Part 13

"Madam, their father and mother were Prelatists," said Patient, evidently of opinion that this settled the question. "They could not go with them to church and read the mass-book."

"Oh! you mean they were Papists?"

"No, Madam--Prelatists," repeated Patient, a little perversely. "Not that I see much disagreement, indeed, for methinks a Prelatist is but a Papist with a difference. Yet I do trust there be Prelatists that will be saved, and I can scarce think that of Papists."

"I don't understand you, Patient. I suppose these Prelatists are some sect that I have not heard anything about," said Celia, with much simplicity, for she never supposed that Patient's stern condemnation was levelled against her own Church, and would have been sorely grieved and bewildered had she known it. "Go on, if you please."

Patient did not explain, and proceeded with her history.

"When the late King James became King, on the death of his brother, he put forth a proclamation granting liberty of conscience unto all sects whatsoever. For a time the Puritans rejoiced in this mercy, thinking it a favor unto them, but later they became aware that 'twas but a deceit to extend ease unto the Papists. Maggie and Agnes Wilson, the which were in hiding, did shortly after this proclamation venture into the town, being wishful to speak with their kinsfolk. They never reached their kith, being betrayed by one Patrick Stewart, who came upon them with a band of men, and lodged them in the thieves' hole. Thence they were shifted to another chamber, wherein Margaret Maclauchlan already abode. Thomas Wilson, their brother, did strive to set them free, thereby but harming himself;[11] and they were had up afore the Sheriff,[12] and the Provost,[13] and some others. The indictment of them was for attending field-conventicles, and for joining in the rebellion at Bothwell Bridge and Airsmoss,--they, poor feeble souls, never having been near the same places. The jury brought the charge in proven, and the three women were doomed to be justified[14] by water. They were to be tied to stakes below the mark of the tide, in the water of Blednoch, near Wigtown, until they should be dead, the tide sweeping over them in its flow. Howbeit the Lord restrained them of having their will upon the young maid Agnes. Maybe they were nigh shamed to justify such a bairn: however, they tarried in her case. But on the day appointed, which, as I said, was May 11th, one named Windram, being in command over a band of soldiers, did hale Margaret Maclauchlan and Margaret Wilson to the place of execution. The first stake, whereto Margaret Maclauchlan was tied, was fixed much deeper in the bed of the river than the other, they hoping that Maggie Wilson should be feared at her death, being the sooner, and so brought to recant. Moreover, one of the town officers did with his halbert press and push down the poor old wife, who, having the lesser suffering of the two, was soon with the Lord. As she strave in the bitterness of death, quoth one to Maggie Wilson, 'What think ye of that?' 'Nay,' quoth she, 'what do I see but Christ in one of His members struggling there!' Then Maggie, bring tied unto the nearer stake, after singing of a Psalm,[15] did read a chapter of the Word,[16] and prayed, so that all might hear. And while she was a-praying, the water overflowed her. And to see the devilish cruelty of these men! they left her till she was nigh dead, and then, lifting her out of the water, did use all care and means to recover her, as if they meant mercy. But it was but that she might die over again. They murdered her twice over--poor, poor maid! for she was past feeling when they got her out. Then, when she could speak, this Windram did ask her if she would pray for the King. Much cause they had given her! She then answered that she wished the salvation of all men, and the damnation of none. Then a maid which stood by Duncan, and had sobbed and wept aforetime, which he thought must be of kin or friendly unto her, did cry most dolefully, 'Dear Margaret! oh say, "God save the King!" say, "God save the King!"' 'God save him if He will,' quoth she, 'for I desire his salvation.' Windram now drawing near, commanded her to take the oath unto the King, abjuring of the Solemn League and Covenant. 'I will not,' quoth she; 'I am one of Christ's children.' No sooner had she thus spoken, than one of the town's officers with his halbert thrust her back into the water, crying, 'Tak' anither drink, my hearty!' So she died."

"Patient!" said Celia, in a low, constrained voice, "did God let those men go scathless?"

"Not so, Madam. The town's officer that thrust her back was ever after that tormented with a thirst the which no draught could slake; and for many generations the children of the other, which kept down the old wife with his halbert, were all born with misshapen hands and feet."[17]

"Patient," said Celia again, in the same low reverent tone, "I wonder that He suffers such things to be!"

"I marvelled at that, Madam, years agone. It seemed very strange unto me that He suffered us to be haled down to the beach at the harrying of Lauchie, and that the storm should come on us and cut off so many lives of His servants. It exercised me very sore."

"And how did you settle it, Patient?"

"I do not know that I should have settled it, Madam, had I not met with an ancient gentleman, a minister, that used at one time to visit Mr. Francis in Paris here. He was a reverend man by the name of Colville, one of mine own country, that had fled out of Scotland of old time, and had been dwelling for many years in Switzerland and Germany."

"Was he akin to this Mr. Colville who is Philip's friend?"

"This young gentleman is his grandson, Madam; and little good he doth Mr. Philip, I fear. If he were a wee bit more like his grandsire, I would be fain. Howbeit, grace goeth not by inheritance, as I know. He was a very kindly gentleman, Madam, this old minister; and when he had sat a while ben with Mr. Francis and Miss Magdalene, he oft would say, 'Now let me go but and speak unto the Leslies.' And one day--ah! that day!--when Roswith was very ill, I asked of him the thing which did exercise me. And he said unto me, gently and kindly, holding mine hand in his quavering hand, for he was a very ancient gentleman,--'Dear child,' quoth he, 'dost thou know so little thy Father? Thou mindest me of my little son,' saith he, 'when the fire brake out in mine house. When I hasted up into his chamber, which was above the chamber a-fire, and tare the blankets from his bed, and haled him thence somewhat roughly, the bairn greet, and asked of me what made me so angry.' Well, I could not choose but smile to think of the babe's blunder; and he saith, 'I see thou canst understand that. Why, dear child,' quoth he, 'thou art about just the same blunder as my bairn. Thy Father sendeth a messenger in haste to fetch thy soul home to Him; and lo! "Father," sayest thou, "why art thou so angry?" We are all little children,' quoth he, 'and are apt to think our Father is angry when He is but short with us because of danger. And dost thou think, lassie,' he said, 'that they which saw the face of God first thing after that storm, rebuked Him because He had fetched them thither by water?' So then I saw mine error."

"Did this old gentleman teach you a great deal, Patient? I keep wondering whence you have all the things you say to me. I don't think such things as you do; and even Cicely Aggett, who is some twenty years older than you, does not seem to know half so much about God as you do. Where do you get your thoughts and your knowledge?"

"Where the Lord doth mostly teach His children, Madam--'by the rivers of Babylon, where I sat down and wept.'[18] I think he that beareth the precious seed commonly goeth forth weeping,[19] for we cannot enter into the troubles and perplexities of others which have known none ourselves. And if it behoved _Him_ in all things to be made like unto His brethren, that He might be a merciful and faithful High Priest,[20] who are we that we should grudge to be made like unto our brethren likewise? That is a deep word, Madam,--'Though He were a Son, yet learned He obedience by the things which He suffered.'[21] I have not got half down to the bottom of it yet. But for the matter of that, I am but just hoeing at the top of all Scripture, and scarce delving any depth."

"Well, Patient," said Celia, with a perplexed, melancholy air, "if you think you are but hoeing on the surface, what am I doing?"

"My dear bairn--I ask your pardon, Madam," corrected Patient.

"Don't ask it, Patient," replied Celia, softly; "I like that--it sounds as if somebody loved me."

"Eh, lassie!" said Patient, suddenly losing all her conventionality, and much of her English, "did ye no think I loved Miss Magdalene's bairn? I was the first that ever fed you, that ever dressed you, that ever bare you about. I was just fon' on you when you were a bit baby." Patient's voice became suddenly tremulous, and ceased.

Celia rose from her chair, and kneeling down by Patient's side, threw her arms round her neck and kissed her. Patient held her tight for a moment.

"The Lord bless you, my ain lassie!" she faltered, "You are just that Miss Magdalene o'er again--her ain brown eyes, and her smile, and her soft bit mou'! The Lord bless you!"

Celia resumed her seat, and Patient her calm, respectful tone; but the former understood the latter a great deal better after that episode, and never forgot what a wealth of love lay hidden under that quiet manner and somewhat stiff address.

"Well, Patient, what were you going to say to me?"

"I scarce think, Madam, that you have had much dwelling by the waters of Babylon as yet. I don't mean that you have had no sorrow at all: I misdoubt if any man or maid ever grew up to your age without knowing what sorrow was. But there are griefs and griefs; and 'tis one thing to visit a town, and another to abide there. David knew what it was: 'My tears have been my meat day and night,'[22] quoth he. And though in the main I conceive that and many another word in David's Psalms to point unto Him that was greater than David, yet I dare say 'twas no pleasant dwelling in the cave with all them that were bitter of soul, neither fleeing on the mountains afore King Saul, nor yet abiding in Gath. He felt them all sore crosses, I little doubt."

"Do you think that is what our Lord means, Patient, where He says, 'Take up the cross, and follow Me'?"[23]

"I think he means whatsoever is undelightful to flesh and blood, that cometh in the way of following Him. Is the gate strait? yet 'Follow Me.' Is the way narrow? yet 'Follow Me.' Art thou faint, and cold, and an-hungered, and a-weary? Yet 'Follow Me.' 'My grace is sufficient for thee.'[24] My footsteps are plain before thee, My eye is ever over thee. 'Follow Me.'"

"But, Patient, don't you think that sometimes the footsteps are not so very plain before us?"

"We cannot see them when we don't look for them, Madam--that is certain."

"Ah! but when we do--is it not sometimes very difficult to see them?"

"Madam, blind eyes cannot see. We are all blind by nature, and even they that are God's children, I believe, cannot sin but it dims their eyes. Even of them, perchance more 'see men as trees walking.'[25] than as having the full use of their spiritual eyes. Well, it matters little how we see men, if only we have eyes to see Christ. Yet which of us, after all, ever really hath seen Him? But anent crosses, Madam, I have a word to say, if you please. There's a wonderful manufactory of crosses ever a-working among all God's saints. Whatever else we are unskilful in, we are uncommon skilled in making of rods for our own backs. And very sharp rods they are, mostly. I had a deal sooner with David, 'fall into the hand of the Lord' than into the hands of men:[26] but above all, may the Lord deliver me from falling into mine own! There is a sharp saying, Madam, which maybe you have heard,--'He that is his own lawyer hath a fool to his client:' I am sure he that ruleth his own way hath a fool to his governor. Yet every man among us would be his own God if he might. What else are all our murmurings and disputings of the will of the Lord?"

"But, Patient, you don't call grieving murmuring? You would not say that every cry of pain was a murmur? Surely when God uses His rod to us, He means us to feel it?"

"Certainly, Madam, He means us to feel it; else there were no use laying it on us. There is a point, doubtless, where grieving doth become murmuring; and where that is the Lord knoweth better than we. He makes no mistakes. He will not account that murmuring which he that crieth doth not intend to be such. I think He looks on our griefs not as they be to Him, nor perchance to others, but as they are to us; just as a kindly nurse or mother will comfort a little bairn greeting over a bit plaything that none save itself accounted the losing of worth naming."

"We are very foolish, I am afraid, sometimes," said Celia, thoughtfully.

"Foolish! ay we are so!" returned Patient. "Setting our hearts, like Jonah, on bit gourds, that grow up in a night, and are withered in a night[27]--quarrelling with the Lord when His wisdom denies us our own will--mewling and grumbling like ill bairns, as we be, at a breath of wind that crosses us--saying, all of us at our hearts, 'I am, and none else beside me'[28]--'Who is the Lord, that I should obey Him?'[29] The longer I live, Madam, the more I am ever marvelling at the wonderful grace, and patience, and love, of the Lord, that He should bear with such ne'er-do-weels as we are, even at our very best. 'I am the Lord, I change not; _therefore_ ye sons of Jacob are not consumed.'"[30]

Patient was silent for a while, and Celia broke the silence.

"Patient, what became of Roswith? I never hear you name her now, but always as belonging to past time."

Patient did not answer for a moment. Then she said, her voice a little less calm than usual:

"There is no time, Madam, for her. She will never grow old, she will never suffer pain, she will never weep any more. The Master has been, and called for her."

"She is dead!" said Celia, sympathizingly.

"Dead? Nay, alive for evermore, as He is. 'Because He liveth, we shall live also.'[31] She is in the beatific vision, before the face of the Father, and shall never sin, nor suffer, nor depart any more. And we, here in this body of pain and sin, call them 'dead!' O Roswith! O my soul, my love, my darling! my wee bit bonnie bairn, sister and daughter in one, whom I loved as David Jonathan, as mine own soul! surely I am the dead, and thou art the living!"

Celia sat amazed at this sudden flow of passionate words from her usually imperturbable companion. She had seen her moved, only a short time before, but not like this. Patient bent her head low over her work, and did not look up for some minutes. When she spoke, it was to say, very softly:

"She never looked up rightly after the harrying of Lauchie. She lived, but she never laughed rightly again. The Doctor deemed that the ship wreck--the shock and the cold and the hunger--had wrought the ill. Maybe they had. But she never was a strong, likely lassie. She was ever gentle and quiet in all her ways, and could no bear much putting upon. And after that she just pined and wasted away. It was after Miss Magdalene died--after my Lady that is now was wedded--that the end came. It was one Sabbath afternoon, and I, poor fool! fancied her a wee bit better that day. She was lying on the bed in our chamber, and we had been cracking of divers things--of our Lord Christ and His resurrection, and that sweet prayer of His in John, and the like. Her voice was very low and soft--but it was ever that, I think--and her words came slowly and with pauses. And when we ended our crack, she saith, 'Patient, Sister! sing to me.' I asked her, 'What, dear heart?' and she saith, 'The Twenty-third Psalm.' So I sang:

"'The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want. He makes me down to lie In pastures green: He leadeth me The quiet waters by.'

"And now and then, just for a line, I heard her weak voice joining in. I sang to the end, and she sang the last lines:

"'And in God's house for evermore My dwelling-place shall be.'

"When I had done, I thought the place felt so still, as if the angels were there. Surely they were so! for in a few minutes after I made an end of singing, she arose and went to the Father.

"I have been alone with God since that night Roswith died. I shall go some day, but it seems afar off now. Perchance it may be nearer than I deem. The Lord knoweth the time, and He will not forget me."

There was a long silence when Patient's voice ceased. Celia spoke first.

"Patient, you said once that you would tell me how my father met with my step-mother. But I want to know also why no one ever sought me out until now."

"There was no chance, Madam, so long as you were a child. The troubles in England were too great to allow of Sir Edward returning himself. I believe he charged my Lady on his deathbed to seek you out, and wherefore she tarried I know not. I had a mind once to go myself, and I named it to her, but was called a fool for my pains, and bidden to sit quiet and sew. But I was glad to see you."

"Thank you, dear Patient," said Celia, affectionately. "And now tell me about the other."

"Do you know, Madam, that my Lady was a widow when she wedded Sir Edward?"

"No!" exclaimed Celia. "I never heard of that. But Philip--he is really my brother, is he not?"

"Oh yes, Madam! Mr. Philip is your brother. I will tell you:--After my Lady Magdalene died, Sir Edward was for a time sore sick, and the doctors bade him visit and go about for the recovery of his health. I am scarce certain that it was the best thing he could do, howbeit he did as they bade him. Among the gentlemen whom he used to visit, where he whiles took his son Master Edward, and me as his nurse, was the Marquis of La Croix, and another was one Mr. Camillus De L'Orient. The Marquis was a stately old French gentleman, a kindly man to his own, I think, but one that held himself mortal high, and seemed to think that laboring men and the like were no better, if so good, as his dogs and his horses. The Marchioness, his wife, was much of the same sort, only I'm thinking she wasn't quite so stiff as he. They had no son--and very grieved they were for it--only three daughters: Madam Claudia, Madam Sophia, and Madam Amata. The last young lady is dead; she died a maid, and to my thinking she was a hantle the best of the three. Madam Sophia you saw the other evening; she wedded the Duke of Montausier. Madam Claudia is my Lady.

"I had never any great taking for Frenchmen, but to my thinking Mr. Camillus De L'Orient was the best and pleasantest Frenchman I ever saw. There was something about him so douce and kindly to everybody; and 'tis very seldom the case with the French nobles. Sir Edward came one day into the nursery, as he often did, to play him with the bairn; and, said he, 'Patient, next week I shall go to Monsieur De La Croix's _château_ in the provinces, and Mademoiselle Aimée has begged for Edward to come too; so get him and yourself ready. Mademoiselle De La Croix is to be married to Monsieur De L'Orient." Well, we went to the castle; and surely there were fine doings: Madam Claudia in white satin, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen--they were quite a picture to look at. After the wedding and the revellings were over, Madam Claudia and her husband went up to Paris for a while, and then to pay a visit to Mr. Camillus' father and mother, who lived some way off. Sir Edward meanwhile thought of going home too, but Monsieur and Madam they begged of him to stay till Mr. Camillus came back, and Madam Amata, who was mighty fond of children, and took wonderfully to little Master Ned, she begged him not to take the bairn away; so the end of it was that he stopped ever so long, and Master Ned and me, we stopped too. About two months after the wedding, Mr. Camillus and his new wife came back to the castle, and the fine doings began again. There was nought but feasting and junketing for a fortnight; and one morning, at the end of that time, Sir Edward, and Mr. Camillus, and one Mr. Leroy, and three or four gentlemen more that were staying at the castle, they went out for a stroll in the park.

"I know not rightly how it was, but there arose some words among these gentlemen, and they came to quarrelling. Sir Edward held fast by Mr. Camillus, who was a great friend of his; but Mr. Leroy, whose blood was up because of something that had been said, at last struck Mr. Camillus a blow. Everybody cried directly that he must fight him. Sir Edward ran back to the castle for pistols, for the gentlemen were not armed; and he came in all haste into the chamber where I was sewing, with little Master at his horn-book, and bade me tell Madam Claudia as gently as I could that there was to be a duel between Mr. Camillus and Mr. Leroy. I went up into the chamber where the three young ladies were together, and Madam Sophia was trying of a new gown. I told as quiet as I could what had happened. Madam Amata cried out, and ran to her sister, and clipped her round the neck. She said, 'Claude, _ma soeur, ma bonne, ma belle!_ go, go to Camille, and ask him not to fight!' I looked at Madam Claudia. She went as white as a sheet the first minute; but the next she lifted her head up proudly, and she said, 'Shall I ask him not to revenge an affront to his honor? _Noblesse oblige, ma soeur_.' 'You are such a child, Aimée!' was all Madam Sophia said, as she looked round from her tiring-glass. 'You always call me so,' said Madam Amata; 'but this is dreadful--it is death, perhaps, my sisters!' Madam Sophia took no heed of her, but went on trying her new gown, and showing her woman where it did not please her. For a minute I thought that Madam Claudia was going to give way and have a good cry; but she did not. I scarce knew then that 'tis not our deepest sorrow that we weep for. She sat down, still very white, and taking no heed to her sister's new array, though she, poor thoughtless maid! kept calling to her, didn't she like this and did she no think that was too long and t'other too narrow? Madam Amata came softly up to me, and whispered '_Ma bonne_, go down and bring us the first news.' So I slipped out and down-stairs. About half an hour after a gentleman came in--a French gentleman, but I forget his name now--who I knew had been at the fighting. I called to him and asked him to pardon me for being so bold as to speak to him, but for the love of God to tell me the news. 'News?' quoth he, 'what! of the duel? Oh! they have fought, and Monsieur De L'Orient has fallen: Sir Edward Ingram is carrying him here'--and Mr. Somebody, I don't mind who it was. 'Is he dead, Sir?' I said, all of a tremble. 'I really don't know,' says he, quite careless; 'I think not quite.'

"I hadn't the heart to speak another word to such a man. I crept up again to the young ladies' chamber, and I knelt down by Madam Claudia, and told her she must make ready for the worst. She shivered all over, and then, scarce opening her white lips, she said, 'Is it all over?' I said, 'They think not quite; but Sir Edward is bringing him hither.' When she heard that, she rose and glided down the stairs to the hall, Madam Amata following her, and I likewise. Even Madam Sophia was a trifle touched, I think, for she said a bad word, as those French ladies do when they are astonished; but Madam Amata was very white and crying, for if Mr. Camillus had really been her brother born, I don't think she could have loved him much better than she did.