Chapter V: The Harrying of Lauchie

"'Have I received,' he answered, 'at thine hands
Favors so sweet they went to mine heart-root,
And could I not accept one bitter fruit?'"
LEIGH HUNT.

"Now, use your eyes, my young anchorite--if it be not wicked to look out of the window: this is the Rue de Rivoli, the finest street in Paris. By the way, you ought not to have been ill in crossing the Channel--so very undignified. Here is my town-house--that with the portico. Till your manners are formed, I shall give you a private closet as well as a bedroom, and an antechamber where you can take lessons in French and dancing.---- Good evening, St. Estèphe! Is Monsieur Philippe here?"

"Monsieur Philippe is not at himself, Madame; he ride out with Monsieur Bontems."

Lady Ingram knitted her brows, as if the information were not agreeable to her. She alighted, and desired Celia to follow her up-stairs. Through suites of spacious rooms, splendidly furnished, and along wide corridors she led the way to a quiet suite of apartments at one end of the house--an antechamber, a bedroom, and a small but elegant boudoir.

"These are your rooms," she said. "I will give you a new attendant, for I must have Thérèse to myself now. These will be entirely at your disposal, within certain restrictions. I shall visit you every morning, to have your masters' opinions as to your improvement, and you will take a dish of coffee or chocolate with me in my boudoir at four o'clock every afternoon. Until you are formed, you must dine alone, except when I dine entirely _en famille_. Your masters will attend you in the antechamber every morning. No one must be permitted to cross the threshold of your boudoir, except myself and your brothers, your own attendant, or any person sent by me. Do you dislike that?"

"No, Madam; I am very glad to hear it."

"Ah! my Sister of St. Ursula!" said Lady Ingram, laughing. "But remember this is only until you are formed, and the sooner that happens the better pleased I shall be."

"I am anxious to obey your wishes in everything not forbidden by my conscience, Madam."

"Very well," said Lady Ingram, still laughing. "The conscience requires a little formation too, _ma belle_, as well as the manners. Farewell! I will send your attendant."

She sailed away with her usual languid stateliness, and Celia went forward into the bedroom. She was vainly endeavoring to find an unlocked drawer in which to place her hood and cloak, when a low, quiet voice behind her said:

"Here are the keys, Madam. Will you allow me to open them for you?"

Celia looked up into a face which won her confidence at once. Its owner was a woman of middle height, whose age might be slightly under sixty. Her dress was of almost Quaker simplicity, and black. Her hair and eyes were of no particular color, but light rather than dark; her face wore no expression beyond a placid calm. But Celia fancied that she saw a peculiar, deep look in the eyes, as if those now passionless features might have borne an expression of great suffering once.

"Oh, thank you!" said Celia, simply. "Is it you whom my Lady promised to send?"

"I am to be your woman, Madam. I am her Ladyship's sewing-woman; my name is Patient Irvine."

The "lady's woman" of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was the ancestress rather of the modern companion than of the maid. She was called by her Christian or surname, sewed for her mistress, and assisted her in dressing; but in every other particular the mistress and maid were upon equal terms. The "woman" was her lady's constant companion, and nearly always her _confidante_. She sat at her mistress's table, went with her into company, and appeared as a member of her family when she received her friends. As a rule, she was the equal of her lady in education, and not seldom her superior. Her inferiority lay in birth and fortune, sometimes in the latter only.

"And what would you like me to call you?--Patience or Irvine?" asked Celia of her new acquaintance.

"Patient, if you please, Madam."

"Patient--not Patience?"

"I was not baptized Patience, Madam. My father was a Scottish Covenanter, and he named me, his first-born child, 'The-Patient-Waiting-for-Christ.'"

"What a strange name!" involuntarily exclaimed Celia.

"Yes, Madam; very strange, I doubt not, to such as have never met with our Puritan practice of Scripture-text names. I have known divers such."

"Do the Puritans, then, commonly give their children such names?"

"Very often, Madam. I had an aunt who was called 'We-Love-Him-Because-He-First-Loved-Us.'"

"They called her Love for short, I suppose?"

"Yes, Madam," answered Patient, in her calm, passive manner.

Celia thought this very odd indeed, and turned the conversation, lest she should get comic associations with texts of Scripture of which she could not afterwards divest herself. She wondered that Patient did not feel the ludicrous strangeness of the practice, not knowing that all sense of the ludicrous had been left out of Patient's composition.

"And how long have you lived in France, Patient?"

"Since I was of the age of twenty years, Madam Celia."

"You know my name, then?" said Celia, smiling.

"I know you, Madam, much better than you know me. I have borne you about in mine arms as a babe of a few hours old. And just now, when I saw you, you looked to mine eyes as the very image from the dead of my dear Miss Magdalene."

"Patient! do you mean my mother?"

"Yes Madam. I ask your pardon for calling her such a name, but it ever sounds more natural to mine ear. She was my Lady Ingram for so short a time, and I knew her as Miss Magdalene when she was but a wee bonnie bairn."

"What was her name?"

"Magdalene Grey, Madam. She was the Minister's daughter at the Manse of Lauchie, where my father and I dwelt."

"Then she was a Scottish lady?"

"Yes, Madam, at least she was born in Scotland, and her mother was Scottish. Her father, Mr. Grey, was English by descent, though his fathers had dwelt in Scotland for three generations afore him."

"And where did my father meet with her? He was not Scottish?"

"He was not, Madam. And I will tell you all the story if it please you; but will you not dress now?"

"You can tell me while I comb my hair, Patient. I want to know all about it."

"May I do it for you, Madam? I can speak now, if that be your pleasure; but 'tis almost necessary that I tell mine own story in hers."

"Will it pain you, Patient?" asked Celia, kindly.

"No, Madam; I am far past that," answered Patient, in her calm, passionless voice.

"Then please to let me hear it."

"My father's name, please you," Patient began, "was Alexander Leslie, and he dwelt on Lauchie Farm, near to the Manse. And sith Mr. Grey, our Minister, wedded Mrs. Jean Leslie, of the same clan, it fell out that Miss Magdalene and I were somewhat akin, though in worldly goods she was much beyond us. For Mr. Grey was not one of our poor ministers of Scotland, but a rich Englishman, who made his way into what the English deemed our wild valleys, for no cause but only the love of Christ. Miss Magdalene being an only bairn, without brother or sister, it so fell that I and Roswith were called up whiles to the Manse to divert her."

"You and who?"

"Roswith, my sister."

"What strange names your father gave his daughters!"

"Ay, that was a strange name, and all said so. It came out of an old chronicle that he had, a very ancient book, and he deemed it a fair name, and gave it in the baptizing to his youngest-born. Those were evil days, Madam, on which we fell. Yet why should I call them evil, when they were days of growing in the truth, and of the great honor of suffering for the Lord's sake? Mr. Grey, your grandfather, Madam, was a very gracious man, and did preach most savory discourses. Wherefore, he was one of the first on whom the blow fell. And when King Charles sent his troopers into our parts, under command of Claverhouse,[1] bidding them hunt and slay all that would not conform unto his way, they came, one of the first places, into our valley. Many an humble and honest husbandman, that feared God, was hung up at his own door by the wicked Claverhouse and his troopers, and many a godly man and woman was constrained to dwell in caves and dens of the earth until this enemy was overpast. I could tell many a tale of those days that would stir your blood, Madam, if it pleased you to hear it. We were amongst those whom the Lord was pleased to honor by permitting them to suffer for His name's sake. Mr. Grey refused to fly. He was dragged down, one Sabbath morn, from the pulpit in Lauchie Kirk, Claverhouse himself being at the door. He had been preaching unto us a most sweet, godly, and gracious discourse of casting care upon the Lord, and standing firm in the truth. And just when he was speaking that great and precious promise of the Lord, 'Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world,' the troopers burst in. Then the whole kirk thronged around our Minister, and sought to free him from the evil men. Mine uncle Jock Leslie, fell, thrust through with the swords of the troopers, and many another. But at length they had their wicked will, and bound us, men, women, and children, two and two, with one strong rope, like a gang of slaves going to the market-place. I was greatly honored to have the next place to Mr. Grey, hand in hand with whom walked Miss Magdalene, a sweet young maid of scarce fourteen years. His godly wife was bound, just before, with Janet Campbell, an old wife of nigh eighty. So we were marched down eleven miles to the shore. Ah! but my heart ached for Miss Magdalene and Roswith ere we reached it! It was a grand comfort to find Roswith bound with me, for she was but a wee wean of eight years, and I a grown maiden of twenty. Doubtless this was the Lord's mercy. When we came to the sea, we saw a great ship lying afar off, and we were all thrust into boats to carry us thither. When we were aboard, the troopers, some of whom came with us, did drive us below, and shut down the hatches upon us: which, it being summer time, was hot and painful, and many women and children fell sick therewith. Whither we were to go we knew not, only Mr. Grey surmised that they thought either to sell us for slaves in Barbary unto the heathen there, or else to convey us unto the King's plantations in Virginia or those parts; though if they were bound unto Virginia he knew not wherefore they should set sail from the eastern part of the kingdom. For three days and nights we were thus kept under hatches, to our much discomfort, and the ship sailing northwards with all the speed the sailors could make. During which time we were greatly comforted with the thought of Christ our Lord, and the three days and three nights which He was in the heart of the earth. Likewise Mr. Grey did oft exhort us, and prayed us to bear all that should come upon us meekly and bravely, and as unto the Lord. Then some of us which were mighty in the Scriptures did say certain parts thereof for the comfort of the rest; in particular, old Jamie Campbell, Janet's guidman, and Elsie Armstrong, his sister's daughter. So passed these three days until the Wednesday even. And then arose a great and mighty tempest, with contrary winds, driving the ship down, so that, notwithstanding all the skill of the shipmen, she lost in one day and night more than she had gained in all the three. Verily she fled like a mad thing afore the violence of that wind. And on the Thursday night, a little on the hither side of midnight, she flying as thistledown afore the wind, we felt a mighty shock, and suddenly the water came in at our feet with a great rush. Mr. Grey said he thought the ship must have lighted on some rock, and that a hole was driven in her. Then the shipmen opened the hatches, and in dolorous voices bade us come up on deck, for we were all like to drown. Wherefore we ascended the ladders, thirty-five in all our company, I alway holding tight the hand of my wee sister. When we were upon deck, we found from the words of the shipmen that they were about to loose the boats. So when all the boats were loosed, the troopers filled two of them and the seamen the third, and no room was left for the prisoners. Then in this time we thought much on Paul and his shipwreck, and how the seamen were minded to kill the prisoners lest any should escape: and we marvelled if they counselled to kill us, seeing there was no room for us in the boats."

"O Patient! surely they laid no hands on any of you?"

"No, Madam; they left that to the wind and the sea. The three boats cast off, and we prisoners stood alone on the deck of the sinking ship. We had neither wit nor material to make any more boats nor rafts. And when we saw our death thus before us--for our ship, like Paul's, was stuck fast in the forepart, but the sea beat freely on the hinder--we stood like men stupid and amazed for a short season. But then above all the noise of the storm came Mr. Grey's voice, which we were used to obeying, saying, 'Brethren, in a few hours at most, perchance in a few minutes, we shall stand before God. Let our last hour be employed in His worship.' Then we gathered all around him, on that part of the ship which was fast on the rock, and he led the exercise with that Psalm:[2]

'O God, the heathen entered have
Thine heritage; by them
Defiled is Thine house: on heaps
They laid Jerusalem.'

"After the Psalm there was an exhortation. Our Minister bade us remember that we were the Lord's freedmen--doubly so now, since our enemies had cast us away from them, and we were left only on the mercy of our God. Moreover, he recalled that of David, saying in his strait, 'Let me fall into the hand of the Lord, for His mercies are great.'[3] Then he prayed with us; and while the exercise yet lasted, and Mr. Grey was still praying, and entreating the Lord to deal with us in his mercy, whether for life or for death,--but if it should be death, as there seemed no other, to grant, if it so pleased Him, an easy dying unto the little children in especial--while he prayed, the ship parted asunder with a great crash, and the waves, leaping up on that part which stuck fast, swept every soul of us out into the boiling sea."

"O Patient, what a dreadful story! And how many were saved?"

"Four, Madam."

"Only four out of thirty-five!"

"Ah, Madam! the thirty-one were happier than any of the four!"

"Who were saved, Patient?"

"Miss Magdalene, and wee Jamie Campbell--old Jamie's grandson--and Roswith, and me.'

"And not one of the others?" said Celia, pityingly.

"Not one. They were carried by the angels into the rest of the Lord, and He would not grudge them the crown of martyrdom."

"And how did you get ashore?"

"That, Madam, I never knew. I mind falling into the water, and sinking down, it seemed to me, far and low therein; and then I was buoyed up again to the top, and I tried to make some little struggle for life. But the waters closed over me again, and I knew no more. The next minute, as it felt, I was lying with mine eyes shut, methought, in my little bed at Lauchie. I thought I had dreamed a bad dream, sith I felt stiff, and sore, and cold, and wet, all over: but as I awoke, I felt it was truly so: and at last I oped mine eyes and strove to sit. Then I saw that I sat on the sea-sand, and above me the blue sky, and I all alone: and an exceeding bitter cry rose to my lips as it came back upon me what had been. When I fancied I heard a bit groan no so far from me and I struggled up on my feet, and crept, rather than walked, wondering I had no bones broken, to a cleft of the rocks whence methought the groan came. And there was Jamie Campbell, lying sorely bruised and hurt; and when I stooped to him he lifted up his eyes, and saith, 'O Patient! I thought all were drowned, and that there was none here but God.' I said, 'Are you sore hurt, my poor bairn?' 'Yea,' quoth he, 'for I cannot move nor sit, and methinks I have some bones broke.' Poor laddie! he was in a sad way indeed. I tare mine own clothing to bind up his bruises, and promising to return to him, I set out to see if any other might have been saved from the wreck, ever hoping to find my father, my mother, or Mr. Grey. I walked upon the sand to the right hand, and saw no sign of any soul: then I turned to the left hand, and passing Jamie, walked far that way. Not a soul did I see, and I was about turning again in despair, accounting that he and I were the only two alive, when all at once I fancied I heard Roswith's voice. I stood and hearkened--sure enough it was Roswith's voice, for I never could mistake that. I could not hear whence it came, and so weak was I become with sorrow and weariness and fasting, that methought she was speaking to me from Heaven. Then I called, 'Roswith!' and heard her cry as in joy, 'Patient! O Miss Magdalene, Patient is alive! here is Patient!' And before I knew aught more, her little arms were around me, and Miss Magdalene, white and wan, stood at my side."

"How had they been saved?"

"They knew that no more than I did, Madam. Truly, Roswith, like a bit fanciful lassie, said she thought the Lord sent an angel to help her, and talked of walking over some rocks. I had not the heart to gainsay the bairn, and how did I know that the Lord had not sent His angel? Well, we all got back to Jamie Campbell, but what little I could do for him was no good; he died that forenoon. Then I said we would set forth and seek some house, for it was eleven hours gone since we had eaten food. But afore we could depart, the tempest, which was somewhat lulled, washed up two bodies at our feet, Mr. Grey's and Elsie Armstrong's. We poor weak maids could do nought for their burying; but Miss Magdalene cut off a lock of her father's hair, and kissed him, and wept over him. Then we set out to try and find some house near. When at last, after two hours' good walking, we reached a cot, we found to our sorrow that they spake a strange tongue. Miss Magdalene was the only one of us that could speak their speech, and she told us that the country where we were thus cast was the North of France."

"Patient! Patient Irvine, where are you?"

"Here, Sir," answered Patient to the voice without. "Your brother, Madam, Mr. Philip Ingram."

Celia was half-way across the room before she remembered that one side of her hair was still floating on her shoulders.

"I will take him into your closet, Madam," said Patient, as she left the room.

The colloquy outside was audible within.

"Mr. Philip, will you wait a few minutes? I have not ended dressing Madam's hair, but by the time you have changed your boots she will be ready to see you."

"Pray what is the matter with my boots?"

"They are splashed all over, Sir. My Lady would not allow you to come into Madam's closet with such boots as those, which you know."

"Leather and prunella! Never mind my boots nor my mother neither!"

"Sir!" responded Patient, in a tone which admitted of but one interpretation.

"Well, come, I don't mean----you are always making me say something I don't mean, you dear old tease!"

"Sir, I must obey my Lady's orders."

"Must you, really? Well, then, I suppose I must. Eh! Madam Patient?"

"If you will please to change your boots, Mr. Philip," quietly repeated Patient, "Madam will be ready to receive you in a few minutes."

"Very well, Madam Patient. I will obey your orders."

And the boots were heard quickly conveying their owner down the corridor. Celia's hair was soon put up, for she was very wishful to make the acquaintance of her half-brother; and she was in the boudoir waiting for him before Mr. Philip Ingram had completed the changing of his objectionable boots.

"Come in!" she said, with a beating heart, to the light tap at her door.

"Are you my sister Celia? I am very glad to see you--very glad. I must congratulate dear old Patient on having finished you sooner than I expected."

The first greeting over, Celia looked curiously at her half-brother. He was not like what she had anticipated, and, except for a slight resemblance about the eyes, he was not like Lady Ingram. He looked older than his years--so much so, that if Celia had not known that he was her junior, she would have supposed him to be her senior by some years. Philip Ingram was of middle height, inclining rather to the higher side of it, slenderly built, thin, lithe, and very active in his movements, with much quickness, physical and mental. He had dark glossy hair, brilliant dark eyes, and a voice not unmusically toned.

"Well, Madam!" he said at last, laughingly; "I hope you like me as well as I do you."

Celia laughed in her turn, and colored slightly. "I have no doubt that I shall like my new brother very much," she said. "Whom do you think me like?"

"That is just what I cannot settle," said Philip, gravely, considering her features. "You are not like Ned, except about the mouth; you have his mouth and chin, but not his eyes and forehead."

"Am I like my father?"

"Don't recollect him a bit," said Philip. "He died before I was three years old."

"Edward is not here, is he?"

"No; he is on his travels."

"Where has he gone?"

"The stars know where! He did not ask me to go with him, and if he had done, my Lady-Mother would have put an extinguisher upon it. I wish he were here; 'tis only endurable when he is."

"What is it that you dislike?"

"Everything in creation!" said Philip, kicking a footstool across the room.

"You speak very widely," replied Celia, laughing, and thinking of Charley Passmore.

"I speak very truly, as you will shortly find, Madam, to your cost. Wait until you have been at one of her Ladyship's evening assemblies."

"I am not to go until she is better satisfied with my manners," said Celia, simply.

Philip whistled. "You will not lose much," he answered.

"Don't you like them?"

"What is there to like?" asked Philip, dissecting the tassel of the sofa-cushion. "A thousand yards of satin and lace, or the men and women under them, whose hearts are marble and their brains sawdust! Celia Ingram, don't let my mother spoil you! From the little I see of you now, I know you are not one of them. Indeed, I guessed that from what my mother told me. She said you were absolutely without a scrap of fine breeding--which she meant as a censure, and I took as a compliment. I know what your grand ladies are, and what their fine breeding is! And I hope you are a true English girl, with a heart in you, and not one of these finnicking, fussy, fickle, faithless French-women!"

Philip let the sofa-cushion go when he had relieved his feelings by this burst of alliteration.

"I hope I have a heart, dear Philip," replied Celia. "But can you find no friends anywhere?"

"Just one," said Philip, "that is, beside Ned. You see, when Ned is here, he is master; but when he is away, I am not master: her Ladyship is mistress and master too."

"But surely, Philip, you do not wish to disobey your mother?"

"Disobey my mother!" answered Philip, reflectively, and resuming the sofa-cushion. "Well, Madam, I never get much chance of doing that. You don't know the sort of game my mother can play sometimes!"

"What do you mean, Philip?"

"I will tell you what I mean. Celia, there is a very, very pleasant prospect before you. Imprimis, Madam, you will be converted; that is, if she can manage it; and if she can't, it will show that you are a clever hand. In the latter case, the probability is that she won't think you worth the waste of any more time; but if she succeed in converting you, she will then proceed to form you. She will turn your feet out, and pinch your waist in, and stick your head up, and make you laugh when you are angry, and cry when you are pleased. She will teach you to talk without interruption for an hour, and yet to have said nothing when the hour is over. You will learn how to use your eyes--how to look at people and not see them, and _who_ to see, or not to see. I can give you a hint about that, myself; a man who wears no orders is nobody--you may safely omit seeing him. A man of one order is to be treated with distant civility; a man of two, with cordiality; but a man who wears three is to be greeted with the most extreme pleasure, and held in the closest friendship."

"But if I don't like the man, I cannot make a friend of him," said Celia, in a puzzled tone.

"My dear, that doesn't come into consideration. You will have to learn never to look at the man, but only at his coat and decorations. A man is not a man in genteel society; he is a Consul, a Marquis, or a nobody. Never look at nobodies; but if a Duke should lead you to a chair, be transported with delight. You have a great deal to learn, I see. Well, after you have got all this by heart--I am afraid it will take a long while!--my mother will proceed with her work. The last act will be to take your heart out of you, and put instead of it a lump of stone, cut to the proper shape and size, and painted so as to imitate the reality too exactly for any one to guess it an imitation. And then, with a lot of satin and velvet and lace on the top, Mrs. Celia Ingram, you will be finished!"

"Oh dear! I hope not," said Celia involuntarily.

"So do I," echoed Philip, significantly.

"But, Philip, I want to ask you one thing--are you not a Protestant?"

"I?" asked Philip, with a peculiar intonation. "No."

"You are a Papist?" said Celia, in a very disappointed tone.

"No," said Philip again.

"Then what are you?" asked she, astonished.

"Neither--nothing," he answered, rather bitterly. "I am what half the men of this age are, Sister Celia;--nothing at all. I call myself a Catholic, just to satisfy my mother; and when I see her becoming doubtful of my soundness in her faith, I go to mass with her half a dozen times, to quiet her conscience--and perhaps my own. But, Catholic as I am--so far as I own to anything--I do not believe you have read more Protestant books, or heard more Protestant preaching, than I have. I have tried both religions in turn, and now I believe in nothing. I have lost all faith, whether in religion, in morality, in man, or woman. I see the men of this city, Protestant and Catholic, either bent on pursuing their own pleasures, or on seeking their own interests--thinking of and caring for themselves and nothing in the world else; and I see the women, such as I have described them to you. I find none, of either faith, any better than the rest. What wonder, then, that the fire of my faith--the old, bright, happy trust of my childhood--has blackened and gone out?"

"But, Philip, dear Brother," pleaded Celia in great pain, "surely you believe in God?"

"I believe in _nothing_," said he, firmly.

Celia turned away, grieved at her very heart.

"Listen to me, Celia," resumed Philip, now quite serious. "You will not betray me to my mother--I see that in your eyes. You see I can believe in _you_," he added, smiling rather sadly. "There was a time when I believed all that you do, and more. When I was a little child, I used to think that, as Patient told me, God saw me, and loved me, and was ready to be my Friend and Father. All that I noticed different from this in the teaching of my other nurse, Jeannette Luchon, was that she taught me to think this of the Virgin Mary, my patron saint, and my guardian angel, as well as of God. Had I been struck deaf, dumb, and blind at that time, I might have believed it all yet. Perhaps it would have been as well for me. But I grew up to what I am. I watched all these highly religious people who visit here. I heard them invoke the Virgin or the saints to favor--not to forgive, mind you--but, before its committal, to prosper--what they admitted to be sin. I saw my own mother come home from receiving the Eucharist at mass, and tell lies: I knew they were lies, I was taught that it was very wicked in me to tell lies, and also that, in receiving the Eucharist, she had received Christ Himself into her soul. How could I believe both the one and the other? I was taught, again, that if I committed the most fearful sins, a man like myself, sitting in a confessional, could with two words cleanse my soul as if I had never sinned. How could I believe that, when from that cleansing I came home and found it no whit the cleaner? I turn to Protestantism. I hear your preachers tell me that 'Without holiness no man shall see the Lord;' that God has 'purer eyes than to behold sin;' and many another passage to the like effect. The next week I hear that one of the pastor's flock, or perhaps the very preacher himself, has been guilty of some glaring breach of common honesty. Does the man mean me to believe--does he believe himself--what he told me from the pulpit only a few days earlier? Romans and English, all are alike. I find the most zealous professors of religion in both communions guilty of acts with which I, who profess no religion at all, would scorn to sully my conscience. I have seen only one man who seems to me really honest and anxious to find out the truth, and he is about where I am; only that his mind is deeper and stronger than mine, and therefore he suffers more."

"But Edward!"

"Oh, Edward! He is a Protestant after your own heart. But he could not enter into my feelings at all. He is one of your simple, honest folks, who believe what they are taught, and do not trouble themselves about the parts of the puzzle not fitting."

"Philip, I do not know what to say to you," answered his sister, candidly. "I do not think we ought to look at other people, and take our religion from what they do, or do not do, but only from God Himself. If you would read the Bible"--

"I have read it," he interrupted.

"And do you find nothing to satisfy you there?" asked Celia, in surprise.

"I will tell you what I find. Very ancient writings, and very beautiful language, which I admire exceedingly; but nothing upon which I can rely."

"Not in God's Word?"

"How do I know that it is God's Word? How can I be sure that there is a God at all?"

Celia was silent. Such questions had never suggested themselves to her mind before, and she knew not how to deal with them. At length she said--

"Philip, I believe in one God, who is my Father, and orders all things for me; and who gave His Son Jesus Christ to die for me, instead of my dying for my own sins. Is this so difficult to believe?"

"I believe that you believe it," said Philip, smiling.

"But you do not believe it yourself?" she asked, with a baffled feeling.

"I have told you," he said, "that I believe nothing."

"Philip," she answered, softly, "I do not understand your feelings, and I do not know what to say to you. I must ask my Father. I will lay it before Him to-night; and as He shall give me wisdom I will talk with you again."

So she closed the subject, not knowing that the quiet certainty of conviction expressed in her last words had made a deeper impression upon Philip than any argument which could have been used to him.

"Come in!" said Lady Ingram, that afternoon, in reply to Celia's gentle tap at her door. "I thought it was you, _ma chère_. I am glad you are come, for I have something to say to you."

"Yes, Madam," responded Celia, resigning herself to another lecture.

"When you have taken dancing-lessons for a month, so that your deportment is a little improved, I wish you to be present at my first assembly for this year. Do not be alarmed--I require nothing more of you than to dress well and sit still. I shall present you to my particular friends, saying that you do not yet speak French, and none of them will then address you but such as are acquainted with English. You must remain in a corner of the room, where your awkward manners will attract no notice; and I shall put you in Philip's charge, and desire him to tell you who each person is, and so on. You will then have the opportunity of seeing really fine breeding and distinguished manners, and can help in the formation of your own accordingly, as you will then understand what I require of you."

"Yes, Madam," said Celia again.

"I have ordered stuffs for you, and they are now in the house. My assembly will be on Thursday week. There is quite time enough to make you one dress; and you will not appear again until you are formed--at least, that is my present intention. Thérèse will take your measure this evening, and cut out the dress, which Patient can then make. I wish you to have a white satin petticoat and a yellow silk bodice and train, guarded with lace; and I will lend you jewels."

"Thank you, Madam," answered Celia, giving herself up to all her step-mother's requirements.

"When you feel tired--I dare say you are not accustomed yet to late hours--you may slip out of the room and retire to you own apartments. Nobody will miss you."

"No, Madam," meekly responded Celia again, to this not very flattering remark.

"I think that is all I need say," pursued Lady Ingram, meditatively. "I do not wish to encumber and confuse your mind with too many details, or you will certainly not behave well. I will instruct Patient how you must be dressed, and I will look at you myself before you descend to the drawing-room, to be sure that no ridiculous mistake has been made. Thérèse shall dress your hair. Now help yourself to the chocolate."

"Patient! will you bring your work into my closet? I want to hear the end of your story."

"If you please, Madam. I must try the skirt on you in a little while, by your leave."

So Patient and the white satin petticoat came and settled themselves in Celia's boudoir.

"You had just landed in France when you left off, Patient. I am anxious to know if you found friends."

"'Twould make it a very long tale, Madam to tell you of all that we did and suffered ere we found friends. It was a hard matter to see what we should do; for had I sought a place as woman to some lady, I could not have left Roswith alone; and no lady would be like to take the child with me. So I could but entreat the Lord to show me how to earn bread enough for my wee sister and myself. The woman of the house who took us in after the shipwreck was very good unto us, the Lord inclining her heart to especial pity of us; and she greatly pressed us to go on to Paris, where she thought we should be more like to meet with succor. Therefore we set out on our way to Paris. The Lord went with us, and gave us favor in the eyes of all them whom we had need of on our road. Most of the women whom we met showed much compassion for Roswith, she being but a wee bit wean, and a very douce and cannie bairn to boot. It was in the month of October that we arrived in Paris. Here the Lord had prepared a strange thing for us. There was an uncle of Miss Magdalene, by name Mr. Francis Grey, who was a rich gentleman and a kindly. He had been on his travels into foreign parts, and was returning through this city unto his place; and by what men call chance, Miss Magdalene and I lighted on this gentleman in the Paris street, we returning from the buying of bread and other needful matters. He was as if he saw her not, for he afterward told us that he had heard nought of the harrying of Lauchie, nor of our shipwreck. But she ran to him, and cast her arms about him, calling 'Uncle Francis!' and after a season he knew her again, but at first he was a man amazed. When he heard all that had come upon us, and how Miss Magdalene was left all alone in the world, father and mother being drowned, he wept and clipped[4] her many times, and said that she should come with him to his inn, and dwell with him, and be unto him as a daughter, for he had no child. Then she prayed him to have compassion upon us also, Patient and Roswith Leslie; who, as John saith, had continued with her in her tribulation, and, it pleased her to say, had aided and comforted her. Mr. Francis smiled, and he said that I, Patient, should be in his service as a woman for her; and for Roswith, 'She,' quoth he, 'will not eat up all my substance, poor wee thing! So she shall come too, and in time Patient must learn her meetly unto the same place to some other lady.' Thus it was, Madam, that at the time when we seemed at the worst, the Lord delivered us out of our distresses."

"Then you went back to Scotland?"

"No, Madam, we never went back. For when Mr. Francis heard all, of the harrying of Lauchie, and the evil deeds of the King's troopers, and the cruelty of Claverhouse, he said there could be no peace in Scotland more, and sent word unto his steward to sell all, and remit the money to him. He bought a house at Paris, and there we dwelt all."

"It was in her uncle's house, then, that my mother met my father?"

"There, Madam. Sir Edward took her to England, for they married in January, 1687, while King James yet reigned; and Sir Edward was great with the King, and had a fine land there. Her son, your brother, Madam, that is Sir Edward now, was born in London, in the summer of 1688."

"Patient, what kind of man was my father?"

"He was a very noble-looking gentleman, Madam, tall, with dark eyes and hair."

"Yes, but I mean in his mind and character?"

"Well, Madam," answered Patient, rather doubtfully, "he was much like other men. He had good points and bad points. He was a kindly gentleman, and open-handed. He was not an angel."

"You scarce liked him, I think, Patient."

"I ought not to say so, Madam. He was alway a good and kind master to me. Truly, he was not the man I should have chosen for Miss Magdalene; but I seldom see folks choose as I should in their places. Yet that is little marvel, since, fifteen years gone, Patient Leslie made a choice that Patient Irvine would be little like to make now."

Patient's dry, sarcastic tone warned Celia that she had better turn the conversation.

"And where was I born, Patient?"

"Well, Madam, you know what happened that summer your brother was born. He that was called Prince of Wales was born in the same month;[5] and in October King James fled away, sending his wife Queen Mary[6] and the babe to France. When King William landed, it was expected that he would seize all belonging to the malignants;[7] this was not so entirely, yet so much that Sir Edward was sore afeared to lose his. He kept marvellous quiet for a time, trusting that such as were then in power would maybe not think of him. But when King James landed in Ireland, he was constrained to join him, but he left my Lady behind, and me with her, at his own house in Cheshire. After the battle of Boyne Water,[8] whereat he fought, it happed as he feared, for all his property was escheated to the Crown. At this time Mr. Francis Grey came back into the country, and for a time Sir Edward and my Lady abode with him at a house which he had near the Border, on the English side: but Sir Edward by his work on the Boyne had made the place too hot for to hold him, and he bethought himself of escaping after King James to France. So about March, 1691, we began to journey slowly all down England from the Border to the south sea. Sir Edward was mortal afeared of being known and seized, so that he would not go near any place where he could possibly be known: and having no acquaintance anywhere in the parts of Devon, made him fix upon Plymouth whence to sail. It was in the last of May that we left Exeter. We had journeyed but a little thence, when I saw that my Lady, who had been ailing for some time, was like to fall sick unto death. I told Sir Edward that methought she was more sick than he guessed, but I think he counted my words but idle clavers and foolish fancies. At last she grew so very bad that he began to believe me. 'Patient,' he said to me one morn, 'I shall go on to Plymouth and inquire for a ship. Tend your Lady well, and so soon as she can abide the journeying, she must come after. If I find it needful, I may sail the first.' It was on a Monday that Sir Edward rode away, leaving my Lady and the little Master, with me and Roswith to tend them, at a poor cot, the abode of one Betty Walling."

"Betty Walling of Ashcliffe? Why, Patient, I know her!"

"Do you so, Madam? She knows you, I guess, and could have told you somewhat anent yourself. Not that she knew my Lady's name: I kept that from her. It was on the Friday following that you were born. Saving your presence, Madam, you were such a poor, weak, puny babe, that none thought you would live even a day. Betty said, I mind, 'Poor little soul! 'twill soon be out of its suffering--you may take that comfort!' I myself never reckoned that you could live. I marvel whether Madam Passmore would remember Betty Walling's coming unto her one wet even in June, to beg a stoup of wine for a sick woman with her? That sick woman was my dear Lady. It was the Saturday eve, and she died on the Sunday morning. I laid her out for the burying, which was to be on the Wednesday, and was preparing to go thence unto Plymouth afterward, with Roswith and the babes, when on the Tuesday night I was aroused from sleep by a rapping on the window. I crept to the casement and oped it, and was surprised to hear my Master's voice saying softly, 'Patient, come and open to me.' I ran then quickly and let him in; he looked very white and tired, and his dress soiled as if he had ridden hard and long. Quoth he, 'How fares Magdalene?' As softly as I could break it, I told him that she would never suffer any more, but she had left him a baby daughter which he must cherish for her sake. He was sore grieved as ever I saw man for aught. After a while, he told me much, quickly, for there was little time. He had not entered Plymouth, when, riding softly in the dark, another horseman met him, and aroused his wonder by riding back after him and away again; and this he did twice over. At length the strange horseman rode right up to him, and asked him plainly, 'Are you Sir Edward Ingram, holding King James's commission?' And when he said he was, then said the horseman, 'If you look to sail from Plymouth, I would have you know that you are expected there, and spies be abroad looking for you, and you will be taken immediately you show yourself. If you love your life, turn back!' Sir Edward desiring to know both who he was and how he knew this, the horseman saith, 'That I may not tell you: but ride hard, or they will be on your track; for they already misdoubt that you are at Ashcliffe, where if your following be, I counsel you to remove thence with all the speed that may be.' Sir Edward said that he had ridden for life all through three days and nights, and now we must move away without awaiting aught. 'And we will go,' quoth he, 'by Bideford; for they will expect me now, if they find I have given them the slip, to take passage by Portsmouth or Southampton, and will scarce count on my turning westward.' It grieved us both sore to leave my Lady unburied, but there was no help; and Betty passed her word to follow the body, and see that she was meetly laid in her grave. 'And how will I carry the babe?' quoth I. 'Nay, truly,' said he, sorrowfully, 'the babe cannot go with us; it will bewray all by its crying. We must needs leave it somewhere at nurse, and when better times come, and the King hath his own again, I will return and claim it.' For Master Edward was a braw laddie, that scarce ever cried or plained; while you, Madam, under your leave, did keep up a continual whining and mewling, which would have entirely hindered our lying hid, or journeying under cover of darkness. So I called Betty when it grew light, and conferred with her; and she said, 'Leave the babe at the gate of the Hall, and watch it till one cometh to take it.' Madam Passmore, she told us, was a kindly gentlewoman, that had sent word she would have come to see my Lady herself if she also had not been sick; and at this time having a little babe of her own, Betty thought she would be of soft heart unto any other desolate and needful babe. So I clad you in laced wraps, and pinned a paper on your coat with a gold pin of my Lady's, and Sir Edward wrote on the paper your name, 'Celia,' the which my poor Lady, as she lay a-dying, had felt a fancy to have you called. He said he had ever wished, should he have a daughter, to name her Grissel, which was my Lady his mother's name; 'But,' quoth he, 'if my poor Magdalene in dying had asked me to name the child Nebuchadnezzar, I would not have said her nay.' He was such a gentleman as that, Madam; in his deepest troubles he scarce could forbear jesting. So I carried you to the Hall, and laid you softly down at the gate, and rang the bell, and hid and watched among the trees. There first the Master rode up, looked strangely on you, though pitifully enough, but touched you not: and anon came out a kindly-looking woman of some fifty-and-five or sixty years, and took you up, and carried you away in her arms, chirping pleasantly unto you the while. So I was satisfied for the babe."

"That was Cicely Aggett," said Celia, smiling: "dear old Cicely! she told me about her finding me."

"The next hour," pursued Patient, "saw us thence. We got safe to Bideford, and away, the Lord aiding us, and after some tossing upon the sea, landed at Harfleur in fourteen days thereafter. Thence we came up to Paris, unto Mr. Francis Grey's house, which he had given unto my Lady in dowry; and Sir Edward bought another house at St. Germains, for he had had prudence to put some of his money out to interest in this land, so that all was not lost."

"And now tell me, Patient, how did he meet my step-mother?"

"I must pray you to leave that, Madam, for the time, and try on this skirt. Thérèse hath given me the pieces for the bodice."

[1] John Graham, of Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, was the eldest son of Sir William Graham and Lady Jane Carnegy his wife. He was a descendant of the royal line of Scotland, through his ancestress the Princess Mary, daughter of King Robert III. He fell at Killicrankie, July 16, 1689. In person he was eminently beautiful, in politics devoutly loyal; in character, a remarkable instance of the union of the softest and most genial manners with the sternest courage and most revolting cruelty in action. His least punishment as a General was death; and his persecution of the hapless Covenanters was restrained by no sense of humanity or compassion.

[2] Ps. lxxix.

[3] 2 Sam. xxiv. 14.

[4] Embraced.

[5] At St James's Palace, June 10, 1688.

[6] Maria Beatrice Leonora, only daughter of Alfonso IV., Duke of Modena, and Laura Martinozzi; born at Modena, October 5, 1658; married (by proxy) at Modena, September 30, and (in person) at Dover, November 21, 1673, to James Duke of York, afterwards James II.; died of cancer, at St. Germain-en-Laye, May 7, 1718, and buried at Chaillot.

[7] This name was given, both during the Rebellion and the Revolution, by each party to its opponents.

[8] Fought July 1, 1689.