showing a picture-book to a very little boy who stood leaning against
her knee. She did not look her age, which was seventy-eight. Her
figure was rather inclining to be tall, and she preserved the taste,
the grace, and the dignity which had always characterized her. A
complexion of extreme fairness was relieved by black eyes, very large
and radiant, but the once chestnut hair now required no powder to
make it white.
"Mr. Philip Ingram?" she said, with a peculiarly pleasant smile; "I
am very much pleased to see you."
"My sister, Madame," said Philip, as he presented Celia.
"I did not know that you had a sister," she answered, receiving Celia
very kindly. "Louis, will you give your hand to this lady?"
The pretty little child[29] addressed trotted forward, and looking
straight in Celia's face with his great brown eyes, presented his
baby hand to be kissed. Resisting a strong inclination to take him
on her knee and kiss him, Celia performed her homage to the future
Sovereign. With much gravity the little Duke offered the same
privilege to Philip, and trotted back to his picture-book.
"My Lady Ingram is not with you?" asked the old lady.
"In the Duchess de Berry's saloon at lansquenet, Madame."
"Ah! Do you play, Mademoiselle?"
"No, Madame," said Celia.
"I am glad to hear it," replied Madame de Maintenon.[30] "It is a
great waste of time and temper, which were not given us for such
uses."
"Turn over!" required the little Prince, authoritatively.
Madame de Maintenon smiled and obeyed.
"I hope His Majesty is not ill?" asked Philip. "I hear he does not
receive."
"Not ill, but not well. One of his troublesome headaches. Neither
men nor women live forever, Mr. Ingram--not even Kings."
"True, but unfortunate, Madame," was the civil answer with which
Philip took his leave.
"Now we will go home," said he. "A short visit, but I thought we had
better not interrupt the Duke's reading-lesson. Did you like this
scene better than the other?"
"O Philip, how different! Is that lady his nurse?"
"Well, not precisely, my dear. She is--only that she is not called
so--the Queen."
"The Queen of France?" asked Celia, opening her eyes.
"The King of France's wife, which I suppose is the same thing; only
that in Madame de Maintenon's case it is not the same thing. There
is a paradox! A strange life that woman has led. She was born in a
prison, the daughter of a Huguenot father and a Catholic mother;
imbibed her father's teaching, and when young was a determined little
Huguenot. Her father died early. Her mother took her to church, and
she turned her back on the altar. Madam d'Aubigné slapped Miss Fanny
and turned her round; but Fanny only presented the other cheek.
'Strike away!' said she; ''tis a blessed thing to suffer for one's
religion!' Her mother now thought there was nothing to be done with
the obstinate little heretic, and gave her up. Next, the house was
burnt--fortunately while they were out of it; but for days Fanny
cried inconsolably. Her mother, who appears to have been a
practical, matter-of-fact woman, when this sort of thing had gone on
for several days, thought it desirable to treat Miss Fanny to a
slight scolding. 'What a little goose you are!' she said, 'crying
everlastingly for a house!' 'Oh! it isn't the house!' sobbed Fanny;
'it isn't the house--it is dolly!' Well, Madame d'Aubigné died while
Fanny was still a girl, and she was left entirely destitute. In
these circumstances she married, for a home, the ugliest man in
France. He was a comic poet, a poor deformed fellow, of the name of
Scarron. Fanny did not gain much by her marriage, for they were very
poor; but her taste in dress was so exquisite that I have heard
ladies say she looked better in a common gown of lavender cotton than
half the Court ladies in their silks and satins: and her conversation
was so fascinating that clever men used to dine with Scarron just for
the sake of hearing her talk.
"There is a story told of one such dinner, at which the servant
whispered in Madame's ear, 'Please to tell another story; there is
not enough roast beef.' I have heard these and many other anecdotes
about her from Aunt Sophie, whose mother-in-law knew her well for
many years. When her husband died, she was again thrown on the
world; and for some time she petitioned the King in vain for some
little property or pension to which she was entitled us Scarron's
widow. At last he became perfectly tired of her petitions; but he
had never seen her. 'Widow Scarron!' His Majesty used to say, as he
took up another petition: 'am I always to be pestered with Widow
Scarron?' A short time afterwards he met her somewhere; and her
grace, beauty, and wit made such an impression upon him that he gave
her the appointment of governess to a _posse_ of his children. When
he came to see them, he saw her; and 'Widow Scarron' so grew in his
esteem, that it is supposed about two years after the death of his
Queen, he married her."[31]
"And why do they call her Madame de Maintenon?"
"His Majesty gave her the estate of Maintenon, and wished her to bear
the name."
"And what will become of her when he dies?"
"Ah, that is just the point! I should think she will go into a
convent."
"I thought you said she was a Huguenot?"
"So she was, but she is generally supposed to be a Catholic now."
"What a pity!" said Celia, thoughtfully. "How much good she might
have done in turning the King's heart towards the Huguenots, if God
had permitted her!"
"On the contrary, she is thought to have turned him from them. Many
persons say that we may thank her for the revocation of the Edict of
Nantes."
"I can scarce believe that, Philip!"
"I hardly do myself."
"Do you think, Philip," asked Celia, slowly, after a pause, "that
there is one really good man or woman among all your acquaintance?"
"My dear," replied Philip, in his gravest manner, "I have met with so
many good men and women that I have lost all faith in the article. I
have seen excellent mothers whose children have died from neglect,
excellent husbands who have run away with other people's wives,
excellent sons and daughters who have left a kind mother alone in her
old age, and excellent friends who have ruined their friends'
reputations by backbiting. Never a one of your good men and women
for me, if you please. We are all a bad lot together--that is the
truth; and the best of us is only a trifle less bad than the others."
"But, Philip, do you really know none who has the fear of God in his
heart?"
"Yes, I know three people who have it--you, and Ned, and Patient. I
cannot name a fourth."
"O Philip! I wish you were the fourth yourself!" sighed Celia.
"So do I, my dear," said Philip, so gravely that Celia looked up into
his face to see what he meant. She was perplexed, and scarcely
satisfied with what she read there.
"Philip," she asked, dropping her eyes again, "do _you_ play at these
card-tables?"
"Never. I believe Patient thinks I do, but she is mistaken. I threw
at basset once, and I shall never do it again."
"Did you lose?"
"No, I won."
"Then what made you determine not to do it again?"
"A remark of Leroy, who was standing near. He said, 'No man ever
loses at the first throw. I never saw one lose. The Devil is too
cunning for that.' I thought that if the habitual frequenters of the
basset-table acknowledged that gentleman for their president, the
less I saw of it the better."
"I think you were very wise, Philip," said Celia. "Monsieur Leroy!
The man who"--she stopped suddenly, wondering whether Philip were
acquainted with the facts of which she was thinking.
"'The man who'--precisely: Savarie Leroy. I see Patient has told you
that sad story."
"Philip," said Celia, very seriously, "I wish I could do something to
help you. If you do _really_ wish to fear God"--
"My dear little sister," replied Philip, putting his arm round her,
"have you any idea how much you have helped me already? I am not
quite the Gallio you and Patient think me--caring for none of these
things. Now I will just give you a glimpse into my heart. I always
knew what Patient was--she never concealed her thoughts on the
matter; but there are thirty years between her and me, and I
fancied--perhaps foolishly--that the religion which might be very
good for her would not do for me. I thought many a time, 'If I could
find some one in my own rank, and near my own age, who had not been
brought up with Patient as Ned and I have, and therefore had not
taken the tone of his feelings from her; if this person should think,
feel, and talk in the same way that she does, having derived it from
a different locality and breeding, and all that,--why, then, I should
feel that, whatever else this religion of hers were, at least it was
a reality.' Now this I never could have found in Ned, for two
reasons: as to religious breeding, Patient has brought him up; the
tone and color of his religion he derives from her. And, secondly,
Ned is rather close. Not in the least sternly or unkindly
so--nothing of the sort; but he is not such an open, foolish,
off-handed fellow as I am. It is not natural to him, as it is to me,
to say everything he thinks, to everybody who comes in his way; and
in religious matters particularly, what he thinks and feels he keeps
to himself. Well, then you came. For the first few weeks that you
were here, I watched you like a cat watches a mouse. If you had made
one slip--if I had once seen your profession and practice at
variance--if you had been less gentle and obedient to my mother, when
I could see that she was making you do things which you would much
rather not do: or if, on the other hand, you had allowed her to lead
you into something which I knew that you considered positively
forbidden--if I had seen anything of this, Celia, I should have gone
away more irretrievably disgusted than ever with religion and all who
professed it.
"Now, my dear, I don't want to make you proud and puff you up, but as
I am telling you all this, I must add that I found not one slip in
you. I cannot understand how you have done it. It seems to me that
you must have a very large amount of what Patient calls 'grace,' that
I, who have been watching you so narrowly, could detect nothing in
you which I thought wrong. Now will you forgive me for the ordeal
through which, unknown to you, I have been putting you? The
conclusion to which it has led me is this:--This thing--this religion
of yours and Patient's--call it fear of God, or what you will--is a
real thing. It is not the disordered fancy of one good woman, as I
for a time imagined that it might be. It is a genuine compact and
converse between God and your souls, and I only wish I were one of
you."
Rather to Philip's surprise, Celia, who while he spoke had been
earnestly regarding him, with brilliant eyes and smiling lips, put
her head down and burst into tears.
"My dear!" he said.
"O Philip, I am so glad!" she said,--"so glad, so thankful--so very,
very glad!" And she sobbed for pure joy.
"Then I am very glad that I have told you, my dear. And if it gives
you any satisfaction, I will say again what I have said:--from my
soul I wish I were one of you!"
[1] The ugly word "ex-queen" had not yet come into use, and the
English spoke of Maria Beatrice as they would have done if she had
died.
[2] I must own to having left my heroine's letter defective in one
point. In her day ladies' orthography was in a dreadful state.
Queen Anne usually signed herself the "affectionat freind" of her
correspondents; and it had only just ceased to be the fashion for
ladies to employ the longest words they could pick up, using them in
an incorrect sense, and with a wrong pronunciation. Addison gives an
account of one French lady who having unfortunately pronounced a hard
word correctly, and employed it in the proper sense, "all the ladies
in the Court were out of countenance for her."
[3] Headache.
[4] Luke vii. 36.
[5] Sam. xii. 7.
[6] Prince Eugene was now besieging Landrécies, a town on the border
between France and Flanders.
[7] Isaiah ix. 6.
[8] Acts vii. 58; viii. 1.
[9] Gal. ii. 12.
[10] 3 Tim. iv. 14.
[11] 1 Cor. xv. 22.
[12] Rom. vii. 18.
[13] John xvii. 12.
[14] Acts i. 25.
[15] 1 Cor. xiii. 1, 2.
[16] Matt. xxv. 40.
[17] Mark xvi. 16.
[18] Titus i. 15.
[19] Heb. x. 22.
[20] Heb. ix. 14,
[21] 1 Tim.
[22] Isaiah xlix. 4.
[23] Ibid. 5.
[24] Philippe, younger son of Louis XIII. and Anne of Austria: born
August 2, 1674; died December 2, 1723.
[25] Marguerite Louise, daughter of Gaston Duke of Orleans and
Marguerite of Lorraine: born July 28, 1645; married at the Louvre,
April 19, 1661; died in France, September 17, 1721.
[26] Marie Anne, natural daughter of Louis XIV. and Louise de La
Vallière: born at Vincennes, October 2, 1666; married, January 16,
1680, Louis Prince of Conti; died May 3, 1739.
[27] Françoise Marie, natural daughter of Louis XIV. and Athenaïs de
Montespan; born May 4, 1677; married February 18, 1692; died 1749.
[28] Isabelle, daughter of Gaston Duke of Orleans and Marguerite of
Lorraine: born December 20, 1646; married 1667; died March 17, 1696.
[29] Louis XV.: born February 15, 1710; died at Versailles, of
small-pox, May 10, 1774.
[30] Françoise, daughter of Constant d'Aubigné and Jeanne de
Cardillac; born at Niort, November 27, 1635; married at Versailles
1685; died at St. Cyr, April 15, 1719.
[31] All these little anecdotes concerning Madame de Maintenon are
authentic.
X.
ANENT JOHN PATTERSON.
"One Faithful, meek fool, who is led to the burning,
He cumbered us sorely in Vanity Fair."
--MISS MULOCH.
"Look out for rocks, Madam Celia," was Patient's enigmatical comment
when she heard what Philip had said.
"I do not understand you, Patient."
"Madam, there is nothing harder in this world than humility, because
there is nothing so near to the Lord. There are but two places
wherein He dwelleth--the high and holy Heaven, and the humble and
contrite heart. Paul, you mind, was sent a thorn in the flesh
because of the abundance of the revelations. I have near always
found that when I have had some work to do for the Lord which was
like to make me think well of myself, there has either been a thorn
in the flesh or a thorn in the spirit sent to me, either just before
or just after. Most commonly just before. And it does not need
abundance of revelations, neither, to set up poor fools like us.
Anything can do that. If we are trying to walk close to the Lord,
and give no occasion for stumbling, the Devil can make pedestals of
our very graces whereon to stick us up and cause us to fall down and
worship ourselves. Ay, of our very sins he can! Many's the time
when I have been set up in the forenoon on account of some very thing
which, when I was calmer, had to be laid open and repented of before
the Lord at night. Depend upon it, Jonah was no feeling over lowly
when he thought he did well to be angry.[1] And then, when a little
breeze of repentance does stir the heavy waves of the soul, the Devil
whispers, 'How good, how humble, how godly you are!' Ah, 'his
devices!' Thank God 'we are not ignorant' of them.[2] Look out for
rocks, Madam. I am no true prophet if you find not a keen wind soon
after this."
"Tell me, Patient, does my brother Edward fear God?"
"Yes, Madam."
"You know he does?"
"I have no anxiety about Sir Edward, Madam. I only wish I were half
as sure of Mr. Philip."
"Do you think?"--
"Madam, the way is rough and the gate strait, and 'few there be that
find it.'[3] And I don't think Mr. Philip likes rough walking. But
the Lord kens that too. If he have been given to Christ of the
Father, he'll have to come--'shall come to Me'[4]--and he'll find no
more to greet over than the rest of the children when we all get Home
to the Father's House. 'Neither shall any man pluck them out of My
hand.'"[5]
Lady Ingram did not return from the Palace before eight o'clock in
the evening, and then in an exceedingly bad temper. Fashionably so,
only; she was much too accomplished and polished to go into a vulgar
passion. Thérèse discovered the state of her mistress's mind when
she found that she could do nothing to please her. The new dress, of
which Lady Ingram had expressed her full approbation in the morning,
was declared "_effroyante_" at night; and Thérèse had to alter the
style of her lady's hair five times before she condescended to
acknowledge herself satisfied. At length she appeared in her
boudoir, and after breakfast, instead of paying her usual visit to
Celia's room, sent a message desiring Celia to come to her.
"Are you not well, Madam?" was Celia's natural query, when she saw
how pale and heavy-eyed Lady Ingram looked.
"Well! yes, my dear; but I have scarcely slept. I left fifteen
hundred pounds behind me at that horrible lansquenet."
Celia's eyes opened rather wide. The sum indicated was almost
incredible to her simple apprehension.
"My dear," said Lady Ingram, pettishly, "you are still only
half-formed. Do not open your eyes in that way--it makes you look
astonished. A woman of the world never wonders."
"I am not a woman of the world, Madam."
"Then my lessons have been of very little use to you. I am afraid
you are not, really, and never will be. That reminds me of what I
wished to say to you. I am informed by some one who saw you, that
after you and Philip left me in the saloon of the Duchess, he took
you into the great drawing-room, and that at something you saw there
you burst into tears. Now really, my dear, this is totally
inadmissible. You scandalized those who saw you. Had you heard some
dreadful news, or some such thing, it might have been proper and even
laudable to shed a few tears; but actually to sob, in the sight of
all the world, just as any laundress or orange-girl might have
done,--really, Celia, you must get over this weakness!"
"I beg your pardon, Madam," replied Celia, timidly, "but really I
could not help it. There was a lady at the card-table who had lost a
great deal--at least Philip thought so--and she began speaking such
horrible words that it terrified me; I could not help it."
"'Could not help it!'" repeated Lady Ingram, contemptuously. "Cannot
you help anything you choose? Oh, yes! it was the Countess des
Ferrières,--she had lost £30,000 and her estates, every livre she
had, even to the earrings which she wore, so of course she was
ruined. But you quite mistake, my dear--you need not have felt
terrified. You are in error if you suppose that swearing is
interdicted to men, and even women, of quality.[6] Quite the
contrary, it is rather modish than otherwise. A few gentle oaths,
such as"--(and Lady Ingram gave a short list)--"are quite admissible
in such circumstances. You would hear them from the lips of the best
families in France. If it were not modish, of course it would be
highly improper; but you are entirely mistaken if you suppose it so.
Any of those I have mentioned would be quite proper--for you, even.
I have heard much stronger words than those from the Duchess de
Berry, and she is younger than you are. But mercy on us, child! what
eyes you make!"
They were gleaming like stars. Lady Ingram a words had lighted up a
fire behind them, and every feeling of timidity was burnt up in the
blaze of its indignation.
"My Lady Ingram!" said Celia, with a dignity in her voice and manner
which her step-mother had never seen her assume, and believed to be
quite foreign to her nature, "I did not come to Paris either to deny
my religion or to outrage my God. In all matters which concern Him
not, you have moulded me at your will. I thought that you took to me
the place of my dead father and mother, and I have obeyed you as I
would have obeyed them. But into the sanctuary of my soul you cannot
penetrate; on the threshold of the temple even you must pause. God
is more to me than father or mother, and at the risk of your
displeasure--at the risk of my life if needs be--I must obey Him.
'The Lord sitteth upon the flood, yea, the Lord sitteth King
forever;'[7] and 'He will not hold him guiltless that taketh His Name
in vain!'"[8]
Notwithstanding all Lady Ingram's condemnation of feelings, she was
just now overpowered by her own. In the foreground was amazement.
Had her little pug Venus opened its mouth and emitted a moral axiom,
she could hardly have been more astonished. Behind her surprise came
annoyance, amusement, and respect for the strange, new bravery of
Celia; but in the background, beyond all those, was a very unpleasant
and unusual sensation, which she did not attempt to analyze. It was,
really, the discovery of a character which she could not fathom, of a
strength which she could not weaken, of a temple into which she could
not enter. She had always prided herself upon her ability to read
every person's character at a glance: and here was the especial
character which she had set down as simple, and almost beneath
notice, presenting itself in an aspect which it was beyond her skill
to comprehend. She had not, indeed, forgotten Celia's confession at
the outset of their acquaintance; but she had set it down to her
English education, as a past phase of thought which she had succeeded
in dispelling. A little more banter on the one hand, and firmness on
the other, would, she thought, rid Celia of her absurd and obsolete
notions. She had threaded all the mazes, and she meant her speech
just uttered to be the last turn in the path, the last struggle
between herself and her step-daughter. And lo! here, at that last
turn, stood a guarded sanctuary, too strong for her weapons to
attack, into which she knew not the way, of whose services she had
never learned the language. A strange and sudden darkness fell over
her spirit. There was a Power here in opposition to her stronger
than her own. This simple, docile, untaught girl knew some strange
thing which she did not know. And with this conviction came another
and a disagreeable idea. Might it not be something which it
immediately concerned her to know? What if Celia were right--if all
things were not bounded by this life; if there were another, unknown
world beyond this world, guided by different laws? What if God were
real, and Heaven were real, and Hell were real? if there were a
point beyond which prayers were mockery, and penances were vain? A
veil was lifted up for a moment which had covered all this from her;
a dark, thick, heavy veil, which all her life she had been at work to
weave. A voice from Heaven whispered to her, and it said, "Thou
fool!" When moments such as these do not soften and convict, they
harden and deaden. The veil dropped, and Lady Ingram was herself
again--her heart more rock than ever. It was in a particularly cold,
hard voice that she spoke again.
"Celia, if you do not take care, I shall wash my hands of you. I
will not be braved in this manner by a mere girl--a girl whose
character is wholly unformed, and whose breeding is infinitely below
her quality. Go to your chamber, and remain there until you are
sufficiently humbled to request my pardon for treating me with so
little respect."
"Madam," was the soft answer, "if I have shown you any disrespect, I
will ask your pardon now. It was not my wish to do so."
Ah! the thing which Celia had shown Claude Ingram, and at which she
could not bear to look, was her own heart.
"Will you then retract what you have said?"
"If I have said anything personally offensive to your Ladyship, I
will retract it and ask your forgiveness. What I have said of my own
relation to God I never can retract, Madam, for it is real and
eternal."
Lady Ingram was silent for a moment. Then she said, in her hardest
voice and coldest manner, "Go to your chamber." Celia, courtesying
to her step-mother, retired without another word. Left alone in her
own boudoir, again that cloud of dread darkness rolled over Claude
Ingram. The presence of the accusing angel was withdrawn, but the
accusations rankled yet. She sat for some time in silence, and at
length rose with a sudden shiver and a heavy sigh. Opening with a
little silver key a private closet, richly ornamented, a shrine was
disclosed, where a silver lamp burned before an image of the Virgin.
Here Lady Ingram knelt, and made an "Act of Contrition" and an "Act
of Faith."[9] The repetition of vain words put no more contrition
nor faith into her heart than before she uttered them. Only the soul
was lulled to sleep: and she rose satisfied with herself and her
interview.
"Do you think I did wrong, Patient?" asked Celia, sadly, of her sole
_confidante_, at the moment when, at the other end of the house, Lady
Ingram was finishing her devotions.
Patient replied in a measured and constrained voice, "'He that loveth
father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me.'"[10]
"Yes, I know; but I am so very anxious not to be wanting in respect
to her--not to put any obstacles in her way."