ere he set out, I heard him conversing with Mr. Colville. They were
on the stairs, and I was disposing of your linen above. Now I knew
that all his life long the one thing which Mr. Philip could not bear
was scorn. It was the thing whereof I was doubtful if he would not
stand ill, 'and in time of temptation fall away.'[3] And that morn I
heard Mr. Colville speaking to him in a way which, three months
earlier, would have sent his blood up beyond anything I could
name;--gibing, and mocking, and flouting, taunting him with listening
to a parcel of old women's stories, and not being man enough to
disbelieve, and the like--deriding him, yea, making him a very
laughing-stock. And Mr. Philip stood his ground; John Knox himself
could have been no firmer. He listened without a word till Mr.
Colville had ended; and then he said, as quietly and gently as you
could yourself, Madam,--'Farewell, Colville,' saith he; 'we have been
friends, but all is over now betwixt you and me. I will be the
friend of no man who is the enemy of Christ. He is more to me than
you are--yes, more than all the world!' Madam, do you think I could
hear that, and dare to dispute the salvation of a man who could set
Christ above all the world? Now, you understand why I had no fear
for Mr. Philip."
"He never said so much as that to me," replied Celia, with her eyes
moist and glistening.
"He would have done so presently, Madam."
"But, Patient, it was so short a time after he had spoken so
differently!"
"Ah, Madam! doth that offend you? The Lord can ripen His fruit very
fast when He sees good, and hath more ways than one to do it. He
knew that Mr. Philip's time was short. We can scarce tell how
sweetly and surely He can carry the lambs in His bosom until we have
been borne there with them."
The next morning Isabella brought forward her embroidery-frame,
occupied just now by a brilliant worsted parrot and a couple of
gorgeous peacocks, the former seated on a branch full of angles, the
latter strutting about on a brown ground. The most important shade
in the parrot's very showy tail was still wanting.
"Have you any work for me, Mother?" asked Celia. "I do not wish to
sit idle."
"I can find you some, my dear. Here is a set of handkerchiefs and
some cravats for Father, which all want hemming, and I have been
obliged to work at them myself till now: Lucy scarce does well
enough, and Bell is too busy with yonder birds."
"I will relieve you of those, Mother."
And Celia took the basket and established herself near the window.
"Mr. John Rowe to speak with Madam," was Dolly's announcement
directly afterwards, and Madam Passmore left the room.
Charley and Lucy were learning their lessons. In other words,
Charley was sitting with his Æneid and the Lexicon open on the table
before him, bestowing his attention on everything in the room except
those two volumes; while Lucy, seated at the window on a hassock, was
behaving in much the same way to a slate.
"What a constant plague that man is!" said Isabella, as she sorted
her wools. "There is no doing anything for him. I do believe he has
been here every day for the last fortnight."
"Oh, I say!" commented Charley; "take that _cum grano salis_, Celia.
I think he has been three times."
"Don't dispute with Bell, Charley; it doesn't signify."
"My dear, he won't dispute with me," observed Isabella, calmly,
selecting different shades of scarlet. "I never dispute--it is too
much trouble, takes my attention from my work."
She went on comparing her scarlets, and Charley, on receiving this
rebuke, buried himself for five minutes in the adventures of Æneas.
For a time all was silence except for the slight sound of Celia's
needle and Lucy's slate-pencil.
"Where is Father?" inquired Madam Passmore, coming into the room with
a rather troubled look.
Charley was up in a second. "He is in the stable; I saw him go.
Shall I run and fetch him?"
"Ask him to come to me in the dining-room."
And both Charley and his mother disappeared.
"What is the matter now?" asked Lucy; but as nobody answered her, she
went back to her arithmetic.
In about half an hour more, Madam Passmore entered, looking grave and
thoughtful.
"Isabella, my child," she said, "I have something to tell thee."
Isabella looked up for a moment, and then went back to her wools.
"Well, Mother?" she queried, carelessly.
"My dear, I will not disguise from thee that John Rowe's visit
concerneth thee. He hath asked leave of thy father and me in order
to his becoming thy servant. Now, dear child, neither I nor thy
father desire to control thy choice; thou shalt speak for thyself.
What sayest thou? Wilt thou marry John Rowe, or not?"
"My dear mother!" responded Isabella, still busy with the wools, "he
will come to the wedding in a blue coat and a lilac waistcoat and
lavender small-clothes!"
"I dare say, if thou art so particular, that he will dress in what
color thou wouldst," said Madam Passmore, smiling. "But what is thy
mind, child? Dost thou like him?"
"I don't care anything about him, but I cannot abide his suits,"
returned the young lady, comparing the skeins.
"Mother isn't asking you to marry his clothes, Bell!" exclaimed
Charley.
"My dear, I am not asking her to marry him," said Madam Passmore; "I
only wish to know her mind about it. If thou dost not care about
him, child, I suppose thou wilt wish us to refuse his addresses?"
"No, I don't say that exactly," replied Isabella, undoing one of her
two skeins.
"Then what dost thou wish, my dear?" inquired Madam Passmore, looking
rather puzzled.
"Oh! do wait a minute, till I settle this red," said Isabella. "I
beg your pardon, Mother--yes, that will do. Dear, 'tis quite a
weight off my mind! Now then for this other matter."
"Child, the other matter imports rather to thee, surely, than the
colors of thy worsteds!"
"I am sure it does not, Mother, asking your pardon. I have been all
the morning over these reds. Well, as to John Rowe, I don't much
mind marrying him if he will let me choose his suits, and give me two
hundred pounds a year pin-money, and keep me a coach-and-pair, and
take me up to London at least once in ten years. I don't think of
anything else. Please to ask him."
"Don't much mind!" repeated her mother, looking dissatisfied and
perplexed. "Bell, dear child, I fear thou dost not apprehend the
import of that thou dost. 'Tis a choice for thy whole life, child!
Do think upon it, and leave thy worsteds alone for a while!"
"If you want a downright answer, Mother, you shall have it," returned
Isabella, with the air of one ending an unpleasant interruption. "I
will marry John Rowe if he will keep me a coach-and-pair, and give me
two hundred a year pin-money, and take me to London--say once every
four years--I may as well do it thoroughly while I am about it--and
of course let me drive in the Ring, and go to Ranelagh and Vauxhall,
and see the lions in the Tower, and go to St. James's, and all on in
that way. There! now that is settled."
Madam Passmore looked scarcely more satisfied than before, but she
said, "Well, my dear, if that be thy wish, thou hadst better go and
speak with John Rowe, and let him know thy conditions."
"O Mother! with all these worsteds on my lap!" deprecated Isabella,
raising her eyebrows.
"Put them here, Bell," interposed Celia, holding her apron.
Isabella reluctantly disposed her worsteds and rose.
"I wish John Rowe were far enough!" she said, as she left the room.
"Dear, dear, child!" murmured Madam Passmore, looking doubtfully
after her daughter.
"She is very like my step-mother," said Celia, quietly. "She reminds
me of her many a time."
"Now then!" said Isabella, triumphantly re-entering. "I have sent
him away, and told him he must not come teasing when I am busy. When
I had just found the right shade of red! Look at this bracelet he
has given me--pretty, is it not? He has promised all I asked, and to
give me a black footman as well. I shall not repent marrying him, I
can see."
"Is that happiness, my dear Isabella?"
"Happiness!" replied Bell, stopping in her business of transferring
the wools from Celia's apron to her own. "Of course! Why, there are
not above half a dozen families in the country that have black
servants! I wonder at your asking such a question, Celia."
"I say, Bell," queried Charley, just before taking himself and Virgil
out of the room, "I wonder which of you two is going to say the
'obey' in the service?"
"That boy's impertinence really gets insufferable," placidly observed
Isabella, seating herself at the frame. "Now to finish my parrot's
tail."
The wedding of John Rowe and Isabella Passmore was celebrated in the
following spring. Thanks to the bride's taste and orders, the
bridegroom's attire was faultless. The black footman proved so
excessively black, and rolled the whites of his eyes to such an
extent, that Lucy declared she could not believe that he was no more
than an ordinary man. At the end of the summer, the absentees
returned to Marcombe, and Isabella came over to Ashcliffe in her
carriage, attended by her black Ganymede, in order to impress her
relatives duly with a sense of her importance: herself attired in a
yellow silk brocade almost as stiff as cardboard, with an embroidered
black silk slip, and gold ornaments in her powdered hair. And once
more Celia was vividly reminded of Lady Ingram.
"I am going to have the black baptized," the young lady languidly
remarked. "I shall call him"--
"Othello," suggested Charley.
"Cassibelaunus--O Bell! do call him Cassibelaunus!"
"Nonsense, Lucy. I shall call him Nero."
"Then he is a Christian, my dear?" asked her mother.
"I don't think he knows anything about it," replied his mistress,
with a short laugh. "But you know 'tis scarce decent to be attended
by an unbaptized black; and he will be a Christian when 'tis done."
"I am not so sure of that, Bell," said Madam Passmore, quietly.
It was the first time that Madam Passmore had been known to express
any individual opinion upon religious subjects.
"All baptized people are Christians," answered Mrs. John Rowe, a
little more sharply than was respectful.
"All baptized are called Christians," corrected her mother. "I
scarce think, Bell, that if thou hast left thy black completely
untaught in matters of religion, that pouring a little water on his
face will cause him to become suddenly learned. And whether it will
suddenly cause anything else of a deeper nature may be to be
questioned."
Celia listened with the greater interest because the tone of Madam
Passmore's observations was alike unexpected and unprecedented.
"But, Mother," said Isabella, a little more deferentially as well as
reverently, "the Holy Ghost is always given in baptism?"
"I was taught so, my dear. But I am come to feel unsure that God's
Word saith the Holy Ghost is always given in baptism. And, Bell, I
am not sure that He was so given to all my children."
"You mean me, I suppose, Mother?" asked Isabella, returning to her
former tone.
"I fear so, my child," responded Madam Passmore, so sadly and so
tenderly that Isabella could make no scornful answer. "I have
feared, indeed, for months past that I have taught you all wrong.
God amend it! Indeed, I hope He is Himself teaching some of you.
But I did not mean thee only, Bell. I have as much fear for all of
you, except Celia, and, perhaps, Harry. Have we feared God, child,
as a family? Hath there not been mere form and habit even in our
devotions? Have we not shown much unevenness, and walked unequally?
Have we cared to serve or please Him at all? Ah, my children! these
are grave questions, and I take bitter shame to myself to have lived
as many years as I have, and never thought of them. God forgive
you--and me!"
"Aye, to be sure, my dear!" said old Cicely upstairs, afterwards.
"To be sure, Madam, she's a-coming home to the Lord. I see her
reading the Book at odd times like, making a bit of a secret of it,
very soon after you went; and by and bye, a little afore you came
back, she came to make no secret of it; and since then I've seen many
a little thing as showed me plain where she was a-going. And Master
Harry, my dear, he reads the Book too--he does, for sure! Can't say
nothing about Master, worse luck! Then Miss Lucy and Master Charley,
you see, they're young things as hasn't got no thought of nothing.
But as for Mrs. Bell"--
Celia quite understood, without another word. "O Cicely!" she said,
many thoughts crowding on her mind, "surely I shall never distrust
God again!"
"But you will, Madam," said Patient, looking up from her work. "Aye,
many and many a time! 'Tis a lesson, trust me, that neither you nor
I have learned yet. We are such poor scholars, for ever forgetting
that though this very lesson be God's a-b ab, for us, we need many a
rod to our backs ere we can spell it over. Aye, Madam, you'll not be
out of school for a while yet."
"Celia," asked Madam Passmore that evening, "when do you expect your
brother, my dear?"
"I don't know, indeed, Mother," replied Celia. "I expected him ere
now. I know not what is keeping him. Surely he will be here before
summer!"
Edward Ingram was not at Ashcliffe before summer.
The summer passed, and he did not come. The winter passed, and he
did not come. Nay, the whole spring, and summer, and autumn, and
winter of another year passed, and the third summer, of 1714, was
fading into autumn--still Edward did not come.
But when the dusk was gathering on the 5th of August in that year, a
horseman galloped into Ashcliffe village with news which he was
carrying post-haste to Tavistock and Launceston--news which blanched
in my a cheek and set many a man looking to his aims--which called
forth muffled peals from the church-towers, and draped pulpits and
pews in mourning, and was received with sadness and alarm in
well-nigh every English home. For the one thread was snapped on
which England's peace had hung--the one barrier standing between
England and anarchy was broken. The last Stuart whom the nation
acknowledged lay dead in Kensington Palace.
So long as Queen Anne lived, the embers of discord had been only
smouldering. The Jacobites felt a half-satisfaction in the thought
that the old line still held the sceptre; the Whigs rejoiced in their
Whig and Protestant Queen. Not that the private political views of
the Queen were very Whiggish ones. On the contrary, granted one
thing--her own personal rule--she was at heart a Tory. For all the
years of her reign she had been growing more and more a Tory. She
would never have abdicated the sceptre; but very little indeed was
wanted to make her say, when the cold grasp of the Angel of Death was
laid upon her, "Let my brother succeed me." Such a speech would have
given the Jacobites immense vantage-ground. For in 1714 the State
was still the Sovereign, and "_La Royne le veut_" was sterling yet in
England. This the partisans of the exiled family knew well; and to
their very utmost, through their trusted agents, of whom Abigail Lady
Masham was the chief, they strove to induce the Queen to utter such
words. Her decease now was the signal for the division of the
country into two sharply-defined parties. The Tories strove for King
James, triennial Parliaments, removal of Popish disabilities, peace
with France, free trade, and repeal of the union with Scotland. The
Whigs battled as fiercely for King George, septennial Parliaments,
Test and Corporation Acts, war with France, protection, and
centralization.
A dreadful struggle was expected between these two parties before
George Louis, Elector of Hanover, could seat himself on Anne Stuart's
vacant throne. His character and antecedents were much against him.
All who knew him personally were aware that he was a man of little
intellect, and less morality. Moreover, from both demoralized
parties there was a cry for money, and hands were eagerly stretched
out to the Elector, less for the purpose of welcoming him than for
the hope of what he might put into them. George Louis gave not a
stiver. He had not many stivers to give; but what he had he loved
too well to part with them either to Whigs or Tories. He sat quietly
at Hanover, waiting for Parliament to vote him supplies, and for his
disinterested supporters to secure his unopposed landing.
Parliament--from a Whig point of view--did their duty, and voted
liberal aids within a week or two after the Queen's death. James was
up and doing at St. Germains, while George slumbered in his arm-chair
at Herrenhausen. At length, on the 18th of September, the gentleman
of doubtful, or rather undoubtful, morals, who was facetiously styled
the Hope of England, condescended to land upon our shores. He formed
his Cabinet, allowed himself to be crowned, dissolved Parliament, and
leaving the country to take care of itself, returned to silence and
tumblers of Hock.
The English people in the main were irreparably disgusted with the
man of their choice. They were ready to welcome the grandson of
their "Queen of Hearts," Elizabeth of Bohemia, but they looked for a
royal Prince, a true Stuart, graceful and gracious. And here was a
little stupid-looking man, who cared nothing about them, and was a
stranger alike to their language, their customs, their manners, and
their politics. A new edition of Charles II.'s vices, deprived of
all Charles II.'s graces--this was their chosen King. Neither Celtic
Cornwall nor Saxon Lancashire could bear the disappointment. West
and North rose in insurrection. There were riots throughout England,
and many a Dissenting chapel was levelled by the mob. The Riot Act
was made perpetual, the Habeas Corpus Act suspended; a price of
£100,000 was set upon the head of King James's exiled son; and his
Hanoverian Majesty, meeting his Parliament on the 21st of September
1715, civilly requested the arrest of six Tory members of the House
of Commons.
While all this was doing in England, in a quiet corner of Scotland a
little cloud was rising, which had increased to goodly proportions by
the 6th of September, when Lord Mar unfurled in Braemar the standard
of King James the Third. On the 13th of November were fought the
battles of Sheriffmuir and Prestonpans; and on the 22nd of December,
a little group of seven men landed at Peterhead, one of whom was the
royal exile, now generally known as the Chevalier de St. George. On
the 7th of January 1716, he reached the ancient Palace of his
forefathers at Scone; but by the 30th his cause was lost, and he
retreated on Montrose, whence, on the 4th of February, quitting his
native land, he returned to France.
The vengeance taken was terrible. Head after head fell upon the
scaffold, and the throne of the House of Hanover was established only
in a sea of blood.
On the evening of the 8th of March, the family at Ashcliffe were
gathered in the parlor. The Squire was playing draughts with Harry,
the ladies working, and Charley and Lucy engaged in the mutual
construction of an elaborate work of art.
"Sea-coal any cheaper yet, Mother?" asked the Squire.
"Not yet," said Madam Passmore.
"Monstrous dear, is it not?" inquired Harry.
"Nothing to what it was in my young days," answered his father.
"Forty or fifty years ago, at the time of the Dutch war, charcoals
went up to one hundred and ten shillings the chaldron, and those were
lucky who could get them even at that price."
"Was not that about the time of the Great Plague?"
"Yes--two or three years later."
"Then you remember the Plague, Father?"
"Remember it!" said the Squire, leaning back in his chair and
neglecting his draughts. "Men don't forget such a thing as that in a
hurry, my lad. Aye, I remember it."
"But there was no plague here, was there?"
"Not just in this village; but well-nigh all communication was
stopped between Tavistock and Exeter, and in the King's highway the
grass was growing. It was awful at Tavistock. The town was shut up
and declared in a state of siege, and none allowed to approach nearer
than three miles. Watchmen were appointed, the only men permitted to
hold communication with the infected town; and when any provisions
were needed, they made proclamation, and the neighboring villages
brought such things as they asked to the high ground above Merrivale
Bridge, where the cordon was drawn."
"And how did they pay for their provisions?"
"A pitful of vinegar was dug there, in some hole in Dartmoor,[4] and
the money dropped into it. None in healthy places were allowed to
touch money coming from infected places without that provision."
"Surely money could not carry the infection?"
"Money! aye, or anything else. You have scarce a notion how little
would carry it. Harry, lad, throw another log on the fire; 'tis
mightily cold."
Harry obeyed orders, resumed his seat, and the game between him and
his father proceeded for a few minutes in silence.
"Hark!" cried Madam Passmore, suddenly, "what was that?"
"I heard nothing," said Lucy.
"What was it, Mother?" asked Harry, looking up.
"Some strange sound, as if one were about on the terrace," she
answered in a suppressed voice. "There again! I am sure I hear a
footstep on the gravel."
Charley rushed to the window, and endeavored to see through the
darkness.
"'Tis as dark as pitch; I can see nothing at all!" observed that
young gentleman.
"I will go out and see what it is," said Harry rising.
He took his sword from where it lay, and left the room.
"Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow!" said Venus, running after him, as her
contribution to the family excitement.
Harry opened the front door, desiring Charley to guard it till his
return, and Venus, after sniffing under it, rushed out of the house
with him, barking loudly on the terrace, in a state of great
perturbation. Harry came back after an absence of twenty minutes,
during which the Squire had several times "wondered what on earth was
keeping the boy."
"All right," he said, laying down his sword; "there are no robbers
about."
"It has taken you a precious time to find it out," growled his father.
Harry sat down again to his game. "I walked round the terrace to
make sure," he said.
"Which you might have done in five minutes," grumbled the Squire
again. "Now then, 'tis your move."
Harry placed one of his three kings in dangerous proximity to his
adversary's forces.
"Thank you, Sir," said his father, satirically, capturing the
imperilled potentate.
Harry tried to retrieve himself, and succeeded in placing the second
king in the same position.
"Harry, lad, what has come to you?" asked the Squire, looking at him.
"You were playing better than usual till just now, but your walk
round the terrace seems to have destroyed your skill."
"I beg your pardon, Sir," answered Harry, uncomfortably. "I will
endeavor to play better."
And he carried out his attempt by placing in imminent peril his last
remaining piece.
"Nay, nay," said his father, leaning back in his chair, "'tis no use
going on, lad. Did you see a ghost on the terrace?"
"I did not, Sir, I assure you," returned Harry.
"Well, I wonder what is the matter with you," said the Squire.
"Here, Lucy, come and let me see if you can do any better."
Lucy took her brother's vacated seat.
"Celia," said Harry, a quarter of an hour afterwards, turning to her,
"would you mind bringing your needle and thread up-stairs? I want
you to help me with something which I cannot well bring here."
"Oh yes, Harry, I will come with you," answered Celia, re-threading
her needle, and following Harry out of the room with it in her hand.
Harry led her up-stairs, motioned her into her own room, and, much to
her surprise, locked the door, and pocketed the key.
"Harry, something is the matter," she said.
"Something _is_ the matter, Celia," repeated Harry. "I have brought
you here to tell it you."
"What did you see on the terrace?" she asked, fearfully.
"Sir Edward Ingram," was the answer.
"Harry! where is he? why did you not tell me?"
"Nobody must know, Celia, except you and me--and, perhaps, Patient.
But I would rather not tell even her if we can avoid it. Sir Edward
is in hiding, having fled from Sheriffmuir, and a party of men have
been riding him down, he says, since last night. They know he is
somewhere in the neighborhood, and will most likely be here to search
the house in an hour or less. I will readily risk my life for the
man who saved it at Denain; and I know his sister will help me."
"But where can we hide him?" faltered Celia.
"Here," was Harry's short answer, opening the closet-door.
"In the closet? O Harry! that is not safe enough. They would find
him in a minute."
"My dear little Celia, you don't know half the secrets of your own
chamber. Look!"
A touch of the secret spring caused the panel-door to spring outward,
and Celia's eyes to open very wide indeed.
"I never knew there was such a place!" she cried.
"I believe no one knows but myself, and now, you. I discovered this
room five years ago, but I did not wish to alarm you, for I had
reason to believe it was then inhabited. 'Tis one of the old
priests' hiding-holes. Now, watch how the door is opened, and then
contrive as best you can to procure food for Sir Edward. He says he
is well-nigh famished. While you are with him, I will go to the
outlet, where a passage leads to the garden, and remove the logs
which I put at the door five years since, as silently as I can. Make
haste, every minute may be priceless."