Part 21

Celia rose and gave Edward her hand. He led her silently down to the dining-room, leaving her to go in the first by herself and kneel beside the still, white clay which only five hours earlier had been Philip Ingram.

Ah! if she only could have known, what might she not have said to him! Had she said enough? Had she done her duty?--her utmost? Had she pressed Christ and His salvation on him as she ought to have done? Where was Philip now?

"Oh, that _had!_ how sad a passage 'tis!"[19]

Oh, that _might have been!_ how much sadder!

Edward and Harry came in and stood by her.

"Can either of you tell me anything more?" she faltered, her eyes riveted on the calm, fixed, white face which would never tell anything more to her.

"I can," answered Harry Passmore, softly. "I heard his last words."

"O Harry, tell me!" pleaded Celia.

"I was stationed just opposite," he said, "and it was my regiment that received the charge. A shot killed the horse of the officer in command, and he too fell. I knew not whether he had received injury himself, and I was so much struck by his youth and bravery that I pressed forward to aid him. But as soon as I saw his face, I found that the shot had struck more than the horse. At this moment my adjutant spoke to me, calling me 'Colonel Passmore.' When he heard that, he saith from where he lay, 'Are you Harry Passmore of Ashcliffe?' 'Yes,' I said, wondering that he could know me. 'You are Celia's brother, then,' quoth he, with the ghost of a smile, 'and so am I. Take this to her. The address is on the fly-leaf.' I was so amazed that I could but utter, 'Are you Philip Ingram?' 'I am,' he saith, his breathing now very quick and short. 'Tell my mother gently. Take care of Celia.' His voice now failed him, and I bent my head close that I might hear anything more. I heard only as if he whispered to himself, 'The uttermost!' Then came a long sobbing sigh, and then all was over."

"God forbid that we should limit that uttermost!" murmured Edward, softly.

"O Edward!" sobbed his sister, "do you think he is safe?"

"My sister," he replied, very gently, "can I tell you more than God does? 'To the uttermost'[20] and 'he that believeth.'[21] But if you had known Philip as I knew him, you would feel with me that something must have happened to him, which had made an immense difference between what he was and is. I cannot think that something anything short of the redeeming love of Christ. God knows, dear, what are the boundaries of His uttermost. I can scarce think they are closer than our uttermosts."

"Yet outside the fold is outside," said Celia, falteringly.

"I did not mean for one moment to deny that," said he; "I expressed myself ill if you thought so. But we are told--'According to your faith be it unto you,'[22] and of what may come from 'faith as a grain of mustard-seed.'[23] And it seems to me that the words on that leaf had never been penned by such a hand as Philip's, unless his faith were at least equal to a grain of mustard-seed. Remember, dear heart, that in His hand who will not break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax,[24] are the keys of Death and of Hell.[25] I can trust Him to do right, even to the brother I loved so well."

Lady Ingram returned to consciousness on the following day, but Thérèse reported that she was very weak and low, and desired to see no one but herself. On the Sunday morning she suddenly sent for Celia and Edward. They found her lying propped up by pillows, her eyes sunk and heavy, and her face very pale. She recognized her step-children with a faint smile.

"Come and kiss me, Edward," she said, in a low soft voice: "I have scarce seen you yet. And Celia, too. You loved him, both of you. Now listen to me, and I will tell you what I shall do. As soon as my health and strength admit, I shall take the veil at the convent of Sainte Marie de Chaillot. I have no more to live for. You are both old enough to take care of yourselves. And, after all, life in this world is not everything. I shall make my retreat, and after some years of penance and prayer, I trust I shall have grace to make my conversion. You, Edward--do you propose to remain in the army?"

"I do not think I shall, Mother."

"You will keep up your estates?"

"I should prefer living in England."

"And Celia; what will you do, my dear?"

"I shall go back to Ashcliffe if nobody want me. If Edward wish me to live with him I will willingly do so, especially in England; but even then I should like to pay a long visit to Ashcliffe before settling anywhere else."

"I should be very happy to have you with me, dear," said Edward, quietly, to this; "but I do not wish to be any tie to you. There is no necessity for your living with me, for I am about to marry. So pray do which you prefer."

"Whom are you about to marry, Edward?" asked Lady Ingram, turning to him with a look of some interest in her languid eyes.

"None whom you know, Mother. One with whom I met on my travels."

"I am glad you are marrying," she said, "And how is Celia to return to Ashcliffe?"

"Oh! with Harry," replied Celia, quickly.

"He is not at liberty yet," observed Edward, gravely.

"But you will set him free to go with me?" entreated his sister.

"I have nothing to do with it. You will, I suppose. I make you a present of my prisoner."

"Oh, thank you! If Harry's liberty depends on me, he shall have it directly."

"Edward," said Lady Ingram, "I have a favor to ask from you."

"Name it, and take it, Mother."

"Will you see that a small pension is settled on Thérèse; and, should she wish to continue in her present position, interest yourself in obtaining for her another situation?"

"I will attend to her interests as honestly and thoroughly as I think you would yourself."

"I do not recommend Patient to you, since she is already rather your servant than mine, and you will be careful of her, I know. Celia has a great liking for her: I dare say she will wish to take her to England."

"Do you object to that, Madam?" asked Celia.

"Not in the least," replied Lady Ingram.

"Do you?" continued Celia, this time addressing Edward.

"For a time, certainly not. I should not like to part with her altogether; but, on the other hand, I should not allow you to travel to England without a woman in your company. Patient shall go with you, and after my marriage let her return to me, wherever I may resolve to dwell."

"Thank you. You will write to me, then?"

"I will come to you, if you are willing to receive me. We have seen very little of each other yet."

"Very little," said Celia, rather sadly.

"Now, my children, leave me," requested Lady Ingram, faintly. "I am too weak to converse much. Send Patient to me."

Ten days later saw them journeying in company by easy stages to Paris; and ten days after that witnessed a solemn ceremony in the convent chapel of Sainte Marie de Chaillot, at which Queen Maria Beatrice, Madame de Maintenon, and a brilliant crowd of distinguished persons were present, when Claude Ingram took upon herself the white veil of a postulant. Edward and Celia were there, the latter with a slight misgiving whether she were not sanctioning idolatry to some extent, even by her appearance: a suspicion not laid to rest by the manifest disapproval and uncompromising speeches of Patient. "'Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?'"[26] asked she. But Celia was determined to see the last of Lady Ingram; and Edward promised to lead her out before anything objectionable began. To her it was an inexpressibly mournful ceremony. The different stages of the rites--the shearing off of the glossy hair, the taking of the vows, the white veil of the postulant--all seemed to her as so many epitaphs on the grave of a living woman. When the brother and sister went down to the guest-chamber to take leave of the novice, Celia was sobbing hysterically.

Lady Ingram parted from both with a very warm embrace. She appeared much softened.

"Farewell, my child!" she said to Celia. "And you will not live always in England? You will come and see me at least once more? And when you pray to God in your _prêches_, do not quite forget Soeur Marie Angélique."

Celia turned from the convent-gate with a sadder heart than she ever thought she could have felt at her parting from Claude Ingram.

Only for three days longer did she remain in Paris. The house was very painful to her now. In everything Philip lived again for her; and she became very anxious to get home to Ashcliffe. Of the warmth and cordiality of her reception there it never occurred to her to doubt. So on the 14th of August, Celia, Harry, and Patient left Paris on their way to England, escorted by Edward as far as Havre.

[1] Isa. xlviii. 16; Eph. i. 4.

[2] Rev. xvii. 8; xxi. 27.

[3] John x. 29; xvii. 6.

[4] Matt. xv. 13.

[5] John vi. 44.

[6] Ibid. 37.

[7] Ezek. xxxiii. 2; 2 Pet. iii. 9.

[8] Ps. ciii. 19.

[9] Eccles. viii. 4.

[10] John xvi. 12.

[11] Rom. xi. 6; Gal. ii. 16.

[12] Col. i. 10.

[13] Le Quesnoy was taken on the 3d of July.

[14] Sismondi, "_Histoire des Français_," vol. xxvii., p. 162. Lacretelle, "_Histoire de France pendant le XVIII. Siècle_," vol i. p. 43. The exact day of the battle is disputed. I have followed Lacretelle.

[15] Mrs. Browning's "Aurora Leigh."

[16] Heb. vii. 25.

[17] Mark ix. 24.

[18] Staylace--

"Oh, cut my lace asunder, That my pent heart may have some scope to beat, Or else I swoon with this dead killing news." --Shakspeare, "Richard III.," act iv., sc. 1.

[19] Shakspeare, "All's Well that Ends Well," Act i. sc. 1.

[20] Heb. vii. 25.

[21] John iii. 36.

[22] Matt. ix. 29.

[23] Matt. xvii. 20.

[24] Isaiah xlii. 3.

[25] Rev. i. 18.

[26] Prov. vi. 27.

XII.

TRAITORS--HUMAN AND CANINE.

"Thy way, not mine, O Lord, However dark it be! Lead me by Thine own hand, Choose out the path for me." --DR. BONAR.

The _Naws-Letter_ had just come in, posted from London, and Squire Passmore sat down in the parlor to read it. It was a warm, but wet, autumn afternoon. The embroidery frame was covered with a wrapper, and Isabella and her mother were tying up preserves and labelling them. Two large trays of them stood on the parlor-table, and Cicely came slowly in with another.

"Well, sure, that's main heavy!" said she. "If you please, Sir, is there aught by the post from Master Harry?" she added, with a courtesy.

"Nothing, Cicely, nothing," said the Squire, looking up from his newspaper. "I don't know what has come to the lad. He did scribble one line to let us know that he was not killed, but not a word have we had from him since."

"Mayhap he's a-coming," suggested Cicely.

"I wish he were," sighed Madam Passmore.

A merry laugh outside announced somebody, and the door sprang open to the united attacks of Pero and Lucy.

"Anything from Harry?" was her question too, and she received the same answer.

And "Anything from Harry?" asked Charley, sauntering in with his hands in his pockets.

"These are done, Cicely," said Madam Passmore. "Take them hence, and fetch another tray; and bid Dolly, if any should come on such a wet day, to have a care that she brings them not hither, but into the drawing-room--unless, of course, it were Harry," she added in a doubtful tone.

"Oh dear, Mother!" exclaimed Isabella, who had gone to the window, "here is a coach coming up but now."

Lucy was at the window in a second.

"Well, who is coming out?" she soliloquized. "An old woman--at least, no--she's not old, but she's older than I am"--

"You don't say so!" commented Charley, incredulously.

"Have done, Charley!--and the fattest little yellow dog--oh, such a funny one!--and--why, 'tis Harry! and Celia! Celia herself!"

An announcement which sent the whole family to the door at different paces, Lucy heading them. Celia felt herself obliged to greet everybody at once. Lucy was clinging to her on one side, and Charley on the other; Madam Passmore was before her, and the Squire and Isabella met her at the parlor-door.

"I am fain to see thee once more, child!" was the Squire's greeting; "but what a crinkum-crankum that woman has made of thee!"

"She looks quite elegant," said Isabella, kissing her with a little less languor than usual.

"Don't tease her, Charley; she is very tired," said Harry, when he could get in a word. "We have had a long stage to-day."

So Celia was established in an enormous easy-chair, and propped up with cushions, until she laughingly declared that she would require all the united strength of the family to help her out again; and Lucy was busy attempting to divest her of her out-door apparel, without having the least idea how to do it.

"Shall I take your hat and cloak up-stairs, Madam?" said Patient, entering with a general courtesy.

"Celia, what have you done with your yellow dog?"

"O dear!" cried Celia, in a tone of distress. "I was so taken up with you that I forgot her. Where is he, Patient?"

"'Tis a-sniffling and a-snuffling about, Madam," said Patient.

"Call her," replied Celia.

"Dog!" summoned Patient--for Patient scorned to pollute her lips with the heathen name which it had pleased Lady Ingram to bestow upon her pet. But Venus was accustomed to the generic epithet from Patient, and came trotting up at her call. Patient shut the little animal in and herself out. Venus waddled slowly up the room, sniffing at every member of the family in turn, until she came to Celia, at whom she wagged her curly tail and half her fat body, and coiled herself in peace upon a hassock at her feet.

"Celia," asked the Squire, "did you search all Paris, or offer a reward, for the ugliest dog that could be brought you?"

"By no means, Father. The dog is a bequest from my step-mother. It was her special pet, and I have not the conscience to discard it, if I had the heart."

"Is she dead, my dear? I see you are in black for some person," asked Madam Passmore.

The glad light died out of Celia's eyes, and her voice sank to a low, saddened tone.

"No, Mother; she has taken the veil at Chaillot. I am in black for Philip--my brother Philip--who died at Denain."

"Are you then come to us for good, my dear?" asked Madam Passmore, tenderly.

"For good, Mother, if you will have me, and I think you will. Only that I have promised to see my step-mother again, but my visit to her cannot last above a day, and will not be for some time to come."

"Have thee, my dear child!" murmured Madam Passmore, as if the reverse were the most preposterous notion of which she had ever heard.

"Do widows make nuns of themselves?" asked Charley. "I thought they were always girls, and that they walled them up alive when they had done with them!"

"And your woman, my dear?"

"I want to plead with you for her, Mother. She has been the best friend I have had--except Philip: and she is but lent to me for a time. She was my brother Edward's nurse, and when he wants her again he will come and fetch her. I thought you not mind my bringing her with me."

"What should I mind, my dear? If you have found her a true and faithful waiting-woman, and love her, let her by all means abide with you and serve you. Such are not to be picked up everywhere."

"My dear," asked the Squire, uneasily, "I hope they have not made a Tory of you, Celia?"

"I don't know, really, Father," was the answer. "I scarce think there is much difference between Whigs and Tories. They all seem to me devoid of honesty."

The Squire looked horror-struck.

"Nobody has made a Papist of me, if that be any consolation to you. I return as true a Protestant as I went."

"Is this woman a Tory?" gasped the Squire.

"Patient? No, Father," replied Celia, smiling, "she is a little on the other side of you. She calls Oliver Cromwell 'His Highness the Lord Protector,' and won't allow that King Charles was a martyr."

"Celia, child, thou hast been in ill company!" solemnly pronounced the Squire.

"I was afraid you would think so. But I thought I was bound to obey my step-mother in all things not wrong"--

"Surely, child, surely!" assented Madam Passmore.

"Therefore, Father--I hope you will forgive me, but I cannot in honesty keep it from you--I did not refuse her wish that I should be presented to Queen Mary."

The Squire gasped for breath. "Presented!" was the only word he could utter.

"I was afraid that it would vex you, when you came to know, dear Father," said Celia, very gently; "but you see, I was placed in such a position that I could not help vexing either you or my step-mother; and I thought that perchance I ought to obey that one in whose charge I was at the time. I did not like to go, I assure you; but I wished to do right. Do you think I did wrong, Father?"

"Now, John," said Madam Passmore, before the Squire could speak, "I won't have the child teased and made unhappy, in particular when she has only just come home. She meant to do right, and she did right as far as she knew. You must pocket your politics for once."

"Well, well, child," confessed the Squire at last, "we none of us do right at all times, I reckon, and thou art a good child in the main, and I forgive thee. I suppose there may be a few Tories who will manage to get into Heaven."

"I hope so," replied Celia, gravely.

"So do I, child--so do I; though I am a crusty old Whig at the best of times. But I do think they will have to leave their Toryism on this side."

When Celia went up-stairs, to give a longer and fuller greeting to old Cicely Aggett than she had the opportunity of doing before, she heard the unusual sound of voices proceeding from Cicely's little room. She soon found that Cicely and Patient were in close converse on a point of theology, and paused a moment, not wishing to interrupt them.

"Well, truly, I ben't so much troubled with pride as some other things," Cicely was saying. "You see, Mrs. Patient, I hasn't got nothing to be proud of. That's where it is. If I was a well-favored young damsel with five hundred pounds in my pocket, and a silk gown, and a coach for to ride in, well, I dare say I should be as stuck-up as a peacock. But whatever has an old sinner like me to be proud of? Why, I'm always doing somewhat wrong all day long."

"I am afraid I am a greater sinner than you, Mrs. Cicely," said Patient Irvine's quiet voice in answer. "You have nothing to be proud of, and you are not proud. I have nothing to be proud of, and I am."

"Well, surely, a white devil is the worst devil," responded Cicely.

"Aye, he is so," answered Patient. "If He was 'meek and lowly in heart'[1] which 'did no sin, neither was guile found in His mouth,'[2] what should we be who are for ever sinning? I tell you, Mrs. Cicely, some of the worst bouts of pride that ever I had, have been just the minute after I had been humbling myself before the Lord. Depend upon it, there is no prouder man in all the world than the man who is proud of his humility."

There was no audible answer from Cicely. Celia came softly forward.

"Eh, my dear!" cried old Cicely, looking up at her. "I am so fain to see you back as never was! Sit ye down a bit, Mrs. Celia, dear heart, and tell me how it has gone with you this long time."

"Very well, dear Cicely, as concerns the Lord's dealings with me, and very ill as concerns my dealings with Him."

"That's a right good saying, my dear. Ah! the good between Him and us is certain sure to be all on His side. We are cruel bad, all on us. And did you like well, sweetheart?"

"That she did not," said Patient, when Celia hesitated. "She has not had a bit of her own way since she left you."

Celia laughed, and then grew serious. "My own way is bad for me, Patient."

"I never knew one for whom it was not, Madam, except the few who were so gracious that the Lord's way was their way."

"Well, I'd lief be like that," said Cicely. "The King couldn't be no better off than so."

"So would I," Celia began; "but I am afraid that if I say the truth, it will be to add 'in everything but one.'"

"Now, my dear young lady," said Patient, turning to her, "don't you go to grieve in this way for Mr. Philip, as you have been doing ever since. I had no thought till then how he had twined himself round either your heart or mine. Do you think, my bairn, that the Lord, who laid down His life for him, loved him so much less than we?"

"O Patient! if it were only my loss!"

"Whose then, Madam?"

"I mean," said Celia, explanatorily, "if I could be sure that it was his gain."

Patient did not reply for a moment. "I ask your pardon, Madam," she said at length; "I did not know the direction in which your fears were travelling. The less, perhaps, that I had none to join them."

"I am surprised to hear you, Patient!" said Celia. "Only the last time that we saw him before he bade us adieu, you seemed to feel so doubtful about him."

"That was not the last time that I saw him, Madam. The next morn, ere he set out, I heard him conversing with Mr. Colville. They were on the stairs, and I was disposing of your linen above. Now I knew that all his life long the one thing which Mr. Philip could not bear was scorn. It was the thing whereof I was doubtful if he would not stand ill, 'and in time of temptation fall away.'[3] And that morn I heard Mr. Colville speaking to him in a way which, three months earlier, would have sent his blood up beyond anything I could name;--gibing, and mocking, and flouting, taunting him with listening to a parcel of old women's stories, and not being man enough to disbelieve, and the like--deriding him, yea, making him a very laughing-stock. And Mr. Philip stood his ground; John Knox himself could have been no firmer. He listened without a word till Mr. Colville had ended; and then he said, as quietly and gently as you could yourself, Madam,--'Farewell, Colville,' saith he; 'we have been friends, but all is over now betwixt you and me. I will be the friend of no man who is the enemy of Christ. He is more to me than you are--yes, more than all the world!' Madam, do you think I could hear that, and dare to dispute the salvation of a man who could set Christ above all the world? Now, you understand why I had no fear for Mr. Philip."

"He never said so much as that to me," replied Celia, with her eyes moist and glistening.

"He would have done so presently, Madam."

"But, Patient, it was so short a time after he had spoken so differently!"

"Ah, Madam! doth that offend you? The Lord can ripen His fruit very fast when He sees good, and hath more ways than one to do it. He knew that Mr. Philip's time was short. We can scarce tell how sweetly and surely He can carry the lambs in His bosom until we have been borne there with them."

The next morning Isabella brought forward her embroidery-frame, occupied just now by a brilliant worsted parrot and a couple of gorgeous peacocks, the former seated on a branch full of angles, the latter strutting about on a brown ground. The most important shade in the parrot's very showy tail was still wanting.

"Have you any work for me, Mother?" asked Celia. "I do not wish to sit idle."

"I can find you some, my dear. Here is a set of handkerchiefs and some cravats for Father, which all want hemming, and I have been obliged to work at them myself till now: Lucy scarce does well enough, and Bell is too busy with yonder birds."

"I will relieve you of those, Mother."

And Celia took the basket and established herself near the window.

"Mr. John Rowe to speak with Madam," was Dolly's announcement directly afterwards, and Madam Passmore left the room.

Charley and Lucy were learning their lessons. In other words, Charley was sitting with his Æneid and the Lexicon open on the table before him, bestowing his attention on everything in the room except those two volumes; while Lucy, seated at the window on a hassock, was behaving in much the same way to a slate.