Chapter X: Anent John Patterson

"One Faithful, meek fool, who is led to the burning,
He cumbered us sorely in Vanity Fair."
--MISS MULOCH.

"Look out for rocks, Madam Celia," was Patient's enigmatical comment when she heard what Philip had said.

"I do not understand you, Patient."

"Madam, there is nothing harder in this world than humility, because there is nothing so near to the Lord. There are but two places wherein He dwelleth--the high and holy Heaven, and the humble and contrite heart. Paul, you mind, was sent a thorn in the flesh because of the abundance of the revelations. I have near always found that when I have had some work to do for the Lord which was like to make me think well of myself, there has either been a thorn in the flesh or a thorn in the spirit sent to me, either just before or just after. Most commonly just before. And it does not need abundance of revelations, neither, to set up poor fools like us. Anything can do that. If we are trying to walk close to the Lord, and give no occasion for stumbling, the Devil can make pedestals of our very graces whereon to stick us up and cause us to fall down and worship ourselves. Ay, of our very sins he can! Many's the time when I have been set up in the forenoon on account of some very thing which, when I was calmer, had to be laid open and repented of before the Lord at night. Depend upon it, Jonah was no feeling over lowly when he thought he did well to be angry.[1] And then, when a little breeze of repentance does stir the heavy waves of the soul, the Devil whispers, 'How good, how humble, how godly you are!' Ah, 'his devices!' Thank God 'we are not ignorant' of them.[2] Look out for rocks, Madam. I am no true prophet if you find not a keen wind soon after this."

"Tell me, Patient, does my brother Edward fear God?"

"Yes, Madam."

"You know he does?"

"I have no anxiety about Sir Edward, Madam. I only wish I were half as sure of Mr. Philip."

"Do you think?"--

"Madam, the way is rough and the gate strait, and 'few there be that find it.'[3] And I don't think Mr. Philip likes rough walking. But the Lord kens that too. If he have been given to Christ of the Father, he'll have to come--'shall come to Me'[4]--and he'll find no more to greet over than the rest of the children when we all get Home to the Father's House. 'Neither shall any man pluck them out of My hand.'"[5]

Lady Ingram did not return from the Palace before eight o'clock in the evening, and then in an exceedingly bad temper. Fashionably so, only; she was much too accomplished and polished to go into a vulgar passion. Thérèse discovered the state of her mistress's mind when she found that she could do nothing to please her. The new dress, of which Lady Ingram had expressed her full approbation in the morning, was declared "_effroyante_" at night; and Thérèse had to alter the style of her lady's hair five times before she condescended to acknowledge herself satisfied. At length she appeared in her boudoir, and after breakfast, instead of paying her usual visit to Celia's room, sent a message desiring Celia to come to her.

"Are you not well, Madam?" was Celia's natural query, when she saw how pale and heavy-eyed Lady Ingram looked.

"Well! yes, my dear; but I have scarcely slept. I left fifteen hundred pounds behind me at that horrible lansquenet."

Celia's eyes opened rather wide. The sum indicated was almost incredible to her simple apprehension.

"My dear," said Lady Ingram, pettishly, "you are still only half-formed. Do not open your eyes in that way--it makes you look astonished. A woman of the world never wonders."

"I am not a woman of the world, Madam."

"Then my lessons have been of very little use to you. I am afraid you are not, really, and never will be. That reminds me of what I wished to say to you. I am informed by some one who saw you, that after you and Philip left me in the saloon of the Duchess, he took you into the great drawing-room, and that at something you saw there you burst into tears. Now really, my dear, this is totally inadmissible. You scandalized those who saw you. Had you heard some dreadful news, or some such thing, it might have been proper and even laudable to shed a few tears; but actually to sob, in the sight of all the world, just as any laundress or orange-girl might have done,--really, Celia, you must get over this weakness!"

"I beg your pardon, Madam," replied Celia, timidly, "but really I could not help it. There was a lady at the card-table who had lost a great deal--at least Philip thought so--and she began speaking such horrible words that it terrified me; I could not help it."

"'Could not help it!'" repeated Lady Ingram, contemptuously. "Cannot you help anything you choose? Oh, yes! it was the Countess des Ferrières,--she had lost £30,000 and her estates, every livre she had, even to the earrings which she wore, so of course she was ruined. But you quite mistake, my dear--you need not have felt terrified. You are in error if you suppose that swearing is interdicted to men, and even women, of quality.[6] Quite the contrary, it is rather modish than otherwise. A few gentle oaths, such as"--(and Lady Ingram gave a short list)--"are quite admissible in such circumstances. You would hear them from the lips of the best families in France. If it were not modish, of course it would be highly improper; but you are entirely mistaken if you suppose it so. Any of those I have mentioned would be quite proper--for you, even. I have heard much stronger words than those from the Duchess de Berry, and she is younger than you are. But mercy on us, child! what eyes you make!"

They were gleaming like stars. Lady Ingram a words had lighted up a fire behind them, and every feeling of timidity was burnt up in the blaze of its indignation.

"My Lady Ingram!" said Celia, with a dignity in her voice and manner which her step-mother had never seen her assume, and believed to be quite foreign to her nature, "I did not come to Paris either to deny my religion or to outrage my God. In all matters which concern Him not, you have moulded me at your will. I thought that you took to me the place of my dead father and mother, and I have obeyed you as I would have obeyed them. But into the sanctuary of my soul you cannot penetrate; on the threshold of the temple even you must pause. God is more to me than father or mother, and at the risk of your displeasure--at the risk of my life if needs be--I must obey Him. 'The Lord sitteth upon the flood, yea, the Lord sitteth King forever;'[7] and 'He will not hold him guiltless that taketh His Name in vain!'"[8]

Notwithstanding all Lady Ingram's condemnation of feelings, she was just now overpowered by her own. In the foreground was amazement. Had her little pug Venus opened its mouth and emitted a moral axiom, she could hardly have been more astonished. Behind her surprise came annoyance, amusement, and respect for the strange, new bravery of Celia; but in the background, beyond all those, was a very unpleasant and unusual sensation, which she did not attempt to analyze. It was, really, the discovery of a character which she could not fathom, of a strength which she could not weaken, of a temple into which she could not enter. She had always prided herself upon her ability to read every person's character at a glance: and here was the especial character which she had set down as simple, and almost beneath notice, presenting itself in an aspect which it was beyond her skill to comprehend. She had not, indeed, forgotten Celia's confession at the outset of their acquaintance; but she had set it down to her English education, as a past phase of thought which she had succeeded in dispelling. A little more banter on the one hand, and firmness on the other, would, she thought, rid Celia of her absurd and obsolete notions. She had threaded all the mazes, and she meant her speech just uttered to be the last turn in the path, the last struggle between herself and her step-daughter. And lo! here, at that last turn, stood a guarded sanctuary, too strong for her weapons to attack, into which she knew not the way, of whose services she had never learned the language. A strange and sudden darkness fell over her spirit. There was a Power here in opposition to her stronger than her own. This simple, docile, untaught girl knew some strange thing which she did not know. And with this conviction came another and a disagreeable idea. Might it not be something which it immediately concerned her to know? What if Celia were right--if all things were not bounded by this life; if there were another, unknown world beyond this world, guided by different laws? What if God were real, and Heaven were real, and Hell were real? if there were a point beyond which prayers were mockery, and penances were vain? A veil was lifted up for a moment which had covered all this from her; a dark, thick, heavy veil, which all her life she had been at work to weave. A voice from Heaven whispered to her, and it said, "Thou fool!" When moments such as these do not soften and convict, they harden and deaden. The veil dropped, and Lady Ingram was herself again--her heart more rock than ever. It was in a particularly cold, hard voice that she spoke again.

"Celia, if you do not take care, I shall wash my hands of you. I will not be braved in this manner by a mere girl--a girl whose character is wholly unformed, and whose breeding is infinitely below her quality. Go to your chamber, and remain there until you are sufficiently humbled to request my pardon for treating me with so little respect."

"Madam," was the soft answer, "if I have shown you any disrespect, I will ask your pardon now. It was not my wish to do so."

Ah! the thing which Celia had shown Claude Ingram, and at which she could not bear to look, was her own heart.

"Will you then retract what you have said?"

"If I have said anything personally offensive to your Ladyship, I will retract it and ask your forgiveness. What I have said of my own relation to God I never can retract, Madam, for it is real and eternal."

Lady Ingram was silent for a moment. Then she said, in her hardest voice and coldest manner, "Go to your chamber." Celia, courtesying to her step-mother, retired without another word. Left alone in her own boudoir, again that cloud of dread darkness rolled over Claude Ingram. The presence of the accusing angel was withdrawn, but the accusations rankled yet. She sat for some time in silence, and at length rose with a sudden shiver and a heavy sigh. Opening with a little silver key a private closet, richly ornamented, a shrine was disclosed, where a silver lamp burned before an image of the Virgin. Here Lady Ingram knelt, and made an "Act of Contrition" and an "Act of Faith."[9] The repetition of vain words put no more contrition nor faith into her heart than before she uttered them. Only the soul was lulled to sleep: and she rose satisfied with herself and her interview.

"Do you think I did wrong, Patient?" asked Celia, sadly, of her sole _confidante_, at the moment when, at the other end of the house, Lady Ingram was finishing her devotions.

Patient replied in a measured and constrained voice, "'He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me.'"[10]

"Yes, I know; but I am so very anxious not to be wanting in respect to her--not to put any obstacles in her way."

"The more obstacles in her way the better, Madam; for it is the broad road that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat."[11]

Celia sighed heavily, but made no answer.

"Ah, poor blind soul!" continued Patient. "If only we would look more at all men and women in one light, and measure them by one test--friends of Christ, or enemies of Christ--I think we would behave different from that we do."

Patient stitched away without saying more, and Celia sat looking thoughtfully out of the open window. From some cause unknown to herself, there suddenly rose before her a vision of the great laurel at Ashcliffe, and the stranger blessing her in the name of the Virgin. She exclaimed, "Patient!" in a tone which would have startled any one less unimpressionable than the placid woman who sat opposite her.

"Madam!" replied Patient, without any change of manner.

Celia told her the circumstance of which she was thinking, and added, "Can you guess who it was, Patient?"

"What manner of man was he, Madam?"

Celia closed her eyes and tried to recall him.

"A tall, thin, comely man, with a brown skin, and no color on cheeks or lips: dark hair somewhat unkempt, bright dark eyes, and a very soft, persuasive tone of voice. His clothes had been good, but were then ragged, and he looked as if he had been ill, or might become so. I always wondered if it could be my father; but as he died when I was but a child, that is not possible."

"And what was the day, Madam?"

"Some day in November, 1710."

"I think I can guess who it was, Madam Celia. No, it could not have been your father; and I know but one who answers to that description, yet I knew not that he had been in England so late as that. It was my husband, Gilbert Irvine."

"Patient!" exclaimed Celia, interested at once. "Had he been ill?"

"Nay, Madam, 'twas the other way: he fell ill afterward. He died about twelve months thereafter."

"Poor Patient!"

"Do not pity me, Madam. I had nought but what I deserved."

"I am afraid I should not like to have all I deserve, Patient. But what do you mean?"

"Madam, do you mind the Israelites under Joshua, which accepted the Gibeonites because of their spoiled victuals and clouted shoon, and asked not counsel at the mouth of the Lord? That was what I did. I was a plain, portionless maid, having nought but my labor, and he was my Lady's gentleman-usher, in a better place than I, and a rare hand at talking any one over to what he had a mind to--ay, he was that! And so I took him because of his comely face and his flattering tongue, and such like, and asked not counsel at the mouth of the Lord. And 'tis mine experience, Madam, that while the Lord never faileth to bring good out of evil for His people in the end, yet that oft for a time, when they be obstinately bent on taking their own way, He leaveth them to eat of the fruit of it. I say not how 'tis with other believers; but this I know, that my worst troubles have ever been them I have pulled on mine own head. There is a sort of comfort in a trouble by Divine ordinance, which it lacks when 'tis only by Divine permission, and you know you are yourself to blame for it. And little comfort I had with Gilbert Irvine. I've envied Isabel Paterson in the cave with her guidman--ay, many and many a time! And I have asked the Lord to do more than a miracle for me--for to turn Gilbert's heart would have been on the thither side of a miracle, I'm thinking,--more wonderful yet. You mind, Madam," added Patient, suddenly, as if afraid of being misunderstood on this point, "Gilbert was no a Papist when I and he were wed. I should have seen my way through _that_, I think, for all the blind fool that I was; but it was no for five years thence. He professed the Evangel then, and went to the preaching like any Christian. The Lord forgive him--if it be no Papistry to say it: anyhow, the Lord forgive _me_!"

"There are no miracles, now, certainly," said Celia, reflectively. "I can quite fancy what a comfort it must have been to live in the days of miracles. But who was Isabel Paterson, and what cave did she live in?"

"Are there no miracles now, Madam?" asked Patient. "Ah, but I'll be long ere I say that! If the Lord wrought no miracle for John Paterson--ay, and twice over too--I little ken what a miracle is. But truly he was a godly man above many. 'Tis mostly Elijahs that be fed by angels and ravens, though I'm no saying that, if it pleased the Lord, He might not work wonders for you and me. 'Tis ill work setting limits to the Lord."

"But who was Isabel Paterson, and who was John Paterson?" urged Celia again.

"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."

And Lady Ingram dropped another lump of sugar languidly into her cup of chocolate. Repose! thought Celia. Truly in Isabella's manners there was repose enough; but it had never occurred to the simple Passmores to regard it as enviable. On the contrary, they called it idleness in plain Saxon, and urged her by all means to get rid of it.

"Quite interesting!" repeated Lady Ingram, stirring up the sugar in a slow, deliberate style which Isabella would have admired. "Really, I did not know that the Passmores were a respectable family. I thought they were quite nobodies."

[1] Jonah iv. 9.

[2] Cor. ii. 11.

[3] Matt. vii. 14.

[4] John vi. 37.

[5] John x. 28.

[6] Sarah Duchess of Marlborough once called on a lawyer who happened to be from home. "I don't know who she was, Sir," said his clerk in informing him of the visit, "but she swore so dreadfully that she must be a woman of quality!"

[7] Ps. xxix. 10.

[8] Exod. xx. 7.

[9] Act of Contrition--"I most humbly entreat Thy pardon, O my God, for all the sins which I have committed against Thine adorable Majesty: I grieve for them bitterly, since Thou art infinitely good, and sin offendeth Thee. I detest these sins with all my heart, with the resolution to forsake them by the help of Thy grace."

Act of Faith--"My God, I firmly believe all the truths which the Church proposes to us, because it is Thou who hast revealed them."

[10] Matt. x. 37.

[11] Matt. vii. 13.

[12] These are true anecdotes.

[13] Ps. civ. 30.

[14] Gen. ii. 2.

[15] john v. 17.

[16] Isa. xliii. 13.

[17] Ezek. xxxiv. 10.

[18] Rev. xviii. 8.

[19] Luke xiv. 23.

[20] Hag. i. 5.

[21] Heb. ix. 27.

[22] The majority of Mr. Colville's expressions are taken _verbatim_ from Lord Bolingbroke. The Modern Rationalist arguments are mere _réchauffés_ of those which did duty a hundred and fifty years ago.

[23] John i. 4.

[24] Heb. i. 3.

[25] 2 John 11.

[26] Zeph i. 18.

[27] 2 Cor. x. 4.

[28] Eph. iv. 15.

[29] 1 Pet. iii. 8.

[30] Gal. i. 6.

[31] Gal. i. 9.

[32] 1 Cor. xvi. 22.

[33] Madame Duplessis-Guénégaud thus described the House of Adhémar, from one branch of which the Princes of Orange were descended, while another was the stock of the Counts de Grignan.

[34] The Steenkirk, a peculiar twist of the ends of the cravat rather than a tie, is said to have taken its rise from the Duke of Monmouth's going hastily into action at the battle of Steenkirk with his cravat twisted out of his way in this manner. It was quite out of fashion in 1712, except among country people.