the corridor window.
"Sit down here a minute," he said, "and recover yourself, before I
take you up-stairs. That was an unfortunate accident. If I had
known I should not have brought you here."
"O Philip, let me go home! No more visits like this, please!"
"You shall do as you like, my dear," said Philip, kindly; "but the
next visit will be very different from this."
Celia rose, trying to compose herself; and, afraid of disappointing
her brother, she consented to be taken where he wished.
"Does Madame de Maintenon receive this afternoon?" was Philip's
question to the usher upstairs.
"She does, Sir; and His Royal Highness the Duke of Bretagne is with
her."
"Oh, I don't want to see anybody who will swear!" said Celia, drawing
back.
"If the Duke of Bretagne have learned to swear," answered Philip,
gravely, "he must be a marvel of juvenile depravity; for he will not
be three years old until next February."
"A child!" said Celia. "I beg the little thing's pardon; I have no
objection to that."
"The future King of France, my dear," said Philip. "He will be Louis
XV. (if he live) in a few years, at the utmost. Now, three low
courtesies for Madame de Maintenon."