Out in the Forty-Five Part 34

No; I could not say that.

"How can you be an opponent of the Cause?" I cried--I am afraid, s.h.i.+fting my ground.

He smiled again. "I can well understand the attraction of the Cause,"

said he, "to a young and enthusiastic nature. There is something very enticing in the son of an exiled Prince, come to win back what he conceives to be the inheritance of his fathers. And in truth, if the Old Pretender were really the son of King James,--well, it might be more difficult to say what a man's duty would be in that case. But that, as you know, is thought by many to be at best very doubtful."

"You do not believe he is?" cried I.

"I do not believe it," said Mr Raymond.

I wondered how he could possibly doubt it.

"Nor is that all that is to be considered," he went on. "I can tell you, young lady, if he were to succeed, we should all rue it bitterly before long. His triumph is the triumph of Rome--the triumph of persecution and martyrdom and agony for G.o.d's people."

"I know that," said I. "But right is right, for all that! The Crown is his, not the Elector's. On that principle, any man might steal money, if he meant to do good with it."

"The Crown is neither George's nor James's, as some think," said Mr Raymond, "but belongs to the people."

Who could have stood such a speech as that?

"The people!" I cried. "The mob--the rabble--the Crown is theirs! How can any man imagine such a thing?"

"You forget, methinks, young lady," said Mr Raymond, as quietly as before, "that you are one of those of whom you speak."

"I forget nothing of the kind," cried I, too angry to be civil. "Of course I know I am one of the people. What do you mean? Am I to maintain that black beetles are cherubim, because I am a black beetle?

Truth is truth. The Crown is G.o.d's, not the people's. When He chose to make the present King--King James of course, not that wretched Elector-- the son of his father, He distinctly told the people whom He wished them to have for their king. What right have they to dispute His ordinance?"

I was quite beyond myself. I had forgotten where I was, and to whom I was talking--forgotten Mr Raymond, and Angus, and Flora, and even Grandmamma. It seemed to me as if there were only two parties in the world, and on the one hand were G.o.d and the King, and on the other a miserable ma.s.s of silly n.o.bodies called The People. How could such contemptible insects presume to judge for themselves, or to set their wills up in opposition to the will of him whom G.o.d had commanded them to obey?

The softest, lightest of touches fell on my shoulder. I looked up into the grave grey eyes of Annas Keith. And feeling myself excessively rude and utterly extinguished,--(and yet, after all, right)--I slipped out of the group, and made my way into the farthest corner. Mr Raymond, of course, would think me no gentlewoman. Well, it did not much matter what he thought; he was only a Whig. And when the Prince were actually come, which would be in a very few days at the furthest--then he would see which of us was right. Meantime, I could wait. And the next minute I felt as if I could not wait--no, not another instant.

"Sit down, Cary. You look tired," said Ephraim beside me.

"I am not a bit tired, thank you," said I, "but I am abominably angry."

"Nothing more tiring," said he. "What about?"

"Oh, don't make me go over it! I have been talking to a Whig."

"That means, I suppose, that the Whig has been talking to you. Which beat? I beg pardon--you did, of course."

"I was right and he was wrong, if you mean that," said I. "But whether he thinks he is beaten--"

"If he be an Englishman, he does not," said Ephraim. "Particularly if he be a North Country man."

"I don't know what country he comes from," cried I. "I should like to make mincemeat of him."

"Indigestible," suggested Ephraim, quite gravely.

"Ephraim, what are we to do for Angus?" said I, as it came back to me: and I told him the news which Mr Raymond had brought. Ephraim gave a soft whispered whistle.

"You may well ask," said he. "I am afraid, Cary, nothing can be done."

"What will they do to him?"

His face grew graver still.

"You know," he said, in a low voice, "what they did to Lord Derwent.w.a.ter. Colonel Keith had better lie close."

"But that Whig knows where he is!" cried I. "He--Ephraim, do you know him?"

"Know whom, Cary?"

"Mr Raymond."

"Is he your Whig?" asked Ephraim, laughing. "Pray, don't make him into mincemeat; he is one of the best men in England."

"He need be," said I; "he is a horrid Whig! What do you, being friends with such a man?"

"He is a very good man, Cary. He was one of my tutors at school. I never knew what his politics were before to-night."

We were silent for a while; and then Grandmamma sent for me, not, as I feared, to scold me for being loud-spoken and warm, but to tell me that one of my lappets hung below the other, and I must make Perkins alter it before Tuesday. I do not know how I bore the rest of the evening.

When I went up at last to our chamber, I found it empty. Lucette, Grandmamma's French woman, who waits on her, while Perkins is rather my Aunt Dorothea's and ours, came in to tell me that Perkins was gone to bed with a headache, and hoped that we would allow her to wait on us to-night, when she was dismissed by the elder ladies.

"Oh, I want no waiting at all," said I, "if somebody will just take the pins out of my head-dress carefully. Do that, Lucette, and then I shall need nothing else, I cannot speak for the other young ladies."

Lucette threw a wrapping-cape over my shoulders, and began to remove the pins with deft fingers. Grandmamma had not yet come up-stairs.

"Mademoiselle Agnes looks charmante to-night," said she: "but then she is always charmante. But what has Mademoiselle Flore? So white, so white she is! I saw her through the door."

I told her that Flora's brother had been taken prisoner.

"Ah, this horrible war!" cried she. "Can the grands Seigneurs not leave alone the wars? or else fight out their quarrels their own selves?"

"Oh, the Prince will soon be here," said I, "and then it will all be over."

"All be over? Ah, _sapristi_! Mademoiselle does not know. The Prince means the priests: and the priests mean--_Bon_! have I not heard my grandmother tell?"

"Tell what, Lucette? I thought you were a Papist, like all Frenchwomen."

"A Catholic--I? Why then came my grandfather to this country, and my father, and all? Does Mademoiselle suppose they loved better Spitalfields than Blois? Should they then leave a country where the sun is glorious and the vines _ravissantes_, for this black cold place where the sun s.h.i.+ne once a year? _Vraiment! Serait-il possible_?"

I laughed. "The sun s.h.i.+nes oftener in c.u.mberland, Lucette. I won't defend Spitalfields. But I want to know what your grandmother told you about the priests."

"The priests have two sides, Mademoiselle. On the one is the confessional: you must go--you shall not choose. You kneel; you speak out all--every thought in your heart, every secret of your dearest friend. You may not hide one little thought. The priest hears you hesitate? The questions come:--Mademoiselle, terrible questions, questions I could not ask, nor you understand. You learn to understand them. They burn up your heart, they drag down to h.e.l.l your soul. That is one side."

"Would they see me there twice!" said I.