Chapter III: Alone in the World

"Speechless Sorrow sat with me;
I was sighing wearily:
Lamp and fire were out; the rain
Wildly beat the window-pane.
In the dark we heard a knock,
And a hand was on the lock;
One in waiting spake to me,
Saying sweetly,
'I am come to sup with thee.'

"All my room was dark and damp,--
'Sorrow,' said I, 'trim the lamp;
Light the fire and cheer thy face;
Set the guest-chair in its place.'
And again I heard the knock;
In the dark I found the lock,--
'Enter, I have turned the key--
Enter, stranger,
Who art come to sup with me.'

"Opening wide the door, He came,--
But I could not speak His name;
In the guest-chair took His place,--
Though I could not see His face:
When my cheerful fire was beaming,
When my little lamp was gleaming,
And the feast was spread for three,--
Lo! my Master
Was the Guest that supped with me.
HARRIET M'EWEN KIMBALL.

Grand beyond expression was Madam Passmore that Monday afternoon whereon her party was held. Her hair stood at the very least six inches above her head. Her petticoat was of crimson quilted satin, and she wore a yellow satin gown, edged with rich old point-lace. Large silver buckles decorated her shoes, and a lace _cornette_ was perched upon the summit of her hair. A splendid fan, and a handkerchief nearly all lace, shared her left hand; and in her pocket, alas! dwelt a silver snuff-box. Her four daughters were dressed alike, in their blue satin petticoats and brocaded trains, with coral necklaces, and cherry-colored top-knots of ribbon instead of _cornettes_ stood on the summit of their hair. They also displayed fans, Isabella making all manner of use of hers, and held handkerchiefs not quite so elaborate as their mother's. Their trains were not gathered up this evening, so that when they walked a grand display of brocade was made on the floor. About four o'clock, Dr. Braithwaite and his wife made their appearance. Mrs. Braithwaite was a modest, retiring little woman, holding in high reverence her big learned husband, but the fact of being constantly kept under the sound of quotations which she did not understand, gave her a scared, bewildered look which did not improve her countenance. She was quietly dressed in black, with lace tucker and ruffles, and a white top-knot on her hair, which, in comparison with that of Madam Passmore, was dressed quite low.

"Good-even, Madam, and the young ladies!" said Mrs. Braithwaite, courtesying nervously. "I hope I see you well in health?"

"Madam," said the Doctor, bowing low over the hand which Madam Passmore extended to him, "that most marvellous and mellifluent writer of poesy, of whom among the Grecian dramatists the fame hath transcended"--

"Squire and Madam Harvey!" said Robert, in a tone which drowned the Doctor's elaborate Greek compliment.

This lady and gentleman lived in the "great house" of the next parish. They were quiet people, who, having no children, had grown somewhat prim and precise; but they had honest and kindly hearts, and greeted their old friends, if somewhat stiffly, yet cordially. Squire and Madam Rowe, Mr. John Rowe, and Mrs. Anne Rowe, were next announced; and after a general salutation, the party sat round the fire in high-backed chairs, very stiff and uncomfortable. The table in the window held the tea-tray, and Cicely, who entered with the tea-pot, was welcomed by all parties, to whom she courtesied with "Hope I see you all well, Sirs and Madams!" Isabella, her train trailing after her, now approached the little table and poured out the tea. Cicely stood holding a waiter, on which, as each cup was filled, she carried it in turn to the person for whom it was intended. Nothing was eaten with the tea. Tea was tea in 1710, and nothing else.

Mr. John Rowe, _alias_ Johnny, was a slim youth of eighteen, who had come to the party with the view of making himself agreeable to Isabella. He would scarcely have felt flattered if he had known how she regarded him. She despised him supremely, both on account of his slight juniority, and of his taste in dress. At this moment he wore yellow silk stockings, green breeches, a white waistcoat embroidered in blue, a gray silk coat heavily laced with silver, and a very large full-bottomed wig, of flaxen color, though his natural hair was almost black. As he had also dark eyes and black eyebrows, his wig certainly was not in the best taste. Isabella all but shuddered at his combination of colors as he advanced to salute her, and did not receive him by any means warmly--a calamity which he, poor innocent fellow, humbly set down to his want of personal merit, not knowing that it was caused by the deficiencies of his costume. Squire Passmore was nearly as smart as his young guest, but he was dressed with much better taste, in a dark green coat and breeches with silver lace, white waistcoat, and white silk stockings. The party sat still and sedately on their row of chairs round the fire--Mrs. Braithwaite eclipsed and silent, for Madam Passmore was on one side of her, in the yellow satin, and Madam Rowe on the other, attired in emerald green: these two ladies were talking across her. Further on was Madam Harvey in dark crimson, conversing with Mrs. Anne Rowe, who was dressed in simple white, and Henrietta, next to Squire Rowe. The younger daughters of Squire Passmore were out of the group, and so were John Rowe and Charley. As Celia crossed the room just behind the assembled elders, Madam Rowe's hand detained her.

"Come and talk with me, my dear. 'Tis an age since I saw you. You don't grow any taller, child!"

"I have done growing," said Celia, with a smile.

"Well, so I suppose. How different you are from all your sisters, to be sure! I am sure Mrs. Bell must be a head taller than you are."

"Not quite so much as that," said Celia, still smiling.

"Short and sweet, Madam Rowe!" observed Squire Harvey, who overheard her.

"Ay, I won't contradict you there," she said. "And how old are you now, my dear? Seventeen?"

"Nineteen, Madam."

"Dear me! well, how time does go! To be sure, you and your sister are just a year older than Johnny, I remember. You should hold yourself up more, my dear: always make the best of yourself. You don't bridle so well as you might, either.[1] Really, you use not all your advantages."

"Madam Rowe, that is what I am always telling her," said Isabella, with a faint assumption of energy, "and she takes no more notice"--

"Well, my dear," answered Madam Rowe, administering a dose of flattery, "you know we cannot all be as handsome as you."

Isabella bridled, colored, and remained, though silent, evidently not displeased.

Supper followed about six o'clock, and afterwards the basset-table was wheeled out by Harry, and the three Squires sat down with Dr. Braithwaite to enjoy their favorite game. After basset came prayers. As Dr. Braithwaite was present, of course he officiated; and, casting aside his cards, gravely took the Bible in his hand instead of them. A prayer followed--long, prolix, involved, and stony: more like a sermon than a prayer, nor a very simple sermon neither. The party now took their leave. Dr. and Mrs. Braithwaite walked to the vicarage, which was very near. As it was only a short distance from Ellersley to Ashcliffe, Squire Harvey and his wife came and returned in their coach; the distance to Marcombe was longer, and the Rowes were on horseback. Harry went out and assisted the ladies to mount, Mrs. Rowe riding behind her son, and Anne behind her father.

"Now, Miss Lucy, my dear, come you away to bed," said Cicely, taking sudden possession of that personage. "What could I have been thinking of not to come for you before, I should like to know? To think of you being up at this time! A quarter to nine, I do declare!"

"I don't know what you were thinking of, but I wish you would think about it every night!" answered Lucy, resigning herself to fate in the person of Cicely.

"Well, I shall go to bed also," said Isabella, yawning, and rising from the embroidery-frame. "I protest I am as tired as if it were Sunday evening! That John Rowe is the most tedious young man."

"You had better all go, my dears," responded Madam Passmore. "Good-night to you all. Good-night, Celia."

Celia fancied that her mother repeated the greeting to her with a tenderness in her voice which was scarcely usual with her. Was she thinking of the coming revelation?

She found Cicely helping Lucy to undress.

"Cicely," she asked, sitting down, "how do you pray?"

"Oh, that horrid Dr. Braithwaite!" cried Lucy. "I nearly fell asleep before he had half done."

"Make haste, Miss Lucy, my dear. You'd ought to have been a-bed long ago. How I pray, Mrs. Celia? Why, just like anybody else."

"Like Dr. Braithwaite? Oh, me!" said Lucy, parenthetically.

"No; not like Parson Braithwaite, my dear. Why, I couldn't even follow Parson, he said such hard words."

"I never tried," said Lucy, calmly. "I'm too sleepy to talk any more. Good-night." And she composed herself on the pillow and closed her eyes.

"You don't pray like Dr. Braithwaite, I am sure, Cicely," said Celia. "But how do you pray?"

"Well, my dear, the prayers my mother taught me, there was three on 'em--the 'Our Father,' and the 'I Believe,' and 'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.' I says the 'Our Father' yet, and 'I Believe' now and then; but I've left off to say Matthew and them, for when I comes to think, it sounds like the Papishes; and I don't see no prayers like it in the Book neither. I mostly prays out of the Book now, just the words that David did, and Moses, and the like of they; unless I wants somewhat very particular, and then I asks for it quite simple like, just as I'd ask you for a drink of water if I couldn't get it for myself."

Celia lay silent and thoughtful, but "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," roused Lucy in a minute.

"What's that about Matthew, Cicely?"

"Well, my dear, I'm not sure that 'tis more than foolishness. But my mother taught it me, and I used to say it a many years:

'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed I lie upon;
Four parts around my bed,
Four angels guard my head.
I lay me down upon my side,
I pray that God my soul may guide;
And if I die before I wake,
I pray that God my soul may take.'"[2]

"O Cicely!" exclaimed Lucy, laughing.

"It does sound rather like praying to the apostles, Cicely," suggested Celia; "but the end of it is better."

"That's where it is, Mrs. Celia; and that's why I dropped it. Now don't you begin talking to-night--go to sleep, there's dears. There'll be as many hours in to-morrow as to-day. Eh! but, my dear, did you ask Madam, as I said?"

"Yes, Cicely," said Celia, half-rising. "She will tell me to-morrow."

The troubled look in old Cicely's face deepened. But she only said, as she took up the light, "Go to sleep, dear hearts!"

"I ask your pardon, Madam!" said Cicely, courtesying low, as Madam Passmore opened her bedroom-door in answer to her tap. "But could I have a minute's speech with you, if you please?"

"Come in, Cicely, and sit down. Is anything the matter?"

"Well, Madam," said Cicely, glancing round the room, as if to make quite sure there were no listeners, "I'm afeared there's somewhat up about Mrs. Celia. This afternoon, as I was a-going down the lane to Mally Rihll's, with the cordial water and jelly you was pleased to send for sick Robin, there was a fellow met me, that I didn't half like the looks of. I should know him again, for he stopped me, and began to talk;--asked the way to Moreton (and I doubt if he really wanted to go, for he took the t'other turning when he come to it), and asked whose the Park was, and if Master was at home; and was going on to what family he had, and such like impudent questions. 'If you want to know all that,' says I, 'you'd better go up and ring the bell, and ask Squire his own self,' I says. Well, he didn't ask me no more questions after that, but went shuffling on his way, and took the wrong turning. But when I got to Mally's, and while we sat a bit, she tells me that my gentleman had been there asking for a drink of water, and a lot more impertinence. And asked her right out if there warn't a young lady at the Park of the name of Celia, and how old she were, and when her birthday were, and all on like that. And Mally--(you know, Madam, she's but a simple soul)--I could hear from her story, she up and told him everything he asked, and maybe more than he asked, for aught I know. And what does he do but (seeing, no doubt, what a simple soul she was) outs with a table-book, and actually sets down in black and white what she was a-telling of him. 'The impudent rascal!' say I to Mally, when I hears that: 'and why couldn't you have given it him hot and strong, as I did?' I says. And she says he looked so like a gentleman, for all his shabby coat, with nigh a quarter of a yard of lace pulled off the bottom, and all a-flapping about in the wind, as is both full and cold to-day, as she hadn't the heart to say nothing impertinent, says she. But 'Impertinent!' says I; 'I think, after all the impertinence he'd given you, you might have give him a dose without hurting of him much,' says I. So I thought I'd come and tell you, Madam, at once."

"You have done right to tell me, Cicely," said her mistress. "I think--I am afraid--there will be some inquiry for the dear child, before long."

"Well, Madam, and that's what I'm afeared on, too," said Cicely. "And to see Mrs. Celia sitting there so innocent like!"

"She must know, Cicely--she must know soon."

"If I was you, Madam, I'd tell her now," said Cicely,--"asking your pardon for being so bold as to say it to you."

"Yes, Cicely, so I shall," replied Madam Passmore, in a very despondent tone.

"Madam," said Cicely, suddenly, "would you be offended with me if I said a word to you?"

"My good Cicely, why should I? Speak your mind."

"Seems to me, Madam," said Cicely, confidentially, "as you haven't asked the Lord about this trouble. And though He knows all things, yet He likes to be asked and told about 'em: He says so somewheres. Now, if I was you (asking your pardon, Madam), and didn't like for to tell Mrs. Celia (and I'm sure I shouldn't), I'd just go and tell Him. It'd come a sight easier, would telling her, after that. You see, Madam, the Lord don't put troubles on us that He don't know nothing about. He's tried 'em all Himself, and He knows just where they pinches. And when He must needs be bring one on us, or we shall be running off down the wrong road like so many chickens, He whispers like with it, 'Don't be down-hearted, child; I've tried it, and I know.'"

"Cicely, how did you come to know all this?" inquired her mistress in astonishment.

"Bless your heart, Madam, I don't know nothing!" humbly disclaimed Cicely,--"never did, nor never shall. 'Tis with the Lord's lessons like as with other lessons;--takes the like of me a month or more to spell out a word, where there be folks'd read it off plain. I knows nothing, only I knows the Lord."

Madam Passmore made no answer, but in her secret heart she wondered, for the first time, whether the one thing which Cicely owned to knowing were not worth a hundredfold all the things which she knew.

"Sit down, Celia, my dear. I will now tell you all I know."

Madam Passmore spoke rather sadly, and Celia sat down with a beating heart.

"Celia," said her mother again, "would you like me to tell you right at once, or by degrees?"

"At once, if you please, Mother. Let me know the worst."

"I am not sure that I know that, my dear," sighed the lady. "However, I will say the worst I know. Celia! you are not my daughter."

"Mother!" was Celia's inconsistent but very natural exclamation.

"I have told the truth," said Madam Passmore, gently.

"But who--who are my father and mother?" asked Celia, in a bewildered tone.

"I know not, my dear Celia. Only you are not our child, nor akin to us. I will tell thee all about it. It was on the 10th of June, my dear, when Bell was seven days old, nineteen years ago"--

"Is Bell not my sister, then?"

"No. I know nought of any of thy kindred. But hark!"

"I beg your pardon, Mother. Please go on."

"My husband came up into my chamber, where was only Cicely beside with the babe on her lap; and he said, 'Lucy, my dear, there is a strange thing happened at the Park gates. A little babe lies there all alone,--it would move thy motherly heart to see it. Shall we send and take the poor little soul in?' I said, 'Send Cicely to see and fetch it.' So Cicely brought it in--a poor, weak babe that had scarce strength to breathe. It was lapped in fine white linen, laced with real point, and there was a gold pin fastening a paper on its little coat, with but one word--'Celia.' Well, to be sure, Cicely had some work to bring it round! For hours we feared it would die. But at last it seemed a little easier, and we thought it breathed stronger. And when my husband next came up he said, 'Well, Lucy, shall we send the babe away?' But I said, 'Nay, John, it seems fairly to ask pity from us: let us keep it, and bring it up as our own, and call it Bell's twin-sister. It will never harm us--perchance bring a blessing with it, for truly it looks as if God Almighty had sent it to us.' So we did that. I do not know, my dear, whether it was quite right of us to call you Bell's twin-sister: I am afraid not, for certainly it is not true. But as to your having brought a blessing with you, that's true enough. But that is how it was."

Celia sat still and silent, feeling crushed and cut off from all she loved by this disclosure.

"You have no thought," she said slowly, at last, "who I was, nor whence I came?"

"Well, my dear, my husband thought you might be the child of some Jacobite forced to fly, who must needs leave you behind. 'Twas plain you were not forsaken because your father was too poor to keep you, for he must have been well to do, to judge from the lace on your clothes and the gold pin. Mayhap some nobleman, for aught I know."

"Mother," said Celia, with a great effort, "think you that my parents, whosoever they were, could be--Papists?" The last word was scarcely more than whispered. It conveyed to the Passmore mind the essence of all that was wrong, cruel, and fearful.

"I trust not, indeed, my dear," replied Madam Passmore, kindly, but evidently struck and distressed by Celia's question, "for I know nought. Now, Celia, child, don't take this to heart. Remember thou art as much our daughter, bound to us by every bond of love and custom, as before I spoke a word regarding this. There is ever a home for thee at Ashcliffe, child; and truly I scarce love my own better than I do thee. Let it not trouble thy mind. Go and chat with Harriet and Bell, to keep off the vapors.[3] Farewell, my dear!"

Madam Passmore kissed Celia, and let her go. She did not follow her advice to go and chat with her sisters, but walked very slowly along the passage which led to her own room. She felt as if all around her were changed, and she herself were isolated and lost. Heretofore the old house and its furniture had seemed a part of herself: now they felt as if suddenly placed at an immense distance from her. Even the portrait in the passage of the Squire Passmore who had fought at Edgehill, brandishing his sword fiercely--even the china dragons which faced the hall-window--old familiar objects, seemed to scowl at her as she went by them. She would be Celia Passmore no longer. At another time she would have smiled at the superstitious fancy--only natural now--that these disowned her as a daughter of the house. She turned aside sadly, mechanically, into the little room where old Cicely sat sewing and singing. Her joint occupations ceased when she saw Celia's face.

"Eh, my dear! I see Madam's told you. Come hither and sit down a bit. Is it very sore, dear heart?"

"Cicely, do you know any more?" Celia asked, without answering her question.

"I know nought more than Madam," said Cicely. "I went and fetched you, sweet heart, and a nice little babe you was, though you did keep crying, crying on for everlasting. Such beauties of clothes as they'd wrapped you in! I never see a bit of finer lace than was on them, nor never want; and the cambric was just beautiful! I have them laid by, if you'd like to see."

"Oh! let me see them, Cicely! I meant to have asked Mother."

What a mockery the last word seemed now!

Cicely unlocked one of her cupboards, and produced the clothes, very handsome ones, as she had said, yellow with time, and edged with rich point. The gold pin was still there, with the paper, on which a manly, yet delicate, Italian hand had written the one word which alone remained to Celia of her unknown origin. She wondered whether it were her father's writing.

"Cicely," she said, suddenly, "was I ever baptized?"

"Whether afore we had you or not, Mrs. Celia, I can't say," replied old Cicely, quietly. "Madam thought this here"--pointing to the paper--"meant as you wasn't, and they'd like you to be christened 'Celia;' and Master thought it meant as you was christened already. So old Parson Herring--him as was here afore Parson Braithwaite--he christened you in church, as it stands in the prayer-book, 'if thou hast not been baptized,' or what it is. Squire thought that'd do either way."

"And you saw nothing when you went to fetch me, Cicely?"

"Nothing at all, my dear. There might have been somebody a-watching, you know--the place is so thick with trees--but I see nought of any sort."

The long pause which followed was broken by Cicely, who perceived that Celia's handkerchief was coming surreptitiously into requisition.

"If I was you, Mrs. Celia, I wouldn't trouble, my dear. Very like nobody'll ever come after you; and if they did, why, a grown lady like you might sure say where you'd be--without your own father and mother asked you; I'd never counsel you to go again them; though it would be a sore job parting from you, to be sure. You see, my dear, you've lived here nineteen years, and never a word said."

"But that man, Cicely!" said Celia, under her breath.

"Well, that man, my dear," repeated Cicely doubtfully, "he's very like of no kin to you, only somebody as knowed who you be."

"He was a Papist," said Celia, in the same tone. "But even so, Cicely, should I make no search for my father and mother? I am theirs, whoever they were; even if they were Papists." And the handkerchief came out openly.

"Cry it out, my dear; you'll be all the better for it after. And if you'll list me, Mrs. Celia, you'll never trouble no more about this by yourself, but just go and tell the Lord all about it. He knows who they be, child, and He made you their child, knowing it. And, my dear, I do find 'tis no good to carry a burden to the Lord, so long as I just get up and lift it on again. I'm very much given to lifting on again, Mrs. Celia, and perchance you be. But when I find that, why, I just go and go again, till I can lay it down and come away without it. Takes a deal of going sometimes, that do! But what would you think of me, if I says, 'Mrs. Celia, you carry this linen up-stairs, if you please;' and then goes and walks off with it myself?"

Old Cicely's homely illustration was just what Celia wanted.

"Thank you, Cicely," she said; "I will try to leave the burden behind."

Father Cuthbert Stevens sat in his lodging at Moreton, complacently turning over the contents of his portfolio. To his landlady he had told the same tale as to Squire Passmore, representing himself as an artist in the employ of Sir Godfrey Kneller; and had, to her thinking, verified his story beyond all doubt, by producing in part-payment of his debt a new shop-sign, representing a very fat and amiable-looking lion, standing on one leg, the other three paws flourishing in the air, while the eyes of the quadruped were fixed on the spectator. Mrs. Smith considered it a marvellous work of art, and cut off a large slice of Mr. Stevens' bill accordingly. Mr. Stevens passed his sketches slowly in review, tearing up the greater part, and committing them to the safe custody of the fire. But when he came to the staircase at Ashcliffe, he quietly placed that in security in a special pocket of the portfolio. He was too wise to speak his thoughts aloud; but had he done so he would have said:

"I have not done with this yet. To-morrow I propose to pay a visit to Marcombe, and this will secure me an unsuspected entrance into Mr. Rowe's family, where I may obtain some further information, on which a little paper and lead will be well spent."

Gilbert Irvine had rather remonstrated on Stevens' telling the same tale to Mrs. Smith as to the Squire at Ashcliffe, reminding him that it was well to have two strings to one's bow. Stevens answered, with that calm confidence in his own wisdom which never forsook him, "It is sometimes desirable, my good Gilbert, not to have too many strings to one's bow. This is my official residence. Mr. Passmore, or some other country gentleman, may find that I am lodging here. What do I gain, in that case, by representing myself to this excellent woman as a retired sea-captain or an officer on leave of absence? No; I am an artist at Ashcliffe, and I am an artist at Moreton. My private residence is----elsewhere. I am a citizen of the world. I am not troubled by any inconvenient attachment to country or home. I can sleep on a feather-bed, a green bank, or a deal board; I can eat black bread as well as _pâté aux truffes_."

"Ah! but can you do without either?" growled Gilbert, in reply.

To return from this episode. Mr. Stevens was now alone, having, as we saw, parted with Gilbert that afternoon, the latter returning to the hiding-place at Ashcliffe, very much against his inclination. The former worthy gentleman had supped on a hashed partridge, obtained in an unsportsmanlike manner which would have disgusted Squire Passmore; for while Stevens could talk glibly against poaching or anything else, when he required a savory dish, he was not above setting a snare on his own account. He had just placed safely in the pocket of the portfolio such sketches as he deemed it politic to retain, when a slight noise at the door attracted his attention, and looking up, he saw Gilbert Irvine, with white face and dilated eyes, standing in the doorway.

"We are betrayed!" hissed the latter.

Mr. Stevens, rising, quietly closed the door behind Gilbert, and set a chair for his excited visitor.

"Don't be rash, Gilbert," observed he, calmly tying the strings of the portfolio.

"Bash!" muttered Gilbert, between his closed teeth. "I tell you, they have discovered the hiding-place!"

"Have they? Then it was fortunate that I thought of dining to-day with Mr. Passmore."

"Father Cuthbert, do you care for nothing on earth?" said Gilbert, raising his voice.

"Gilbert," remarked Mr. Stevens, in his most placid manner, "I have already desired you not to be too rash. Allow me to remind you, that calling me 'Father Cuthbert' in a Protestant house, and especially in that tone of voice, is scarce likely to advance our interests. As to my caring for nothing on earth, I shall care to hear your information, when you can deliver yourself of it in a reasonable manner."

Gilbert, with some difficulty repressing his indignation, came to the conclusion that the being before him was inaccessible to feeling.

"When I arrived at the well," said he, "I was very near falling into it. I"--

"Ah! rash, as usual," commented Stevens, affectionately patting the portfolio.

"I lighted safely on the ledge of the door," pursued Gilbert, "but when I gave the necessary push, I found that it refused to stir. It had been made up from the inside."

"Something underneath the door, which stuck, of course," said Stevens.

"I took out my knife," replied Gilbert, "and with great difficulty steadied myself so that I could pass the blade under the door. There was nothing underneath, but the door refused to stir."

"What did you do then?"

"Came back to you directly, to ask you whether we ought to leave the country."

"You did not try at the other end?"

"In broad daylight? Mr. Stevens, what can you be thinking of?"

"The interests of the cause, my friend."

"Ah, well! I have the greatest respect for the interests of the cause, but I have also a slight disposition to attend to the interests of Gilbert Irvine."

"That is precisely your bane, my excellent Gilbert. And there are other defects in you beside."

"And pray, what excuse could you have devised to gain entrance?"

"Gilbert, I wonder at your marvellous incapacity for lying. Now it comes quite natural to me."

"Seems so," said Gilbert, grimly.

"Well, as your disposition to attend to the interests of Gilbert Irvine is so strong, I will not require more of you than to attempt the entrance by night. I noticed when I left the house that one of the drawing-room windows was unfastened. You can get in that way, and pass through Mrs. Celia's chamber."

"I'm blessed if I'll try that style of putting my neck in a noose for you more than this once!" Gilbert burst forth.

"I don't ask it of you more than this once," replied Stevens.

"And suppose they have fastened the window since you were there, as is probably the case?"

"If you cannot get in, come back to me. We must find out whether they have discovered the hiding-place. But I will take the next chance myself; and, Gilbert, it shall be in broad daylight."

Gilbert stared at him, and shook his head with an incredulous laugh.

"You are a poor conspirator, Gilbert," lamented Stevens. "Can you plaster a wall?"

"No," said Gilbert.

"I can. Can you mend a harpsichord?"

"Not I, indeed."

"I can. And can you make a tansy pudding?"

"Holy Mary! such women's work!"

"Women are useful, my friend, in their way--occasionally. And it is desirable, now and then, even for the nobler sex, to know how to do women's work. Now I dare say you have not the least notion how a shirt is made? I can sew beautifully."

"By the head of St. Barbara!"--Gilbert began.

"Avoid Catholic oaths, Gilbert, if you please. And never be above learning. Pick up all you can--no matter what. It may come in use some time."

"I wish you would tell me how you mean to get in?"

"Mr. Passmore was observing at dinner that he wanted a new under-footman. I shall offer myself for the place."

Gilbert's eyes and mouth opened rather wide.

"I can carry coal-scuttles, my friend," said Mr. Cuthbert Stevens, insinuatingly. "And I could black a boot. In a week (or as soon as my purpose was served) I should have a bad cough, find that the work was too hard for me, and leave."

"Father Cuthbert, you are a clever fellow!" said Gilbert, slowly.

Father Cuthbert made no attempt to deny the impeachment.

"And where am I to be, while you are blacking your boots and carrying your coal-scuttles?"

"Quietly pursuing your inquiries between here and Exeter, and keeping out of scrapes--if you can. You will find me here again this day month."

On the evening of the next day, Squire Passmore saw and engaged a new under-footman.

"A tall, personable fellow," said he to his family; "very well-spoken, and capable, he seems. He comes from Exeter, and his name is George Shepherd."

And much vexed was he, for he had taken a fancy to his new servant, when, four days later, Robert announced to him that George had such a bad cough, and found the work so hard for his weak chest, that he wished to leave at the end of the month.

"It ben't always the strongest-looking as is the strongest," observed Cicely on the subject; "and I'm a-feared, Madam, that George is but weakly, for all he looks so capable."

Madam Passmore, who felt very sorry for poor George, tried diet-drinks, linseed tea, and lozenges, but all were to no purpose; and at the end of the month the new footman left.

"What _are_ you doing, Mr. Stevens?" demanded Gilbert Irvine, as he entered the lodger's room at Moreton on the same evening that the under-footman's place at Ashcliffe Hull was again left vacant.

"Good-evening, Gilbert," responded Mr. Stevens, without looking up. "Only making my official shirts into a rather smaller and neater bundle. They may serve again, you know."

"And what news?" asked Gilbert.

"You were right," said Mr. Stevens. "They have found it out, and have made up the well-door. But Mrs. Celia knows nothing about the hiding-place, though she sleeps in the chamber."

"Well, and why couldn't you believe me at first? What have you gained by all your trouble?"

"Why could I not believe you?" repeated Stevens. "Because you are rash, as I always tell you. And what have I gained? A month's board and lodging, and thirteen and fourpence. Look at it."

"Ugh!" said Gilbert to the shillings. "Well, I would not have blacked a lot of dirty boots for you, if you'd been twice as many!"

"A mistake, Gilbert! a sad mistake!" said Stevens, tying up his bundle. "Never be above doing anything for the good of the Church."

"Nor telling any number of lies," responded Gilbert. "Well, and where are we to go now?"

"Back to France, and report to my Lady Ingram as quickly as possible."

"And what then?"

"That is for her to say. I should think she will come and fetch the girl."

"And how are we to live meanwhile?"

"You, as you please. For me, being now so well equipped and in good practice," answered Mr. Cuthbert Stevens, with an insinuating smile, "if I found it impossible to get any other sort of work, I _could_ take another place as footman!"

Time passed calmly on for some months after Madam Passmore's disclosure to Celia. The latter gradually lost the fear of being claimed by strangers, and devoted herself to the very diligent study of the Scriptures. The Squire and Madam Passmore became slowly grayer, and Cicely Aggett a little whiter than before. But nothing occurred to break the quiet tenor of events, until Henrietta's marriage took place in the summer of 1711. The bridegroom was the heir of a family living in the adjoining division of the county, and the day was marked at Ashcliffe by much splendor and festivity. The bride showed herself quiet and practical on this occasion, as on all others; and as she had made her mark but little, she was comparatively little missed. Cicely cried because she thought it was the first break in the family, and Dolly because she fancied it was the proper thing to do; but Henrietta herself would have scorned to run the risk of spoiling her primrose silk by tears. Everything was done _en règle_--wedding and breakfast, throwing the slipper, dancing, and a number of other small observances which have since been counted tedious or unseemly. And when the day was over, and Henrietta Carey had departed to her new home, things sank down into their old groove at Ashcliffe Hall.

When the year 1712 dawned, only the three younger sisters of the family were at home. Harry had rejoined his regiment, and Charley was away on a visit to his eldest sister and her husband.

So matters stood at Ashcliffe Hall on that New Year's Day when what Celia dreaded came upon her.

[1] The peculiar drawing up of the chin towards the throat, known as bridling, was a very essential point of fine breeding at the date of this story.

[2] Of _La Petite Patenôtre Blanche_ there are as many versions as lines. The one I give in the text rests on oral tradition. There is another known to me, probably an older version, which I should have preferred if I could have been quite sure of the words. It was used by a woman who died in 1818 at the age of 108, and who therefore was born four years before the death of Queen Anne. It was repeated to me when a child of eight, and the only copy I can recover is my own record at the time. I give this for what it is worth:

"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on;
Four corners to my bed,
Four angels at their head,--
One to read and one to write,
And two to guard my bed [at night.]"

[3] "The vapors" were pre-eminently the fashionable malady of the reign of Queen Anne. The name answered to the sensation now known as _ennui_: but doubtless, as Miss Strickland suggests in her "Lives of the Queens of England," it was frequently used when its victim was suffering from nothing more remarkable or novel than a bad temper.