branch, it is true, but still an old family--allied to the Colvilles
of Bassingbourne. They can trace their descent to the eleventh
century."
"Madam, Mr. Colville and I were not disputing the length of our
descent."
"When you do, my dear, remember that you are of a still older family
than he. Hubert de Ingeramme went over to England with William the
Conqueror, and before that his line had been seated at Gournay and
Ingeramme from the days of Rollo. You must be careful to remember,
child, that if there be no high titles in your house, you are very
ancient indeed; and that, after all, is the real thing. There are
many families in France who are merely Counts or Barons in respect of
title, but whose lines are as old as the Crown itself. '_Familles en
velours rouge cramoisi,_'[33] that is what some call them. And
yours, my dear, is a crimson velvet family. Pray don't allow any one
to dispute that."
"I am not in the least likely, Madam," was Celia's amused reply.
"That is right, my child!" resumed Lady Ingram, condescendingly. "I
am rejoiced to see that you appreciate the importance of the subject.
By the way, has Philip told you that he has received a commission
from His Majesty?"
"Yes, Madam," said Philip's sister, sighing.
"My dear," answered his mother, "there is nothing to sigh about.
'Tis high honor to receive a commission from King James. The troops,
I learn, march for Landrécies on the 19th--next Monday; and are to
oppose Prince Eugene there about the 10th of next month. I propose,
therefore, to travel to Landrécies, where I shall take
apartments--small and inconvenient, I fear they will be: but I
suppose you can put up with that? And then Philip can come and see
us from time to time while the troops are there; and I shall be able
to see that he powders his hair properly, and does not neglect the
tying of his cravats. 'Twould never do that an Ingram should be
unmodish, even in battle. Only think, if he were to go into action
in a Steenkirk![34] I should never forgive myself. And he is far
too careless in that respect."
"I can put up with anything that you can, Madam," said Celia,
answering only one clause of her step-mother's speech.
"Very good, my dear. Then order Patient to be ready."
"Is Patient to go, Madam?"
"My dear!" said Lady Ingram, "do you think I mean to travel like a
_bourgeoise_? Of course Patient will go. And be careful that you do
not take too few gowns with you. I have to spur you, my
_réligieuse_, or I really think you would scarce know the difference
between silk and camlet. What a pity you were not born a Catholic!
I will give the orders to Patient myself, that will be best. She is
little better than you in such matters. I suppose, in her case, it
arises from her being a Scotch-woman, and of no family. But how it
ever came to be the case with you, an Ingram of Ingram, I really
cannot understand. Those things generally run in the blood. It must
be the people who brought you up. They did not look as if they knew
anything."
"You think so much about family, Madam," said Celia, stung in the
affections by this contemptuous notice of her dearest friends;
"pardon me for telling you that the Passmores have dwelt at Ashcliffe
for eight hundred years."
"My dear, you astonish me!" said Lady Ingram, with a faint glimmer of
interest. "Then they really are respectable people! I assure you I
am quite rejoiced to hear it. I did think there was something a
little superior in the manner of the eldest daughter--something of
repose; but you English are odd--so different from other people.
Eight hundred years, did you say? That is quite interesting."
And Lady Ingram dropped another lump of sugar languidly into her cup
of chocolate. Repose! thought Celia. Truly in Isabella's manners
there was repose enough; but it had never occurred to the simple
Passmores to regard it as enviable. On the contrary, they called it
idleness in plain Saxon, and urged her by all means to get rid of it.
"Quite interesting!" repeated Lady Ingram, stirring up the sugar in a
slow, deliberate style which Isabella would have admired. "Really, I
did not know that the Passmores were a respectable family. I thought
they were quite nobodies."
[1] Jonah iv. 9.
[2] Cor. ii. 11.
[3] Matt. vii. 14.
[4] John vi. 37.
[5] John x. 28.
[6] Sarah Duchess of Marlborough once called on a lawyer who happened
to be from home. "I don't know who she was, Sir," said his clerk in
informing him of the visit, "but she swore so dreadfully that she
must be a woman of quality!"
[7] Ps. xxix. 10.
[8] Exod. xx. 7.
[9] Act of Contrition--"I most humbly entreat Thy pardon, O my God,
for all the sins which I have committed against Thine adorable
Majesty: I grieve for them bitterly, since Thou art infinitely good,
and sin offendeth Thee. I detest these sins with all my heart, with
the resolution to forsake them by the help of Thy grace."
Act of Faith--"My God, I firmly believe all the truths which the
Church proposes to us, because it is Thou who hast revealed them."
[10] Matt. x. 37.
[11] Matt. vii. 13.
[12] These are true anecdotes.
[13] Ps. civ. 30.
[14] Gen. ii. 2.
[15] john v. 17.
[16] Isa. xliii. 13.
[17] Ezek. xxxiv. 10.
[18] Rev. xviii. 8.
[19] Luke xiv. 23.
[20] Hag. i. 5.
[21] Heb. ix. 27.
[22] The majority of Mr. Colville's expressions are taken _verbatim_
from Lord Bolingbroke. The Modern Rationalist arguments are mere
_réchauffés_ of those which did duty a hundred and fifty years ago.
[23] John i. 4.
[24] Heb. i. 3.
[25] 2 John 11.
[26] Zeph i. 18.
[27] 2 Cor. x. 4.
[28] Eph. iv. 15.
[29] 1 Pet. iii. 8.
[30] Gal. i. 6.
[31] Gal. i. 9.
[32] 1 Cor. xvi. 22.
[33] Madame Duplessis-Guénégaud thus described the House of Adhémar,
from one branch of which the Princes of Orange were descended, while
another was the stock of the Counts de Grignan.
[34] The Steenkirk, a peculiar twist of the ends of the cravat rather
than a tie, is said to have taken its rise from the Duke of
Monmouth's going hastily into action at the battle of Steenkirk with
his cravat twisted out of his way in this manner. It was quite out
of fashion in 1712, except among country people.
XI.
HOW PHILIP CAME BACK.
"The hour we see not, when, upsurging full,
Our cup shall outflow. God is merciful."
"Disengaged, Madam? I have just half an hour to spend with you.
Positively the last time before I don my regimentals. And then
hurrah for Landrécies! O Ned, I wonder where you are! I wish you
would come back!"
"Do you travel with us, Philip?"
"No, thank you, Madam. That would be rather too spicy."
"You go with your regiment?"
"I have that honor."
"Mr. Philip," said Patient, as she noiselessly entered, "I have done
your packing, and"--
"What a darling of a Covenanter you are, to take that off my hands!"
"And I have put a little Bible, Sir, along with your linen. Will you
please to promise me, Mr. Philip, to read it?"
"Dear Patient," answered Philip, letting his lightness slip from him
like a cloak, "I will read it. I have read it so much lately that I
should feel almost lost without it, I assure you."
"Have you done aught but read it, Mr. Philip?" asked Patient,
earnestly.
"As how?" queried Philip.
"Sir, I can conceive of none so awfully far off God and good as he
that handles the bread of life but never eateth of it, he that
standeth just outside the gate of the fold and never entereth
therein. Have you felt it, Mr. Philip? have you believed it? have
you prayed over it?"
There was no lightness about Philip's tone or manner as he answered,
"I think, Patient, I have."
But Patient was not satisfied yet.
"Mr. Philip, my bairn," said she, "I do think that what you do,
you'll do thoroughly--not half and half. I think you will know
whether you do mean to follow the Lord or not. But 'tis one thing to
mean to go, and another to set out on your journey; 'tis one thing to
think you can leave all without trying, and another to leave all.
And I'm no so sure, my dear bairn, whether you ken your own self, and
whether you can leave all and follow Him. 'Tis rougher walking in
the narrow way than on the broad road. It takes sore riving to get
through the gate with some. Can you hold on? Can you set the Lord
always before you, above all the jeering and scoffing, all the
coldness and neglect of the world? For until the Lord is more to you
than any in this world, you'll scarce be leaving all and following
Him. Don't be deceived--don't be deceived! and oh, laddie dear,
dinna deceive your ainsel'!"
"My dear old friend!" said Philip, looking up lovingly into Patient's
face. "I will tell you the honest truth about myself. Celia, do you
remember what I said to you the first time that I saw you?"
Celia remembered that well. It had pained her too much to be lightly
forgotten.
"Well, that has all passed away. I believe that there is a God, and
that the Bible is His revelation to man. Colville's philosophy
merely disgusts me now. (I must say for him, though, that he was
talking unusual nonsense the other night; he generally has something
better to say than that.) Well, then, I believe, if I know what
believing means, in Jesus Christ. Perhaps I _don't_ know what
believing means; I shall not feel astonished if you tell me so. I
believe that He died to save sinners, that is, instead of sinners;
but instead of what sinners I don't quite know. For I cannot help
seeing that while all mankind are sinners, there is one class of
sinners, called saints, who are quite different from the rest. My
puzzle at present is what makes the difference. We all believe that
Christ died for sinners, yet it seems to be only some of us that get
any good from it. If you can explain this to me, do so."
"I must go back to eternity to explain that," said Patient. "Sir,
ages back, ere the world had a beginning, the Lord God, who alone was
in the beginning, Father, Son, and Spirit, covenanted the redemption
of man.[1] Certain persons, whose names were written in the Book of
Life,[2] were given of the Father to the Son,[3] unto whom, and to
none other, the benefits of His redemption were to be applied.[4]
'No man,' quoth our Lord, 'can come to Me except the Father which
hath sent Me draw him;[5] and also, 'All that the Father giveth Me
shall come to Me.'[6] Therefore"--
"Stop, stop!" cried Philip. "Let me take all that in before you go
on to secondly. Do you mean to say, Patient, that God, the loving
and merciful God, who says He wills not the death of any sinner,[7]
selected a mere handful of men whom He chose to save, and
deliberately left all the rest to perish? Was that love? Was that
like God?"
"Sir, we can only know from the Word what is or is not like God. He
ruleth over all,[8] and who shall say unto Him, 'What doest Thou?'[9]
And when all were sunk in sin, and He might justly have left all to
perish, shall we quarrel with Him because He in His sovereign grace
and electing love decided to whom the merit of His work, the free
gift of God, should be applied?"
"That is Covenanting doctrine, I suppose," said Philip, dryly.
Celia saw breakers a-head.
"Dear Patient," she said, very gently, "are you not trying to feed
Philip with rather too strong meat? Remember what our Lord said to
His disciples, 'I have many things to say unto you, but ye cannot
bear them now.'"[10]
"Speak you, then, Madam Celia," said Patient. "I have but one
speech."
"Oh! you good folks don't always agree!" observed Philip, as if he
had made a discovery.
"We quite agree," answered Celia. "I believe just what Patient does,
but I don't think it is suited for you. She is trying to make you
spell words of three syllables before you can say your alphabet
perfectly; and I think it will be better to help you over the
alphabet first. Dear Philip, those whom Christ saves are those whom
He makes willing to accept His salvation. Are you willing?"
"Go your own way, Madam," said Patient, in a dissatisfied tone; "go
your own way. But don't account me in agreement with the teaching of
Arminius."
"My dear Patient, I know nothing about Arminius--neither who he is
nor what he teaches," replied Celia, simply. "Does not God make His
elect willing to accept His salvation?"
"Surely, Madam, surely," answered Patient, a little mollified. "But
you spake of _will_, Madam. Now I never can accept the free-will
views of that heretic Arminius."
"Fire away, Patient!" cried Philip, from the sofa; "I will lay five
pounds on you. Well, really! I am rejoiced to find that the saints
can quarrel like sinners! It makes a fellow feel himself less of an
isolation."
This was exactly the sentiment which Celia was most unwilling to
foster in Philip's mind. She paused a moment, and sent up a prayer
for wisdom before she spoke again.
"Dear Philip, the saints after all are only a few of the sinners.
Patient and I are both human, therefore open to sin and error. Don't
take what we say, either of us; take what God says. He cannot
mistake, and we may. Patient, you will not disagree with me in this?"
"Not a whit, Madam. And I ask your pardon if I spake unadvisedly
with my tongue."
"And if I did," responded Celia, softly. "Least of all should we do
it on such a subject as this."
"You did not," answered Philip. "It was the old bird that was the
fighting cock!"
"Well, dear Philip," said Celia, turning to her brother, "this is the
great question for you and me: Are we willing to accept Christ's
work, and to place no reliance upon our own works? He will be all or
nothing. We cannot save ourselves either wholly or in part. Our
salvation is either done, or to do; and if it be yet to do, it can
never be accomplished."
"Then what place do you find for good works in your system?"
"No place, as the efforts of the slave to set himself free;[11] every
place, as the endeavor of the child to show his love to the
reconciled father."[12]
"Well," said Philip, reflectively, "I found long ago that your view
was the soil which grew the finest crop of them. Don't look at me
so, Patient. Let me talk as I think; it is natural to my mind to
express itself as I do. I don't mean anything wrong."
"The Lord will have that out of you, Mr. Philip, if you be His."
"Well," replied Philip, gravely, "I suppose He knows how."
"Ay, He knows how," answered Patient, sadly. "But don't you give Him
more work in that way than you can help, Sir. The surgeon's knife
may be very necessary, but it never can be otherwise than painful."
Celia did not quite agree with Patient here; but it was a secondary
point, and she said nothing. Philip looked at his watch, and,
declaring that he could not stay another minute, kissed Celia and
Patient, saying, "_A Landrécies!_" as he left the room.
"I see a long, weary walk for Mr. Philip, Madam," remarked Patient,
when he was gone. "If he be to reach the good City at all, 'twill
sure be by a path of much affliction."
Celia was rather disposed to think the same.
Lady Ingram's expectation that she would be able to procure only
small rooms at Landrécies was verified. The apartments to be
obtained were both small and few. Lady Ingram and Celia occupied the
same bed-chamber. Until this happened, Celia had no idea what a very
artificial flower her handsome, stately step-mother really was. She
now found that the fourth part of her hair, and nearly three-fourths
of her bloom, were imparted. Every morning Lady Ingram sat for two
hours under the hands of Thérèse, who powdered her hair, rouged her
cheeks, applied pearl-powder to her forehead, tweezers to her
eyebrows, and paint to her neck, fixing in also sundry false curls.
"My Lady," asked Patient, in her quietest manner, the first evening
at Landrécies, which was the 12th of July, "if the Prince Eugene take
us prisoners, what will become of us, if you please?"
"Prisoners!" repeated Lady Ingram. "Absurd, Patient! You speak as
if you thought a defeat possible. The armies of the _Grand Monarque_
and those of King James together to be routed by one Savoyard!
Preposterous!"
"They were put to flight at Malplaquet, Madam" (which place Patient
pronounced to rhyme with jacket); "and 'tis not so many days since
the Prince took Le Quesnoy."[13]
"Patient Irvine, you are no better than a fool!" said Lady Ingram,
turning round to give effect to her sentence.
"Very like, Madam," was the mild reply of Patient, who was employed
in giving the last fold to her young lady's dress. "Indeed, 'tis but
the act of a fool to reason beforehand. The Lord will dispose
matters."
"Celia! I shall find you another attendant, now that you can speak
French, and send Patient back to her sewing. Does she speak in this
canting way to you?"
"Pray don't!" was Celia's alarmed reply to the first part of Lady
Ingram's remark. "No more than I do to her, Madam," she answered to
the second.
"I see!" said Lady Ingram, sarcastically. "A nice choice of an
attendant I made for you! It was unavoidable at first, since she was
the only woman in my house, except Thérèse, who could speak English;
but I ought to have changed her afterwards. I might have known how
it would be. When we return to Paris, I will provide you with a
French woman."
"You will do the Lord's will, Madam," observed Patient, calmly.
"I will do my own!" cried Lady Ingram, more angrily than was her wont.
"Madam," was Patient's answer, "the Lord's will _will_ be done; and
in one sense, whether you choose it or not, you will have to do it."
"Leave the room! You are a canting hypocrite!" commanded her
mistress, in no dulcet tones.
"Yes, my Lady," answered Patient, meekly, and obeyed.
"Now, if that woman had had the least spirit, she would have answered
me again. A little more rouge here, Thérèse."
And Lady Ingram settled herself peacefully to her powderings, leaving
Celia in a state very far from peace. She felt, indeed, extremely
rebellious.
"Cannot I have my own choice in this matter?" she thought to herself.
"Am I never to have my own way? Must I be forever the slave of this
woman, who is neither my own mother nor one of the Lord's people?
Shall I calmly let her take from me my only friend and counsellor?
No! I will go back to Ashcliffe first; and if I break with Lady
Ingram altogether, what matters it?" But the next minute came other
thoughts. Patient had told her words of her grandfather's which she
remembered,--"A soldier hath no right to change his position." And
how could she put such an occasion to fall in her brother's way?
Perhaps the Lord was drying up all the wells in order to drive her
closer to the one perennial fountain. Ah! poor caged bird, beating
against the cage! She little knew either how near she was to
freedom, nor by what means God would give it to her.
The 21st of July dawned. Lady Ingram had risen a little earlier than
usual, for she expected to see Philip, and had been grumbling all the
previous evening at his non-appearance. He came in, dressed in full
regimentals, about eleven o'clock, when his mother had been down for
about an hour, and Celia for several hours.
"Good-morning and good-bye in one," he said, speaking hastily, and to
both at once. "I have but ten minutes to stay. Marshal Villars has
found a weak place in Prince Eugene's intrenchments at Denain, and he
is going to draw his attention by an attack this morning on the
Landrécies side, while we come up the other way and storm Denain this
afternoon. Villars himself will be with us. Bentinck defends Denain
with seventeen battalions and fourteen squadrons, mostly Dutch.[14]
By the way, Le Marais has heard that Ned is in camp, but I have not
come across him. You are sure to see him before long, if he be here."
"Philip!" said his mother, suddenly, "the tie of your cravat is quite
a quarter of an inch on one side!"
"A quarter of a fiddle-stick, my dear Mother!" said Philip, laughing.
"What do you think it will look like when I have been an hour in
action! I hope they will let me head a charge. I expect to be made
a Prince of the Empire at the very least! Good-bye, Mother."
"Adieu, my son," responded Lady Ingram, a little less languidly than
usual. "Don't go into danger, Philip."
"What admirable advice to an officer of His Majesty's army!" returned
Philip, kissing her. "Good-bye, little Celia. I have something to
tell you when I come back."
Celia looked up from Philip's kiss into his eyes to see what it was.
They were deeper and softer than usual, but she read nothing there.
"Good-bye, dear Philip. God keep you!" she said.
"And you--both," replied Philip, in a softened tone. "Adieu!" And
he was gone.
All that day Celia could do nothing. She wondered to see Lady Ingram
sit quietly knotting, as if the day of the battle of Denain were no
more to her than other days. But the day passed like other days;
they dined and drank chocolate, and the dusk came on, and Lady Ingram
ceased knotting. She had been out of the room a few minutes when
Patient put her head in at the door.
"Madam," she said, in her quiet, unmoved voice, "Sir Edward is below,
and a strange gentleman with him. Will you speak with him while I
find my Lady?"
Celia rose and went down into the dining-room, very curious to make
the acquaintance of her unknown brother. But it was not the unknown
brother upon whom her eyes first fell. She saw merely that he was
there--a tall, dark, grave-looking man; but beside him stood a
fair-haired man, a little older than himself, and with a cry of
"Harry! dear, dear Harry!" Celia flew to him. Harry's greeting was
quite as warm as Celia's, but graver.
"Who has won?" was her first question. She wondered afterwards that
it should have been so.
"The allies," answered Harry, quietly. "I am Sir Edward's prisoner."
"A prisoner whom I yield to my sister, to be disposed of at her
pleasure," said Edward, coming forward; and Celia, turning from
Harry, greeted and thanked the real brother cordially, though a
little shyly.
"Have you seen Philip?" she asked of both. Her apprehensions were
beginning to subside.
We rarely know the supreme moments of our lives till they are past.
We open laughing the letter which contains awful tidings; we look up
brightly to see the unclosing of the door--
"Which lets in on us such disabling news,
We ever after have been graver."[15]
It was with a lightened heart, and almost a smile, that Celia asked
if her brothers (as she considered both) had seen Philip; and full of
apprehension as her heart had been all day, she did not guess the
answer from the dead silence that ensued.
Harry was the first to speak, and he addressed himself to Sir Edward.
"You, or I?" was his enigmatical question.
"You," answered Edward, shortly.
"Celia, darling!" began Harry, looking back at her with deep
compassion in his eyes; and he got no further. And then she knew.
"O Philip, Philip!" broke in a bitter wail from the lips of the
sister who had learned to love Philip so much. "Are you sure? Have
you seen him?" she asked, turning first to Harry and then to Edward,
hoping against hope that there might be some mistake.
"I have seen him," replied Edward; and her hope died away.
"Celia," resumed Edward, "listen, dear sister. I have seen Philip;
there can be no mistake on that score. He will be brought here soon.
But I have seen also something else, for which, knowing him as I do,
I thank God so much that as yet I have hardly begun to grieve at all.
He lies just where he fell at the head of his troops, after one of
the finest and bravest charges that I ever witnessed in my life: his
face turned to God and the foe. But this lay close to his heart.
Look at it."
Celia took from her brother's hand the little book which he held out
to her. She saw at once that it was a Testament, but the leaves were
glued together with a terrible red, at which Celia shuddered as she
tried to open them.
"The first leaf," was Edward's direction.
She recognized Philip's well-known hand as she turned to it. At the
head of the fly-leaf Lady Ingram's name and address were faintly
pencilled; and below were a few lines in darker and fresher lead.
Celia dashed the intrusive tears from her eyes before she could read
them.
"'Wherefore He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto
God by Him, seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them.'[16]
'Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief.'"[17]
The little book trembled in Celia's hand, and she broke into a fresh
shower of uncontrollable weeping. Her companions allowed her to
indulge her sorrow for a few moments in silence. Then Edward said
gently, "Who shall tell his mother?"
"I will," she answered, ceasing her tears by a violent effort; and
she left the room, and went up-stairs at once. Lady Ingram was
seated at her knotting.