'"And he proclaimed himself King?" asked Mrs. Fortescue.
'"No, no; not yet. He is prudent enough to put that off for a bit. He declares that his right to the throne shall be decided by a free Parliament; but he denounces his uncle for a tyrant, usurper, murderer, and I know not what beside. (Somewhat too strong in language this Declaration must be, to my thinking.) Well, and then he claims to be champion and leader of all English Protestants."
'"And so he is, without doubt," cried Madame St. Aubert, clasping her hands vehemently. "He will save us all from being made Papists, whether we will or no, or perchance burned alive at Smithfield. Ah yes! Mark my words, Dr. Power. He is the only man to save England, and all England will soon rise in arms to join him. God bless him, I say, and confound his enemies! Long live the Duke of Monmouth!"
'Madame's agitation at this juncture became too much for her. She sank suddenly into the nearest seat, and buried her face in her handkerchief. She was an excitable person always, Madame St. Aubert; but never before had she been seen by her pupils wrought up to such a state of uncontrollable excitement as this; and never before had our silent, formal breakfast been enlivened by such a commotion. There stood all the girls huddled together, surprised, embarrassed, curious, and some half frightened. There was my bowl of milk upset, and streaming quietly over the table-cloth, with Mrs. Fortescue actually taking not the smallest notice of it; there was Dr. Power with his wig more crooked than I could ever have conceived possible if I had not seen it; and, what seemed stranger to us than anything else, there was Madame St. Aubert perched on one of our narrow, long-legged, and most uncomfortable stools, instead of her own chair of state, and almost tumbling off, from the vehemence of her hysterical sobs.
'"What does it all mean? Is there going to be a civil war?" whispered Agnes Blount to Bessie, who was in far too much of a flutter either to hear or heed.
'"But does the King really want to burn us? Alack! alack! I will never be made a Papist," protested little Lucy Fordyce, her brown eyes round with horror.
'"I wonder if Madame will give us a holiday," suggested Camilla Fanshawe with great animation; and even as she spoke I heard Dr. Power making that self-same proposal to Madame St. Aubert, who was beginning to recover a little, the high stool not being a favourable place for giving way to "attendrissement."
'"Yes," she said, after drying her eyes and going back to her state chair. Yes, that was just what she had been about to announce. Who could be expected to attend to study after such a piece of news as this? Therefore she proclaimed a whole holiday, in honour of the day which, she hoped, we never would forget to the latest hour of our lives.
'"And now I wonder whether these young ladies know what it is that they are to keep in mind till the latest day of their lives," said Dr. Power, looking round upon us with his jovial, good-humoured smile. "This little maid, for instance," as his eye fell upon Lucy Fordyce's beaming face. "Come hither, child, and tell us all about it."
'But Lucy's ideas upon the subject were evidently misty in the extreme. She looked terribly puzzled and piteous; and I have no doubt that it was only a strong faith in the promised holiday that kept the tears out of her eyes. "Because—why, because," she stammered in answer to Dr. Power's question.