road that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in
thereat."[11]
Celia sighed heavily, but made no answer.
"Ah, poor blind soul!" continued Patient. "If only we would look
more at all men and women in one light, and measure them by one
test--friends of Christ, or enemies of Christ--I think we would
behave different from that we do."
Patient stitched away without saying more, and Celia sat looking
thoughtfully out of the open window. From some cause unknown to
herself, there suddenly rose before her a vision of the great laurel
at Ashcliffe, and the stranger blessing her in the name of the
Virgin. She exclaimed, "Patient!" in a tone which would have
startled any one less unimpressionable than the placid woman who sat
opposite her.
"Madam!" replied Patient, without any change of manner.
Celia told her the circumstance of which she was thinking, and added,
"Can you guess who it was, Patient?"
"What manner of man was he, Madam?"
Celia closed her eyes and tried to recall him.
"A tall, thin, comely man, with a brown skin, and no color on cheeks
or lips: dark hair somewhat unkempt, bright dark eyes, and a very
soft, persuasive tone of voice. His clothes had been good, but were
then ragged, and he looked as if he had been ill, or might become so.
I always wondered if it could be my father; but as he died when I was
but a child, that is not possible."
"And what was the day, Madam?"
"Some day in November, 1710."
"I think I can guess who it was, Madam Celia. No, it could not have
been your father; and I know but one who answers to that description,
yet I knew not that he had been in England so late as that. It was
my husband, Gilbert Irvine."
"Patient!" exclaimed Celia, interested at once. "Had he been ill?"
"Nay, Madam, 'twas the other way: he fell ill afterward. He died
about twelve months thereafter."
"Poor Patient!"
"Do not pity me, Madam. I had nought but what I deserved."
"I am afraid I should not like to have all I deserve, Patient. But
what do you mean?"
"Madam, do you mind the Israelites under Joshua, which accepted the
Gibeonites because of their spoiled victuals and clouted shoon, and
asked not counsel at the mouth of the Lord? That was what I did. I
was a plain, portionless maid, having nought but my labor, and he was
my Lady's gentleman-usher, in a better place than I, and a rare hand
at talking any one over to what he had a mind to--ay, he was that!
And so I took him because of his comely face and his flattering
tongue, and such like, and asked not counsel at the mouth of the
Lord. And 'tis mine experience, Madam, that while the Lord never
faileth to bring good out of evil for His people in the end, yet that
oft for a time, when they be obstinately bent on taking their own
way, He leaveth them to eat of the fruit of it. I say not how 'tis
with other believers; but this I know, that my worst troubles have
ever been them I have pulled on mine own head. There is a sort of
comfort in a trouble by Divine ordinance, which it lacks when 'tis
only by Divine permission, and you know you are yourself to blame for
it. And little comfort I had with Gilbert Irvine. I've envied
Isabel Paterson in the cave with her guidman--ay, many and many a
time! And I have asked the Lord to do more than a miracle for
me--for to turn Gilbert's heart would have been on the thither side
of a miracle, I'm thinking,--more wonderful yet. You mind, Madam,"
added Patient, suddenly, as if afraid of being misunderstood on this
point, "Gilbert was no a Papist when I and he were wed. I should
have seen my way through _that_, I think, for all the blind fool that
I was; but it was no for five years thence. He professed the Evangel
then, and went to the preaching like any Christian. The Lord forgive
him--if it be no Papistry to say it: anyhow, the Lord forgive _me_!"
"There are no miracles, now, certainly," said Celia, reflectively.
"I can quite fancy what a comfort it must have been to live in the
days of miracles. But who was Isabel Paterson, and what cave did she
live in?"
"Are there no miracles now, Madam?" asked Patient. "Ah, but I'll be
long ere I say that! If the Lord wrought no miracle for John
Paterson--ay, and twice over too--I little ken what a miracle is.
But truly he was a godly man above many. 'Tis mostly Elijahs that be
fed by angels and ravens, though I'm no saying that, if it pleased
the Lord, He might not work wonders for you and me. 'Tis ill work
setting limits to the Lord."
"But who was Isabel Paterson, and who was John Paterson?" urged Celia
again.
"I'll tell you, Madam. John Paterson--he was Isabel's guidman--was a
small farming-man at Pennyvenie, but at one time he dwelt for a
season no so far from Lauchie. 'Twas when I was a young maid that
these things happened. I knew Isabel Paterson, and many a crack I've
had with her when I was a lassie, and she a thriving young wife with
wee weans about her. Well, John, her guidman, was a marked man to
King Charles's troopers, and many a time they set out to hunt him
down. He could no dwell in his own house, but was forced to seek
sleeping-room on the Crag of Benbeoch, between two great rocks, only
visiting his own home by stealth. The first of these times the
dragoons came on him as he was coming down from Benbeoch to the
little white farmhouse below, and Isabel was watching his coming from
the window. As he was crossing the moor they saw him, and he saw
them. John, he turned and ran, and they galloped after. He heard
them coming over the moor, and leaping the stone wall that girdled
Benbeoch Crags, and he thought, 'Ah! sure 'tis all over with me now!'
For only that week had Claverhouse hanged Davie Keith at his own
door, and he was sib to Paterson. John he ran, and the troops they
galloped: he crying mightily unto the Lord to save him for His Name's
sake. And while the words were yet in his mouth, and the dragoons
were so near him that he could hear their speech to one another, all
at once his feet caught at a stone, and down he fell. He gave
himself up for lost then, for the horses were right on him. 'But
where am I going?' thinks he. Through the heather he fell, through
the grass, through the very solid earth aneath him. Madam, the Lord
made a new thing, and the earth opened her mouth and swallowed him
up, rather than he should fall into the hands of his enemies. When
he came to himself--for he was a bit bruised and stunned by the
fall--he felt that he was in some wide dry cavern, many a foot
across, and he heard overhead the troopers cursing and swearing that
they could not find the hole where, quoth they, the fox had run to
earth. And John down aneath was kneeling and giving thanks to the
Lord, enjoying, as he told afterwards, the blessedest hour of
communion with Him that ever he had. After a while the troopers gave
it up as a bad job, and off they went. And when John dared to climb
up out of the hole, and pop up his head through the long grass and
heather, there was nought but the green grass and the purple heather,
and God's blue sky over all. After a time he ventured forth, and
hearing a wail of a woman's voice, found Isabel mourning on the
hill-side, seeking his dead body, never doubting that the troopers
had slain him. He helped her into the cave, and there they knelt
down together and praised the Lord again. And by degrees, after a
while, they carried bedding and household goods such as could be
spared to this safe shelter which the Lord had provided for them, and
not only John, but others of the brethren, hid there for many a day
after, when Claverhouse was known to be in the country."
"Patient, is that really true?"
"True as Gospel, Madam. I had it from Isabel her ain sel'."
"But the cave must have been there before, surely."
"Maybe, Madam, or maybe not," said Patient, a little obstinately.
"We ken little of what goes on in the heart of the earth. Anyhow, it
had never been found before, though there were shepherds who knew
every inch of Benbeoch Crags: and there it was ready when John
Paterson fell in need of it."
"And what was his second escape, Patient?"
"That, Madam, was well-nigh as strange, for the Lord made choice of a
poor silly beast as his deliverer. 'Twas indeed the earlier
deliverance of the two. It began just like to the other:--John was
running over the moor afore Claverhouse's troops, a meeting in the
Black Glen having been broke up on the rumor of their coming. But
this time the men had dogs with them. John, he ran as long as he
could over Longstone Moss, calling on the Lord for deliverance as he
ran. All the way across the bog he kept pace with them, for the
horses being heavier, and the troopers armed, they had ill work to
get on through the bog. But he, knowing that the Moss once passed,
they would be far swifter than he on the hard ground, looked around
earnestly for some safe hiding-place. Coming upon a deep furrow of
moss and long grass running across the bog, he lay down in it, scarce
hoping that it could be enough to hide him, but for just what men
call a chance. Hitherto he had seen only the troopers, and had not
noticed the dogs; but all at once, as he lay in this long grass, he
heard their deep bay come across the moor. 'That sound,' quoth he,
'struck upon my heart like a death-knell. That sense of smell which
God had given them was sure and unerring; and these men were now
using it to hunt God's children to the death.' Straight and sure
came the hounds rushing upon him. He cried once more unto the Lord,
and then was about to rise lest the dogs should tear him. When, all
at once, he heard among the long grass at his head a whirring sound,
and a fox dashed close past him. Ay, but that was a scurry! Horses,
dogs, and men, away they set after the fox, and they never came back
that day.[12] So again the Lord delivered him."
"But you don't think, Patient, that He made the fox on purpose?"
"Madam," said Patient, a little dryly, "I am not in the Lord's
counsels. I should fancy that He guided a common fox to do the
thing; but I cannot presume to say that the bit beastie was not
created there and then. We are too apt to limit the Lord, Madam."
"But God has given over creating, Patient."
"Has He so, Madam?" asked Patient, dubiously. "Is it no new creation
when the buds spring forth, when the grass groweth up, and 'He
reneweth the face of the earth'?[13] 'God did rest the seventh day
from all His works;'[14] but the Scripture doth not tell us what He
did on the eighth. Moreover, saith our Lord that 'the Father
worketh.'[15] This I know--that if the purpose of the Lord were to
preserve John Paterson by means of a fox, that fox should sooner have
been brought from the Indies as on dry land than that His purpose
should fail. 'He will work, and who shall let it?'"[16]
"I say!" observed Mr. Philip Ingram at the door, "what have you been
doing, or saying, or something, to my mother? I have not seen her in
such a state I don't know when."
"I am afraid I have displeased her," said Celia, "but I could not
help it. If I had it to do over again, I must say just the same
thing in substance."
"Have you been running a tilt with her, my pugnacious warrior?" asked
Philip, glancing at his reflection in the mirror.
"Something like it, I am afraid."
"Ah! I thought as much when I was desired, just now, to talk upon
some subject more agreeable than you. I said I did not know any, and
departed; doubly willing to do so as I found that she had the
megrims."
"I thought she looked poorly," said Celia, compassionately.
Philip indulged in a peal of laughter.
"My sweet rustic innocence! I thought I told you that megrims stood
for Père Letellier. He is closeted with her Ladyship, assisting her
to mourn over your lamentable departure from the faith and the mode.
I should not very much wonder if you were treated to a visit from his
reverence."
"Oh dear!" said Celia, involuntarily.
"He isn't such a formidable being," said Philip. "He used to confess
me when I was about the height of that table, and order me a certain
quantity of sugar-plums for penance--I know it was two for squalling,
and four for stamping and kicking. I lost my temper with tolerable
frequency under that discipline."
Patient sighed and shook her head slowly.
"Now how much wisdom lies in a shake of some people's heads!
Patient, my dear creature, you could not have conveyed your meaning
half so well in words."
"I am doubtful if you know my meaning, Mr. Philip."
"Know your meaning! Why, it was written on your head in that shake!
Did it not say, 'Philip Ingram! your education was awfully bad, and
you are what might be expected from it'?"
"Nay, Sir, scarce that. I was thinking rather of that word, 'I am
against the shepherds,'[17] and yet more of that other word of John,
'Therefore shall her plagues come in one day, ... for strong is the
Lord God who judgeth her.'"[18]
"Spare me, please!" exclaimed Philip, springing up. "You never quote
from the Revelation without a sermon after it. Urgent business
requires my presence down-stairs. Mrs. Celia Ingram, your servant!"
And he shut the door, laughing; but the next minute he opened it
again to say, "If Père Letellier should take it into his head to come
here, send for me to keep you in countenance. You will find the bear
in its den--Patient knows where."
"But, Philip, what do you expect people to do?"
It was not the advent of Père Letellier, but his own want of
occupation, which, to use Philip's elegant simile, had drawn the bear
out of its den. Père Letellier was gone some hours before, and Lady
Ingram had shut herself up, desiring Thérèse to tell any one who
asked for her that she had the vapors, and could see nobody; and
Philip, thus thrown back on his own society or his sister's, had
selected the latter as the pleasanter of the two.
"But what do you expect people to do?" was Celia's natural reply to
Philip's remark that good people never did anything.
"Well, my dear, I can only say that if I were one of you good folks,
I could not live as you do. If I believed--really, honestly
believed--that all the people, or not all, say one-half, say
one-tenth of the people around me, in this city alone, were going to
perdition as fast as they could travel, and that I knew of something
which would save them, if I could only persuade them to take
it,--why, my dear Celia, I could never sit quietly on this sofa! I
should want to go out instantly 'into the highways and hedges, and
compel them to come in.'[19] It would be as cruel as helping oneself
to an extra slice of plumcake in the presence of a starving wretch
who had lived for a week on a handful of potato-parings."
"Philip, I am sure you have been reading the Bible. You have quoted
it several times lately."
"I told you I had read it," answered Philip, shortly.
"Mr. Philip," said Patient, very gravely, "you have given me somewhat
to meditate upon. Your words are very exercising. We do scarce
follow sufficiently that word, 'Consider your ways.'[20] You are
quite right, Sir, more shame for us!"
"Very well, then, you agree with me," said Philip. "Well, and here
are all the good, charitably-disposed Catholics shutting themselves
up in convents and telling their beads; and all the good,
charitably-disposed Protestants sitting on sofas, reading their good
books, and mourning to each other over the wickedness of the world.
Now, is that really the best thing that either party can find to do?"
"Mr. Philip, I hope you don't mean to go to compare the poor blind
souls of Papists, worshipping idols in those wicked monasteries, with
enlightened Christian believers either in Scotland or England?"
objected Patient, with a shade of rising indignation in her tone.
"I do not mean to say that the 'believers,' as you call them, may not
be doing more good to their own souls than the monks and nuns: but if
they sit still on their sofas, what more good are they doing the
world than the monks are? Is it not the same thing under another
name? Are they helping to lessen by one grain the heap of wickedness
they mourn over?"
"I am afraid you are right, Philip," said Celia, thoughtfully.
"That is just the failing of you good folks," resumed he. "You hear
of a poor family, shockingly destitute, and steeped in all manner of
sin and wickedness; and you say to each other, 'Isn't it dreadful?'
You talk them over--perhaps you pray them over; but at the best, you
do anything but put on your hat and go and try to lift them out of
the mire. Oh dear no! They are far too dirty and disagreeable for
your delicate fingers. I am without, as you know; and on the
principle that 'lookers-on see most of the game,' those things show
more plainly to us than to you. Look at the men in our prisons.
They are beyond you now. But was there no time when they were not
beyond you? Did they pass, do you think, in five minutes from little
children saying the Paternoster at their mother's knee, to the
hardened criminals to whom you would not dare to speak? You should
talk to Colville. He would put everything before you far better than
I can."
A few days after this conversation, Celia made the acquaintance of
her brother's solitary friend. Lady Ingram's reception took place on
the Thursday subsequent; and that lady, who had not yet resumed her
usual graciousness to Celia, nevertheless intimated her pleasure that
her step-daughter should be present. As Celia sat quietly in her
corner, moralizing to herself on the scene, Philip's voice beside her
said--
"Celia, my dear, allow me to introduce you. Mr. Colville, Mrs.
Ingram. Mrs. Ingram, Mr. Colville."
Celia lifted her eyes with much curiosity. Her first impression was
that Philip's friend was a very thin long man, with very light hair
and eyes of the palest blue, a stoop in the shoulders, and a
noticeable nose. He and Philip remained standing by her chair.
"An interesting scene this," observed Mr. Colville, in a deep, hollow
voice. "Pleasant to see men and women enjoying themselves. Life is
short, and death certain. Let us be happy while we can."
"After death the judgment.'"[21] The words came suddenly from
Celia's lips, and almost without her volition.
Mr. Colville smiled condescendingly.
"You are one of the old-fashioned thinkers," he said. "I shall be
happy to show you how mistaken such a notion is. I always take a
pleasure in disabusing young minds."
"Very generous of you," said Philip--Celia was not sure whether
seriously or ironically.
"'Mistaken!'" she exclaimed, lifting her clear eyes to her
opponent's, and thinking that her ears must have made some strange
mistake. "'Tis a passage of Scripture."
"A fable, Madam," returned Mr. Colville, coolly. "Quite inconsistent
with the character of God, who is a perfect Being; and most injurious
to the minds of men. The soul, I assure you, is a mere quality of
the body; it has no substance, yet is entirely material, and perishes
with the body of which it is a quality."
"Sir, how can God's revelation be a fable?" was Celia's very grave
reply. "And, without that revelation, what can we know of the
character of God?"
"My dear Madam," replied Mr. Colville, with his pitying, patronizing
smile, "these are quite obsolete, disproved notions. There can be no
such thing as revelation; 'tis impossible. And there are no means of
any kind by which man can understand the character of God. We know
from nature that God is infinitely powerful, and infinitely wise. Of
His moral character we can have no idea, except that He is a perfect
Being. Whatever, therefore, is inconsistent with perfection, is
inconsistent with God."
"Inconsistent with your notions of perfection, you mean," said
Philip. "Doesn't it require a perfect creature to imagine
perfection?"
"Then," pursued Mr. Colville, taking no notice of Philip, "you
suppose that all Scripture is of Divine original. This is another
mistake. The Gospel is of Divine original, and perhaps some portions
of the Old Testament; but the Pentateuch was compiled by a most
ignorant and unphilosophical man, a repellent, sanguinary
law-giver--and the Epistles are the product of heated brains. Paul
was a cabalistic Rabbi, a delirious enthusiast; Peter, a poor
ignorant fisherman.[22] What could you expect from such persons?
Entirely human, Madam, these parts of Scripture!"
"And you, Mr. Colville," said Celia, warmly, "dare to sit thus in
judgment upon God! You presume to lay your human hand on different
portions of His Book, and to say, 'This is from God, and this is from
man!' Sir, at His bar you must one day stand, and by that Book you
will have to be judged."
"Believe me, I quite honor your warmth and kindly feelings. Youth is
enthusiastical--given to hero-worship. 'Tis a pity to set up for
your hero a mere dead book. But perhaps you misunderstand me. I do
not reject all Scripture. For the words and character of Jesus I
have great respect. He was unquestionably a true philanthropist, and
an enlightened man--a very excellent man. But"--
Celia had risen and stood before him. She forgot all about the
lighted rooms and the crowds who might be watching and listening.
"And no more?" she said, in a voice of suppressed intensity.
"More?" answered Mr. Colville. "What could you wish me to say more?"
"Mr. Colville, your words, complimentary as they might be if you were
speaking of a man, are but an insult--an insult to Him in whom is
life,[23] and who is the brightness of the Father's glory.[24] I
cannot bear them!"
She would have passed on, but Colville detained her.
"My dear Madam, you entirely mistake. Suffer me but to show you"--
"Sir, I shall speak with you no more. 'He that biddeth you God-speed
is the partaker of your evil deeds.'"[25]
And Celia made her way through the rooms and gained her own boudoir
without another word to any one. But she had not been there for five
minutes before Philip followed her.
"Upon my word, Celia!" said he, laughing, "I had no idea what an
amount of undeveloped soldiery there was under that quiet manner of
yours. You have fairly rendered Colville speechless--a state of
things I never saw before. I beg to congratulate the successful
general on the victory!"
"Philip, how can you like that odious man?"
"Well, my dear," responded Philip, "I am beginning rather to wonder
at it myself. He has become insipid latterly. I used to think him a
very ingenious fellow; I am beginning to suspect that he is only a
showy donkey!"
"He is an Atheist," said Celia, in a tone of horror.
"Scarce that, my dear," answered Philip, quietly. "He does believe
in a sort of God, but 'tis one of his own making."
"Will that deliver him in the day of the Lord's wrath?"[26] asked
Celia in a low tone. "Philip, I hope I said nothing wrong. I did
not mean to speak uncourteously or unchristianly. I hope I did not
do it."
"My dear little scrap of scrupulousness! Do you suppose that a
soldier in the heat of battle says 'Pray excuse me!' to the opposite
man before he fires at him?"
"Ah! but the weapons of my warfare ought not to have been carnal.[27]
St. Paul says, 'Speaking the truth in love.'[28] I am afraid there
was not much love in what I said to-night."
"No, dear Celia, the truth was so hot that it burnt it up," said
Philip, laughing. "Don't make yourself miserable. Colville will
hardly break his heart over it. Indeed, I am not certain that he
keeps one. Are you not coming down again? Well, then, good-night."
On questioning her counsellor Patient in a similar manner, Celia
found her unable to see any error in her act. Perhaps the old fiery
Covenanter spirit was too strong in her to temper the words which she
spoke. That which to Celia was merely carrying out the apostolic
injunction, "Be courteous,"[29] was in Patient's eyes "conferring
with flesh and blood."[30]
"Nay, Madam," said she, "if Paul himself could say, 'If any man
preach any other Gospel unto you than that ye have received, let him
be accursed,'[31] are we to mince our words and dress the truth to
make it dainty to the world and the Devil? Is it not written, 'If
any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema
Maran-atha'?"[32]
"You retired early last night," said Lady Ingram to Celia, as she
sipped her chocolate on the following afternoon. "You were tired, I
suppose?"
"No, Madam," said Celia, honestly; "I was angry."
Lady Ingram gave her usual sign of surprise or perplexity--a very
slight elevation of her chiselled eyebrows.
"With whom, my dear?"
"With Mr. Colville, Madam."