step-daughter, for just then the knotting was at a difficult point,
and required all her attention.
Instead of answering, Celia knelt down by her, and uttered one
word--a word she had never used to her before.
"Mother!"
Lady Ingram dropped her work, and looked into Celia's face.
"My dear," she said, her voice slightly trembling, "you have bad news
to tell me. At once, if you please--I do not like things broken
gradually."
At once Celia told her: "Philip is killed."
With a wild shriek which rang through the house, Philip's mother
flung up her arms--as Celia remembered that, once before in her life,
Claude De L'Orient had done--and then fell back heavily and silently
in her chair. Celia, ignorant and terrified, threw open the door and
called for Patient and Thérèse. They came in together, the former
quiet and practical, the latter screaming and wringing her hands.
"Eh, my faith! Madam is dead!" shrieked Thérèse.
"'Tis but a dwawm, Madam," was the decision of Patient. "Please to
open the window. Thérèsa, cut her Ladyship's lace[18] whilst I fetch
her water."
"But, my dear friend," remonstrated Thérèse, with an invocation in
addition, "that will spoil her figure!"
"Go down-stairs and fetch a glass of water," said Patient, with a
spice of scorn. "That's all _you_ are fit for. Madam, will you
please to hold her Ladyship's head while I get at her lace and cut
it?"
Patient's remedies applied, Lady Ingram partly recovered herself in a
few minutes. Edward was by her side when she again opened her eyes.
They rested for an instant on him and on Celia, and closed again with
a long tremulous sigh which seemed to come from her heart.
"If you will please to give me orders, Madam," said Patient, quietly,
to Celia, "I think her Ladyship will be best in her bed, and she
scarce seems knowledgeable to give orders herself. Will I and
Thérèsa lay her there?"
Celia spoke to Lady Ingram, but received no answer, and she gave
Patient the order. So Patient and Thérèse undressed the still figure
and laid her to rest. Lady Ingram continued to sleep or swoon,
whichever it were; she seemed occasionally sensible to pain, but not
to sound, nor did she appear to know who was about her.
About ten o'clock, Celia, seated at her step-mother's bed-side, heard
a regular tramp of soldiers' feet below, and knew too well what they
must be bringing. A few minutes afterwards her brother softly
entered the room.
"Celia, they have brought Philip here. Will you come and see him?"
She hesitated a minute, half for Lady Ingram, and half for herself.
"There is nothing painful or shocking, dear; I would not ask you if
there were. Would you like to see him again or not?"
Celia rose and gave Edward her hand. He led her silently down to the
dining-room, leaving her to go in the first by herself and kneel
beside the still, white clay which only five hours earlier had been
Philip Ingram.
Ah! if she only could have known, what might she not have said to
him! Had she said enough? Had she done her duty?--her utmost? Had
she pressed Christ and His salvation on him as she ought to have
done? Where was Philip now?
"Oh, that _had!_ how sad a passage 'tis!"[19]
Oh, that _might have been!_ how much sadder!
Edward and Harry came in and stood by her.
"Can either of you tell me anything more?" she faltered, her eyes
riveted on the calm, fixed, white face which would never tell
anything more to her.
"I can," answered Harry Passmore, softly. "I heard his last words."
"O Harry, tell me!" pleaded Celia.
"I was stationed just opposite," he said, "and it was my regiment
that received the charge. A shot killed the horse of the officer in
command, and he too fell. I knew not whether he had received injury
himself, and I was so much struck by his youth and bravery that I
pressed forward to aid him. But as soon as I saw his face, I found
that the shot had struck more than the horse. At this moment my
adjutant spoke to me, calling me 'Colonel Passmore.' When he heard
that, he saith from where he lay, 'Are you Harry Passmore of
Ashcliffe?' 'Yes,' I said, wondering that he could know me. 'You
are Celia's brother, then,' quoth he, with the ghost of a smile, 'and
so am I. Take this to her. The address is on the fly-leaf.' I was
so amazed that I could but utter, 'Are you Philip Ingram?' 'I am,'
he saith, his breathing now very quick and short. 'Tell my mother
gently. Take care of Celia.' His voice now failed him, and I bent
my head close that I might hear anything more. I heard only as if he
whispered to himself, 'The uttermost!' Then came a long sobbing
sigh, and then all was over."
"God forbid that we should limit that uttermost!" murmured Edward,
softly.
"O Edward!" sobbed his sister, "do you think he is safe?"
"My sister," he replied, very gently, "can I tell you more than God
does? 'To the uttermost'[20] and 'he that believeth.'[21] But if
you had known Philip as I knew him, you would feel with me that
something must have happened to him, which had made an immense
difference between what he was and is. I cannot think that something
anything short of the redeeming love of Christ. God knows, dear,
what are the boundaries of His uttermost. I can scarce think they
are closer than our uttermosts."
"Yet outside the fold is outside," said Celia, falteringly.
"I did not mean for one moment to deny that," said he; "I expressed
myself ill if you thought so. But we are told--'According to your
faith be it unto you,'[22] and of what may come from 'faith as a
grain of mustard-seed.'[23] And it seems to me that the words on
that leaf had never been penned by such a hand as Philip's, unless
his faith were at least equal to a grain of mustard-seed. Remember,
dear heart, that in His hand who will not break the bruised reed, nor
quench the smoking flax,[24] are the keys of Death and of Hell.[25] I
can trust Him to do right, even to the brother I loved so well."
Lady Ingram returned to consciousness on the following day, but
Thérèse reported that she was very weak and low, and desired to see
no one but herself. On the Sunday morning she suddenly sent for
Celia and Edward. They found her lying propped up by pillows, her
eyes sunk and heavy, and her face very pale. She recognized her
step-children with a faint smile.
"Come and kiss me, Edward," she said, in a low soft voice: "I have
scarce seen you yet. And Celia, too. You loved him, both of you.
Now listen to me, and I will tell you what I shall do. As soon as my
health and strength admit, I shall take the veil at the convent of
Sainte Marie de Chaillot. I have no more to live for. You are both
old enough to take care of yourselves. And, after all, life in this
world is not everything. I shall make my retreat, and after some
years of penance and prayer, I trust I shall have grace to make my
conversion. You, Edward--do you propose to remain in the army?"
"I do not think I shall, Mother."
"You will keep up your estates?"
"I should prefer living in England."
"And Celia; what will you do, my dear?"
"I shall go back to Ashcliffe if nobody want me. If Edward wish me
to live with him I will willingly do so, especially in England; but
even then I should like to pay a long visit to Ashcliffe before
settling anywhere else."
"I should be very happy to have you with me, dear," said Edward,
quietly, to this; "but I do not wish to be any tie to you. There is
no necessity for your living with me, for I am about to marry. So
pray do which you prefer."
"Whom are you about to marry, Edward?" asked Lady Ingram, turning to
him with a look of some interest in her languid eyes.
"None whom you know, Mother. One with whom I met on my travels."
"I am glad you are marrying," she said, "And how is Celia to return
to Ashcliffe?"
"Oh! with Harry," replied Celia, quickly.
"He is not at liberty yet," observed Edward, gravely.
"But you will set him free to go with me?" entreated his sister.
"I have nothing to do with it. You will, I suppose. I make you a
present of my prisoner."
"Oh, thank you! If Harry's liberty depends on me, he shall have it
directly."
"Edward," said Lady Ingram, "I have a favor to ask from you."
"Name it, and take it, Mother."
"Will you see that a small pension is settled on Thérèse; and, should
she wish to continue in her present position, interest yourself in
obtaining for her another situation?"
"I will attend to her interests as honestly and thoroughly as I think
you would yourself."
"I do not recommend Patient to you, since she is already rather your
servant than mine, and you will be careful of her, I know. Celia has
a great liking for her: I dare say she will wish to take her to
England."
"Do you object to that, Madam?" asked Celia.
"Not in the least," replied Lady Ingram.
"Do you?" continued Celia, this time addressing Edward.
"For a time, certainly not. I should not like to part with her
altogether; but, on the other hand, I should not allow you to travel
to England without a woman in your company. Patient shall go with
you, and after my marriage let her return to me, wherever I may
resolve to dwell."
"Thank you. You will write to me, then?"
"I will come to you, if you are willing to receive me. We have seen
very little of each other yet."
"Very little," said Celia, rather sadly.
"Now, my children, leave me," requested Lady Ingram, faintly. "I am
too weak to converse much. Send Patient to me."
Ten days later saw them journeying in company by easy stages to
Paris; and ten days after that witnessed a solemn ceremony in the
convent chapel of Sainte Marie de Chaillot, at which Queen Maria
Beatrice, Madame de Maintenon, and a brilliant crowd of distinguished
persons were present, when Claude Ingram took upon herself the white
veil of a postulant. Edward and Celia were there, the latter with a
slight misgiving whether she were not sanctioning idolatry to some
extent, even by her appearance: a suspicion not laid to rest by the
manifest disapproval and uncompromising speeches of Patient. "'Can a
man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?'"[26]
asked she. But Celia was determined to see the last of Lady Ingram;
and Edward promised to lead her out before anything objectionable
began. To her it was an inexpressibly mournful ceremony. The
different stages of the rites--the shearing off of the glossy hair,
the taking of the vows, the white veil of the postulant--all seemed
to her as so many epitaphs on the grave of a living woman. When the
brother and sister went down to the guest-chamber to take leave of
the novice, Celia was sobbing hysterically.
Lady Ingram parted from both with a very warm embrace. She appeared
much softened.
"Farewell, my child!" she said to Celia. "And you will not live
always in England? You will come and see me at least once more? And
when you pray to God in your _prêches_, do not quite forget Soeur
Marie Angélique."
Celia turned from the convent-gate with a sadder heart than she ever
thought she could have felt at her parting from Claude Ingram.
Only for three days longer did she remain in Paris. The house was
very painful to her now. In everything Philip lived again for her;
and she became very anxious to get home to Ashcliffe. Of the warmth
and cordiality of her reception there it never occurred to her to
doubt. So on the 14th of August, Celia, Harry, and Patient left
Paris on their way to England, escorted by Edward as far as Havre.
[1] Isa. xlviii. 16; Eph. i. 4.
[2] Rev. xvii. 8; xxi. 27.
[3] John x. 29; xvii. 6.
[4] Matt. xv. 13.
[5] John vi. 44.
[6] Ibid. 37.
[7] Ezek. xxxiii. 2; 2 Pet. iii. 9.
[8] Ps. ciii. 19.
[9] Eccles. viii. 4.
[10] John xvi. 12.
[11] Rom. xi. 6; Gal. ii. 16.
[12] Col. i. 10.
[13] Le Quesnoy was taken on the 3d of July.
[14] Sismondi, "_Histoire des Français_," vol. xxvii., p. 162.
Lacretelle, "_Histoire de France pendant le XVIII. Siècle_," vol i.
p. 43. The exact day of the battle is disputed. I have followed
Lacretelle.
[15] Mrs. Browning's "Aurora Leigh."
[16] Heb. vii. 25.
[17] Mark ix. 24.
[18] Staylace--
"Oh, cut my lace asunder,
That my pent heart may have some scope to beat,
Or else I swoon with this dead killing news."
--Shakspeare, "Richard III.," act iv., sc. 1.
[19] Shakspeare, "All's Well that Ends Well," Act i. sc. 1.
[20] Heb. vii. 25.
[21] John iii. 36.
[22] Matt. ix. 29.
[23] Matt. xvii. 20.
[24] Isaiah xlii. 3.
[25] Rev. i. 18.
[26] Prov. vi. 27.
XII.
TRAITORS--HUMAN AND CANINE.
"Thy way, not mine, O Lord,
However dark it be!
Lead me by Thine own hand,
Choose out the path for me."
--DR. BONAR.
The _Naws-Letter_ had just come in, posted from London, and Squire
Passmore sat down in the parlor to read it. It was a warm, but wet,
autumn afternoon. The embroidery frame was covered with a wrapper,
and Isabella and her mother were tying up preserves and labelling
them. Two large trays of them stood on the parlor-table, and Cicely
came slowly in with another.
"Well, sure, that's main heavy!" said she. "If you please, Sir, is
there aught by the post from Master Harry?" she added, with a
courtesy.
"Nothing, Cicely, nothing," said the Squire, looking up from his
newspaper. "I don't know what has come to the lad. He did scribble
one line to let us know that he was not killed, but not a word have
we had from him since."
"Mayhap he's a-coming," suggested Cicely.
"I wish he were," sighed Madam Passmore.
A merry laugh outside announced somebody, and the door sprang open to
the united attacks of Pero and Lucy.
"Anything from Harry?" was her question too, and she received the
same answer.
And "Anything from Harry?" asked Charley, sauntering in with his
hands in his pockets.
"These are done, Cicely," said Madam Passmore. "Take them hence, and
fetch another tray; and bid Dolly, if any should come on such a wet
day, to have a care that she brings them not hither, but into the
drawing-room--unless, of course, it were Harry," she added in a
doubtful tone.
"Oh dear, Mother!" exclaimed Isabella, who had gone to the window,
"here is a coach coming up but now."
Lucy was at the window in a second.
"Well, who is coming out?" she soliloquized. "An old woman--at
least, no--she's not old, but she's older than I am"--
"You don't say so!" commented Charley, incredulously.
"Have done, Charley!--and the fattest little yellow dog--oh, such a
funny one!--and--why, 'tis Harry! and Celia! Celia herself!"
An announcement which sent the whole family to the door at different
paces, Lucy heading them. Celia felt herself obliged to greet
everybody at once. Lucy was clinging to her on one side, and Charley
on the other; Madam Passmore was before her, and the Squire and
Isabella met her at the parlor-door.
"I am fain to see thee once more, child!" was the Squire's greeting;
"but what a crinkum-crankum that woman has made of thee!"
"She looks quite elegant," said Isabella, kissing her with a little
less languor than usual.
"Don't tease her, Charley; she is very tired," said Harry, when he
could get in a word. "We have had a long stage to-day."
So Celia was established in an enormous easy-chair, and propped up
with cushions, until she laughingly declared that she would require
all the united strength of the family to help her out again; and Lucy
was busy attempting to divest her of her out-door apparel, without
having the least idea how to do it.
"Shall I take your hat and cloak up-stairs, Madam?" said Patient,
entering with a general courtesy.
"Celia, what have you done with your yellow dog?"
"O dear!" cried Celia, in a tone of distress. "I was so taken up
with you that I forgot her. Where is he, Patient?"
"'Tis a-sniffling and a-snuffling about, Madam," said Patient.
"Call her," replied Celia.
"Dog!" summoned Patient--for Patient scorned to pollute her lips with
the heathen name which it had pleased Lady Ingram to bestow upon her
pet. But Venus was accustomed to the generic epithet from Patient,
and came trotting up at her call. Patient shut the little animal in
and herself out. Venus waddled slowly up the room, sniffing at every
member of the family in turn, until she came to Celia, at whom she
wagged her curly tail and half her fat body, and coiled herself in
peace upon a hassock at her feet.
"Celia," asked the Squire, "did you search all Paris, or offer a
reward, for the ugliest dog that could be brought you?"
"By no means, Father. The dog is a bequest from my step-mother. It
was her special pet, and I have not the conscience to discard it, if
I had the heart."
"Is she dead, my dear? I see you are in black for some person,"
asked Madam Passmore.
The glad light died out of Celia's eyes, and her voice sank to a low,
saddened tone.
"No, Mother; she has taken the veil at Chaillot. I am in black for
Philip--my brother Philip--who died at Denain."
"Are you then come to us for good, my dear?" asked Madam Passmore,
tenderly.
"For good, Mother, if you will have me, and I think you will. Only
that I have promised to see my step-mother again, but my visit to her
cannot last above a day, and will not be for some time to come."
"Have thee, my dear child!" murmured Madam Passmore, as if the
reverse were the most preposterous notion of which she had ever heard.
"Do widows make nuns of themselves?" asked Charley. "I thought they
were always girls, and that they walled them up alive when they had
done with them!"
"And your woman, my dear?"
"I want to plead with you for her, Mother. She has been the best
friend I have had--except Philip: and she is but lent to me for a
time. She was my brother Edward's nurse, and when he wants her again
he will come and fetch her. I thought you not mind my bringing her
with me."
"What should I mind, my dear? If you have found her a true and
faithful waiting-woman, and love her, let her by all means abide with
you and serve you. Such are not to be picked up everywhere."
"My dear," asked the Squire, uneasily, "I hope they have not made a
Tory of you, Celia?"
"I don't know, really, Father," was the answer. "I scarce think
there is much difference between Whigs and Tories. They all seem to
me devoid of honesty."
The Squire looked horror-struck.
"Nobody has made a Papist of me, if that be any consolation to you.
I return as true a Protestant as I went."
"Is this woman a Tory?" gasped the Squire.
"Patient? No, Father," replied Celia, smiling, "she is a little on
the other side of you. She calls Oliver Cromwell 'His Highness the
Lord Protector,' and won't allow that King Charles was a martyr."
"Celia, child, thou hast been in ill company!" solemnly pronounced
the Squire.
"I was afraid you would think so. But I thought I was bound to obey
my step-mother in all things not wrong"--
"Surely, child, surely!" assented Madam Passmore.
"Therefore, Father--I hope you will forgive me, but I cannot in
honesty keep it from you--I did not refuse her wish that I should be
presented to Queen Mary."
The Squire gasped for breath. "Presented!" was the only word he
could utter.
"I was afraid that it would vex you, when you came to know, dear
Father," said Celia, very gently; "but you see, I was placed in such
a position that I could not help vexing either you or my step-mother;
and I thought that perchance I ought to obey that one in whose charge
I was at the time. I did not like to go, I assure you; but I wished
to do right. Do you think I did wrong, Father?"
"Now, John," said Madam Passmore, before the Squire could speak, "I
won't have the child teased and made unhappy, in particular when she
has only just come home. She meant to do right, and she did right as
far as she knew. You must pocket your politics for once."
"Well, well, child," confessed the Squire at last, "we none of us do
right at all times, I reckon, and thou art a good child in the main,
and I forgive thee. I suppose there may be a few Tories who will
manage to get into Heaven."
"I hope so," replied Celia, gravely.
"So do I, child--so do I; though I am a crusty old Whig at the best
of times. But I do think they will have to leave their Toryism on
this side."
When Celia went up-stairs, to give a longer and fuller greeting to
old Cicely Aggett than she had the opportunity of doing before, she
heard the unusual sound of voices proceeding from Cicely's little
room. She soon found that Cicely and Patient were in close converse
on a point of theology, and paused a moment, not wishing to interrupt
them.
"Well, truly, I ben't so much troubled with pride as some other
things," Cicely was saying. "You see, Mrs. Patient, I hasn't got
nothing to be proud of. That's where it is. If I was a well-favored
young damsel with five hundred pounds in my pocket, and a silk gown,
and a coach for to ride in, well, I dare say I should be as stuck-up
as a peacock. But whatever has an old sinner like me to be proud of?
Why, I'm always doing somewhat wrong all day long."
"I am afraid I am a greater sinner than you, Mrs. Cicely," said
Patient Irvine's quiet voice in answer. "You have nothing to be
proud of, and you are not proud. I have nothing to be proud of, and
I am."
"Well, surely, a white devil is the worst devil," responded Cicely.
"Aye, he is so," answered Patient. "If He was 'meek and lowly in
heart'[1] which 'did no sin, neither was guile found in His
mouth,'[2] what should we be who are for ever sinning? I tell you,
Mrs. Cicely, some of the worst bouts of pride that ever I had, have
been just the minute after I had been humbling myself before the
Lord. Depend upon it, there is no prouder man in all the world than
the man who is proud of his humility."
There was no audible answer from Cicely. Celia came softly forward.
"Eh, my dear!" cried old Cicely, looking up at her. "I am so fain to
see you back as never was! Sit ye down a bit, Mrs. Celia, dear
heart, and tell me how it has gone with you this long time."
"Very well, dear Cicely, as concerns the Lord's dealings with me, and
very ill as concerns my dealings with Him."
"That's a right good saying, my dear. Ah! the good between Him and
us is certain sure to be all on His side. We are cruel bad, all on
us. And did you like well, sweetheart?"
"That she did not," said Patient, when Celia hesitated. "She has not
had a bit of her own way since she left you."
Celia laughed, and then grew serious. "My own way is bad for me,
Patient."
"I never knew one for whom it was not, Madam, except the few who were
so gracious that the Lord's way was their way."
"Well, I'd lief be like that," said Cicely. "The King couldn't be no
better off than so."
"So would I," Celia began; "but I am afraid that if I say the truth,
it will be to add 'in everything but one.'"
"Now, my dear young lady," said Patient, turning to her, "don't you
go to grieve in this way for Mr. Philip, as you have been doing ever
since. I had no thought till then how he had twined himself round
either your heart or mine. Do you think, my bairn, that the Lord,
who laid down His life for him, loved him so much less than we?"
"O Patient! if it were only my loss!"
"Whose then, Madam?"
"I mean," said Celia, explanatorily, "if I could be sure that it was
his gain."
Patient did not reply for a moment. "I ask your pardon, Madam," she
said at length; "I did not know the direction in which your fears
were travelling. The less, perhaps, that I had none to join them."
"I am surprised to hear you, Patient!" said Celia. "Only the last
time that we saw him before he bade us adieu, you seemed to feel so
doubtful about him."