Part 19

"I'll tell you, Madam. John Paterson--he was Isabel's guidman--was a small farming-man at Pennyvenie, but at one time he dwelt for a season no so far from Lauchie. 'Twas when I was a young maid that these things happened. I knew Isabel Paterson, and many a crack I've had with her when I was a lassie, and she a thriving young wife with wee weans about her. Well, John, her guidman, was a marked man to King Charles's troopers, and many a time they set out to hunt him down. He could no dwell in his own house, but was forced to seek sleeping-room on the Crag of Benbeoch, between two great rocks, only visiting his own home by stealth. The first of these times the dragoons came on him as he was coming down from Benbeoch to the little white farmhouse below, and Isabel was watching his coming from the window. As he was crossing the moor they saw him, and he saw them. John, he turned and ran, and they galloped after. He heard them coming over the moor, and leaping the stone wall that girdled Benbeoch Crags, and he thought, 'Ah! sure 'tis all over with me now!' For only that week had Claverhouse hanged Davie Keith at his own door, and he was sib to Paterson. John he ran, and the troops they galloped: he crying mightily unto the Lord to save him for His Name's sake. And while the words were yet in his mouth, and the dragoons were so near him that he could hear their speech to one another, all at once his feet caught at a stone, and down he fell. He gave himself up for lost then, for the horses were right on him. 'But where am I going?' thinks he. Through the heather he fell, through the grass, through the very solid earth aneath him. Madam, the Lord made a new thing, and the earth opened her mouth and swallowed him up, rather than he should fall into the hands of his enemies. When he came to himself--for he was a bit bruised and stunned by the fall--he felt that he was in some wide dry cavern, many a foot across, and he heard overhead the troopers cursing and swearing that they could not find the hole where, quoth they, the fox had run to earth. And John down aneath was kneeling and giving thanks to the Lord, enjoying, as he told afterwards, the blessedest hour of communion with Him that ever he had. After a while the troopers gave it up as a bad job, and off they went. And when John dared to climb up out of the hole, and pop up his head through the long grass and heather, there was nought but the green grass and the purple heather, and God's blue sky over all. After a time he ventured forth, and hearing a wail of a woman's voice, found Isabel mourning on the hill-side, seeking his dead body, never doubting that the troopers had slain him. He helped her into the cave, and there they knelt down together and praised the Lord again. And by degrees, after a while, they carried bedding and household goods such as could be spared to this safe shelter which the Lord had provided for them, and not only John, but others of the brethren, hid there for many a day after, when Claverhouse was known to be in the country."

"Patient, is that really true?"

"True as Gospel, Madam. I had it from Isabel her ain sel'."

"But the cave must have been there before, surely."

"Maybe, Madam, or maybe not," said Patient, a little obstinately. "We ken little of what goes on in the heart of the earth. Anyhow, it had never been found before, though there were shepherds who knew every inch of Benbeoch Crags: and there it was ready when John Paterson fell in need of it."

"And what was his second escape, Patient?"

"That, Madam, was well-nigh as strange, for the Lord made choice of a poor silly beast as his deliverer. 'Twas indeed the earlier deliverance of the two. It began just like to the other:--John was running over the moor afore Claverhouse's troops, a meeting in the Black Glen having been broke up on the rumor of their coming. But this time the men had dogs with them. John, he ran as long as he could over Longstone Moss, calling on the Lord for deliverance as he ran. All the way across the bog he kept pace with them, for the horses being heavier, and the troopers armed, they had ill work to get on through the bog. But he, knowing that the Moss once passed, they would be far swifter than he on the hard ground, looked around earnestly for some safe hiding-place. Coming upon a deep furrow of moss and long grass running across the bog, he lay down in it, scarce hoping that it could be enough to hide him, but for just what men call a chance. Hitherto he had seen only the troopers, and had not noticed the dogs; but all at once, as he lay in this long grass, he heard their deep bay come across the moor. 'That sound,' quoth he, 'struck upon my heart like a death-knell. That sense of smell which God had given them was sure and unerring; and these men were now using it to hunt God's children to the death.' Straight and sure came the hounds rushing upon him. He cried once more unto the Lord, and then was about to rise lest the dogs should tear him. When, all at once, he heard among the long grass at his head a whirring sound, and a fox dashed close past him. Ay, but that was a scurry! Horses, dogs, and men, away they set after the fox, and they never came back that day.[12] So again the Lord delivered him."

"But you don't think, Patient, that He made the fox on purpose?"

"Madam," said Patient, a little dryly, "I am not in the Lord's counsels. I should fancy that He guided a common fox to do the thing; but I cannot presume to say that the bit beastie was not created there and then. We are too apt to limit the Lord, Madam."

"But God has given over creating, Patient."

"Has He so, Madam?" asked Patient, dubiously. "Is it no new creation when the buds spring forth, when the grass groweth up, and 'He reneweth the face of the earth'?[13] 'God did rest the seventh day from all His works;'[14] but the Scripture doth not tell us what He did on the eighth. Moreover, saith our Lord that 'the Father worketh.'[15] This I know--that if the purpose of the Lord were to preserve John Paterson by means of a fox, that fox should sooner have been brought from the Indies as on dry land than that His purpose should fail. 'He will work, and who shall let it?'"[16]

"I say!" observed Mr. Philip Ingram at the door, "what have you been doing, or saying, or something, to my mother? I have not seen her in such a state I don't know when."

"I am afraid I have displeased her," said Celia, "but I could not help it. If I had it to do over again, I must say just the same thing in substance."

"Have you been running a tilt with her, my pugnacious warrior?" asked Philip, glancing at his reflection in the mirror.

"Something like it, I am afraid."

"Ah! I thought as much when I was desired, just now, to talk upon some subject more agreeable than you. I said I did not know any, and departed; doubly willing to do so as I found that she had the megrims."

"I thought she looked poorly," said Celia, compassionately.

Philip indulged in a peal of laughter.

"My sweet rustic innocence! I thought I told you that megrims stood for Père Letellier. He is closeted with her Ladyship, assisting her to mourn over your lamentable departure from the faith and the mode. I should not very much wonder if you were treated to a visit from his reverence."

"Oh dear!" said Celia, involuntarily.

"He isn't such a formidable being," said Philip. "He used to confess me when I was about the height of that table, and order me a certain quantity of sugar-plums for penance--I know it was two for squalling, and four for stamping and kicking. I lost my temper with tolerable frequency under that discipline."

Patient sighed and shook her head slowly.

"Now how much wisdom lies in a shake of some people's heads! Patient, my dear creature, you could not have conveyed your meaning half so well in words."

"I am doubtful if you know my meaning, Mr. Philip."

"Know your meaning! Why, it was written on your head in that shake! Did it not say, 'Philip Ingram! your education was awfully bad, and you are what might be expected from it'?"

"Nay, Sir, scarce that. I was thinking rather of that word, 'I am against the shepherds,'[17] and yet more of that other word of John, 'Therefore shall her plagues come in one day, ... for strong is the Lord God who judgeth her.'"[18]

"Spare me, please!" exclaimed Philip, springing up. "You never quote from the Revelation without a sermon after it. Urgent business requires my presence down-stairs. Mrs. Celia Ingram, your servant!"

And he shut the door, laughing; but the next minute he opened it again to say, "If Père Letellier should take it into his head to come here, send for me to keep you in countenance. You will find the bear in its den--Patient knows where."

"But, Philip, what do you expect people to do?"

It was not the advent of Père Letellier, but his own want of occupation, which, to use Philip's elegant simile, had drawn the bear out of its den. Père Letellier was gone some hours before, and Lady Ingram had shut herself up, desiring Thérèse to tell any one who asked for her that she had the vapors, and could see nobody; and Philip, thus thrown back on his own society or his sister's, had selected the latter as the pleasanter of the two.

"But what do you expect people to do?" was Celia's natural reply to Philip's remark that good people never did anything.

"Well, my dear, I can only say that if I were one of you good folks, I could not live as you do. If I believed--really, honestly believed--that all the people, or not all, say one-half, say one-tenth of the people around me, in this city alone, were going to perdition as fast as they could travel, and that I knew of something which would save them, if I could only persuade them to take it,--why, my dear Celia, I could never sit quietly on this sofa! I should want to go out instantly 'into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in.'[19] It would be as cruel as helping oneself to an extra slice of plumcake in the presence of a starving wretch who had lived for a week on a handful of potato-parings."

"Philip, I am sure you have been reading the Bible. You have quoted it several times lately."

"I told you I had read it," answered Philip, shortly.

"Mr. Philip," said Patient, very gravely, "you have given me somewhat to meditate upon. Your words are very exercising. We do scarce follow sufficiently that word, 'Consider your ways.'[20] You are quite right, Sir, more shame for us!"

"Very well, then, you agree with me," said Philip. "Well, and here are all the good, charitably-disposed Catholics shutting themselves up in convents and telling their beads; and all the good, charitably-disposed Protestants sitting on sofas, reading their good books, and mourning to each other over the wickedness of the world. Now, is that really the best thing that either party can find to do?"

"Mr. Philip, I hope you don't mean to go to compare the poor blind souls of Papists, worshipping idols in those wicked monasteries, with enlightened Christian believers either in Scotland or England?" objected Patient, with a shade of rising indignation in her tone.

"I do not mean to say that the 'believers,' as you call them, may not be doing more good to their own souls than the monks and nuns: but if they sit still on their sofas, what more good are they doing the world than the monks are? Is it not the same thing under another name? Are they helping to lessen by one grain the heap of wickedness they mourn over?"

"I am afraid you are right, Philip," said Celia, thoughtfully.

"That is just the failing of you good folks," resumed he. "You hear of a poor family, shockingly destitute, and steeped in all manner of sin and wickedness; and you say to each other, 'Isn't it dreadful?' You talk them over--perhaps you pray them over; but at the best, you do anything but put on your hat and go and try to lift them out of the mire. Oh dear no! They are far too dirty and disagreeable for your delicate fingers. I am without, as you know; and on the principle that 'lookers-on see most of the game,' those things show more plainly to us than to you. Look at the men in our prisons. They are beyond you now. But was there no time when they were not beyond you? Did they pass, do you think, in five minutes from little children saying the Paternoster at their mother's knee, to the hardened criminals to whom you would not dare to speak? You should talk to Colville. He would put everything before you far better than I can."

A few days after this conversation, Celia made the acquaintance of her brother's solitary friend. Lady Ingram's reception took place on the Thursday subsequent; and that lady, who had not yet resumed her usual graciousness to Celia, nevertheless intimated her pleasure that her step-daughter should be present. As Celia sat quietly in her corner, moralizing to herself on the scene, Philip's voice beside her said--

"Celia, my dear, allow me to introduce you. Mr. Colville, Mrs. Ingram. Mrs. Ingram, Mr. Colville."

Celia lifted her eyes with much curiosity. Her first impression was that Philip's friend was a very thin long man, with very light hair and eyes of the palest blue, a stoop in the shoulders, and a noticeable nose. He and Philip remained standing by her chair.

"An interesting scene this," observed Mr. Colville, in a deep, hollow voice. "Pleasant to see men and women enjoying themselves. Life is short, and death certain. Let us be happy while we can."

"After death the judgment.'"[21] The words came suddenly from Celia's lips, and almost without her volition.

Mr. Colville smiled condescendingly.

"You are one of the old-fashioned thinkers," he said. "I shall be happy to show you how mistaken such a notion is. I always take a pleasure in disabusing young minds."

"Very generous of you," said Philip--Celia was not sure whether seriously or ironically.

"'Mistaken!'" she exclaimed, lifting her clear eyes to her opponent's, and thinking that her ears must have made some strange mistake. "'Tis a passage of Scripture."

"A fable, Madam," returned Mr. Colville, coolly. "Quite inconsistent with the character of God, who is a perfect Being; and most injurious to the minds of men. The soul, I assure you, is a mere quality of the body; it has no substance, yet is entirely material, and perishes with the body of which it is a quality."

"Sir, how can God's revelation be a fable?" was Celia's very grave reply. "And, without that revelation, what can we know of the character of God?"

"My dear Madam," replied Mr. Colville, with his pitying, patronizing smile, "these are quite obsolete, disproved notions. There can be no such thing as revelation; 'tis impossible. And there are no means of any kind by which man can understand the character of God. We know from nature that God is infinitely powerful, and infinitely wise. Of His moral character we can have no idea, except that He is a perfect Being. Whatever, therefore, is inconsistent with perfection, is inconsistent with God."

"Inconsistent with your notions of perfection, you mean," said Philip. "Doesn't it require a perfect creature to imagine perfection?"

"Then," pursued Mr. Colville, taking no notice of Philip, "you suppose that all Scripture is of Divine original. This is another mistake. The Gospel is of Divine original, and perhaps some portions of the Old Testament; but the Pentateuch was compiled by a most ignorant and unphilosophical man, a repellent, sanguinary law-giver--and the Epistles are the product of heated brains. Paul was a cabalistic Rabbi, a delirious enthusiast; Peter, a poor ignorant fisherman.[22] What could you expect from such persons? Entirely human, Madam, these parts of Scripture!"

"And you, Mr. Colville," said Celia, warmly, "dare to sit thus in judgment upon God! You presume to lay your human hand on different portions of His Book, and to say, 'This is from God, and this is from man!' Sir, at His bar you must one day stand, and by that Book you will have to be judged."

"Believe me, I quite honor your warmth and kindly feelings. Youth is enthusiastical--given to hero-worship. 'Tis a pity to set up for your hero a mere dead book. But perhaps you misunderstand me. I do not reject all Scripture. For the words and character of Jesus I have great respect. He was unquestionably a true philanthropist, and an enlightened man--a very excellent man. But"--

Celia had risen and stood before him. She forgot all about the lighted rooms and the crowds who might be watching and listening. "And no more?" she said, in a voice of suppressed intensity.

"More?" answered Mr. Colville. "What could you wish me to say more?"

"Mr. Colville, your words, complimentary as they might be if you were speaking of a man, are but an insult--an insult to Him in whom is life,[23] and who is the brightness of the Father's glory.[24] I cannot bear them!"

She would have passed on, but Colville detained her.

"My dear Madam, you entirely mistake. Suffer me but to show you"--

"Sir, I shall speak with you no more. 'He that biddeth you God-speed is the partaker of your evil deeds.'"[25]

And Celia made her way through the rooms and gained her own boudoir without another word to any one. But she had not been there for five minutes before Philip followed her.

"Upon my word, Celia!" said he, laughing, "I had no idea what an amount of undeveloped soldiery there was under that quiet manner of yours. You have fairly rendered Colville speechless--a state of things I never saw before. I beg to congratulate the successful general on the victory!"

"Philip, how can you like that odious man?"

"Well, my dear," responded Philip, "I am beginning rather to wonder at it myself. He has become insipid latterly. I used to think him a very ingenious fellow; I am beginning to suspect that he is only a showy donkey!"

"He is an Atheist," said Celia, in a tone of horror.

"Scarce that, my dear," answered Philip, quietly. "He does believe in a sort of God, but 'tis one of his own making."

"Will that deliver him in the day of the Lord's wrath?"[26] asked Celia in a low tone. "Philip, I hope I said nothing wrong. I did not mean to speak uncourteously or unchristianly. I hope I did not do it."

"My dear little scrap of scrupulousness! Do you suppose that a soldier in the heat of battle says 'Pray excuse me!' to the opposite man before he fires at him?"

"Ah! but the weapons of my warfare ought not to have been carnal.[27] St. Paul says, 'Speaking the truth in love.'[28] I am afraid there was not much love in what I said to-night."

"No, dear Celia, the truth was so hot that it burnt it up," said Philip, laughing. "Don't make yourself miserable. Colville will hardly break his heart over it. Indeed, I am not certain that he keeps one. Are you not coming down again? Well, then, good-night."

On questioning her counsellor Patient in a similar manner, Celia found her unable to see any error in her act. Perhaps the old fiery Covenanter spirit was too strong in her to temper the words which she spoke. That which to Celia was merely carrying out the apostolic injunction, "Be courteous,"[29] was in Patient's eyes "conferring with flesh and blood."[30]

"Nay, Madam," said she, "if Paul himself could say, 'If any man preach any other Gospel unto you than that ye have received, let him be accursed,'[31] are we to mince our words and dress the truth to make it dainty to the world and the Devil? Is it not written, 'If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be Anathema Maran-atha'?"[32]

"You retired early last night," said Lady Ingram to Celia, as she sipped her chocolate on the following afternoon. "You were tired, I suppose?"

"No, Madam," said Celia, honestly; "I was angry."

Lady Ingram gave her usual sign of surprise or perplexity--a very slight elevation of her chiselled eyebrows.

"With whom, my dear?"

"With Mr. Colville, Madam."

"A very good family, child," said Lady Ingram, gravely. "A younger branch, it is true, but still an old family--allied to the Colvilles of Bassingbourne. They can trace their descent to the eleventh century."

"Madam, Mr. Colville and I were not disputing the length of our descent."

"When you do, my dear, remember that you are of a still older family than he. Hubert de Ingeramme went over to England with William the Conqueror, and before that his line had been seated at Gournay and Ingeramme from the days of Rollo. You must be careful to remember, child, that if there be no high titles in your house, you are very ancient indeed; and that, after all, is the real thing. There are many families in France who are merely Counts or Barons in respect of title, but whose lines are as old as the Crown itself. '_Familles en velours rouge cramoisi,_'[33] that is what some call them. And yours, my dear, is a crimson velvet family. Pray don't allow any one to dispute that."

"I am not in the least likely, Madam," was Celia's amused reply.

"That is right, my child!" resumed Lady Ingram, condescendingly. "I am rejoiced to see that you appreciate the importance of the subject. By the way, has Philip told you that he has received a commission from His Majesty?"

"Yes, Madam," said Philip's sister, sighing.

"My dear," answered his mother, "there is nothing to sigh about. 'Tis high honor to receive a commission from King James. The troops, I learn, march for Landrécies on the 19th--next Monday; and are to oppose Prince Eugene there about the 10th of next month. I propose, therefore, to travel to Landrécies, where I shall take apartments--small and inconvenient, I fear they will be: but I suppose you can put up with that? And then Philip can come and see us from time to time while the troops are there; and I shall be able to see that he powders his hair properly, and does not neglect the tying of his cravats. 'Twould never do that an Ingram should be unmodish, even in battle. Only think, if he were to go into action in a Steenkirk![34] I should never forgive myself. And he is far too careless in that respect."

"I can put up with anything that you can, Madam," said Celia, answering only one clause of her step-mother's speech.

"Very good, my dear. Then order Patient to be ready."

"Is Patient to go, Madam?"

"My dear!" said Lady Ingram, "do you think I mean to travel like a _bourgeoise_? Of course Patient will go. And be careful that you do not take too few gowns with you. I have to spur you, my _réligieuse_, or I really think you would scarce know the difference between silk and camlet. What a pity you were not born a Catholic! I will give the orders to Patient myself, that will be best. She is little better than you in such matters. I suppose, in her case, it arises from her being a Scotch-woman, and of no family. But how it ever came to be the case with you, an Ingram of Ingram, I really cannot understand. Those things generally run in the blood. It must be the people who brought you up. They did not look as if they knew anything."

"You think so much about family, Madam," said Celia, stung in the affections by this contemptuous notice of her dearest friends; "pardon me for telling you that the Passmores have dwelt at Ashcliffe for eight hundred years."

"My dear, you astonish me!" said Lady Ingram, with a faint glimmer of interest. "Then they really are respectable people! I assure you I am quite rejoiced to hear it. I did think there was something a little superior in the manner of the eldest daughter--something of repose; but you English are odd--so different from other people. Eight hundred years, did you say? That is quite interesting."