Ashcliffe Hall: A tale of the last century

by Emily Sarah Holt

"No!" exclaimed Celia. "I never heard of that. But Philip—he is really my brother, is he not?"

"Oh yes, Madam! Mr. Philip is your brother. I will tell you:—After my Lady Magdalene died, Sir Edward was for a time sore sick, and the doctors bade him visit and go about for the recovery of his health. I am scarce certain that it was the best thing he could do, howbeit he did as they bade him. Among the gentlemen whom he used to visit, where he whiles took his son Master Edward, and me as his nurse, was the Marquis of La Croix, and another was one Mr. Camillus De L'Orient. The Marquis was a stately old French gentleman, a kindly man to his own, I think, but one that held himself mortal high, and seemed to think that laboring men and the like were no better, if so good, as his dogs and his horses. The Marchioness, his wife, was much of the same sort, only I'm thinking she wasn't quite so stiff as he. They had no son—and very grieved they were for it—only three daughters: Madam Claudia, Madam Sophia, and Madam Amata. The last young lady is dead; she died a maid, and to my thinking she was a hantle the best of the three. Madam Sophia you saw the other evening; she wedded the Duke of Montausier. Madam Claudia is my Lady.

"I had never any great taking for Frenchmen, but to my thinking Mr. Camillus De L'Orient was the best and pleasantest Frenchman I ever saw. There was something about him so douce and kindly to everybody; and 'tis very seldom the case with the French nobles. Sir Edward came one day into the nursery, as he often did, to play him with the bairn; and, said he, 'Patient, next week I shall go to Monsieur De La Croix's château in the provinces, and Mademoiselle Aimée has begged for Edward to come too; so get him and yourself ready. Mademoiselle De La Croix is to be married to Monsieur De L'Orient." Well, we went to the castle; and surely there were fine doings: Madam Claudia in white satin, and all the fine ladies and gentlemen—they were quite a picture to look at. After the wedding and the revellings were over, Madam Claudia and her husband went up to Paris for a while, and then to pay a visit to Mr. Camillus' father and mother, who lived some way off. Sir Edward meanwhile thought of going home too, but Monsieur and Madam they begged of him to stay till Mr. Camillus came back, and Madam Amata, who was mighty fond of children, and took wonderfully to little Master Ned, she begged him not to take the bairn away; so the end of it was that he stopped ever so long, and Master Ned and me, we stopped too. About two months after the wedding, Mr. Camillus and his new wife came back to the castle, and the fine doings began again. There was nought but feasting and junketing for a fortnight; and one morning, at the end of that time, Sir Edward, and Mr. Camillus, and one Mr. Leroy, and three or four gentlemen more that were staying at the castle, they went out for a stroll in the park.

"I know not rightly how it was, but there arose some words among these gentlemen, and they came to quarrelling. Sir Edward held fast by Mr. Camillus, who was a great friend of his; but Mr. Leroy, whose blood was up because of something that had been said, at last struck Mr. Camillus a blow. Everybody cried directly that he must fight him. Sir Edward ran back to the castle for pistols, for the gentlemen were not armed; and he came in all haste into the chamber where I was sewing, with little Master at his horn-book, and bade me tell Madam Claudia as gently as I could that there was to be a duel between Mr. Camillus and Mr. Leroy. I went up into the chamber where the three young ladies were together, and Madam Sophia was trying of a new gown. I told as quiet as I could what had happened. Madam Amata cried out, and ran to her sister, and clipped her round the neck. She said, 'Claude, ma soeur, ma bonne, ma belle! go, go to Camille, and ask him not to fight!' I looked at Madam Claudia. She went as white as a sheet the first minute; but the next she lifted her head up proudly, and she said, 'Shall I ask him not to revenge an affront to his honor? Noblesse oblige, ma soeur.' 'You are such a child, Aimée!' was all Madam Sophia said, as she looked round from her tiring-glass. 'You always call me so,' said Madam Amata; 'but this is dreadful—it is death, perhaps, my sisters!' Madam Sophia took no heed of her, but went on trying her new gown, and showing her woman where it did not please her. For a minute I thought that Madam Claudia was going to give way and have a good cry; but she did not. I scarce knew then that 'tis not our deepest sorrow that we weep for. She sat down, still very white, and taking no heed to her sister's new array, though she, poor thoughtless maid! kept calling to her, didn't she like this and did she no think that was too long and t'other too narrow? Madam Amata came softly up to me, and whispered 'Ma bonne, go down and bring us the first news.' So I slipped out and down-stairs. About half an hour after a gentleman came in—a French gentleman, but I forget his name now—who I knew had been at the fighting. I called to him and asked him to pardon me for being so bold as to speak to him, but for the love of God to tell me the news. 'News?' quoth he, 'what! of the duel? Oh! they have fought, and Monsieur De L'Orient has fallen: Sir Edward Ingram is carrying him here'—and Mr. Somebody, I don't mind who it was. 'Is he dead, Sir?' I said, all of a tremble. 'I really don't know,' says he, quite careless; 'I think not quite.'

"I hadn't the heart to speak another word to such a man. I crept up again to the young ladies' chamber, and I knelt down by Madam Claudia, and told her she must make ready for the worst. She shivered all over, and then, scarce opening her white lips, she said, 'Is it all over?' I said, 'They think not quite; but Sir Edward is bringing him hither.' When she heard that, she rose and glided down the stairs to the hall, Madam Amata following her, and I likewise. Even Madam Sophia was a trifle touched, I think, for she said a bad word, as those French ladies do when they are astonished; but Madam Amata was very white and crying, for if Mr. Camillus had really been her brother born, I don't think she could have loved him much better than she did.

"Just as Madam Claudia reached the hall, Sir Edward came in, and the other gentleman, bearing poor Mr. Camillus covered with blood. There was a marble couch in the hall, with silken cushions; they laid him down there, and he just spoke twice. First he said to Sir Edward, 'Tell my mother gently, and take care of my Claude.' And then when Madam Claudia came and knelt by him, he said, 'Dieu vous garde, mamie!' Then he laid his head back and died. But when he died, Madam Claudia threw her arms about him, and laid her head down on his breast in spite of the blood: and then suddenly springing to her feet, she flung up her arms wildly in a way that sent a shudder through me, and the next minute she would have fallen on the ground if Sir Edward had not caught her first. 'Let us carry her up, Patient, to her own chamber, poor soul!' he saith. So we took her up, I and he, and I laid her quiet on her bed. Madam Amata followed us, and, poor young maid! it was pitiful to see her. She had never been taught to do more than make fancy-work and play the violin and such, and now she wanted to nurse her sister, and did not know how to set about it. 'Do tell me, ma bonne, what I can do for Claude?—my poor Claude!' she kept saying to me. 'Twas a long while ere Madam Claudia came round, and when she did, she wept and mourned every minute of the day for four days. I don't think she ever quite loved anything again as she had loved him."

Celia could hardly associate the idea of such mourning as this with her cold, fashionable, impassive step-mother.

"You think it scarce like, Madam?" asked Patience, seeing her thought in her face. "I know what you think—ay, and more than you have thought that. If you will forgive me to say it, you deem her cold and hard. So she is. Ah Madam! wherever sorrow softens and sanctifies not, it chills and hardens. I am sure, if I had known her but now, I could never have thought her that bright lassie whom I saw in her early maidenhood. You see, Madam, the Lord sends sorrow to us all; but where He has to touch one of His chosen with it, He brings it Himself. And there is a vast difference between the two. There be to whom the having been with grief is the having been with Jesus; and that always softens and tenders the heart. I think we hardly come to know the Lord's best comforts, till we come to know how sorely He can afflict whiles. But grief without Jesus—ah! that is worth calling grief!

"There is little more to tell now, Madam, for you know the end—that Sir Edward wedded Madam Claudia. I will confess I did think they might have waited a trifle longer, if it were only to the end of the year after Mr. Camillus' death. He had scarce been dead six months, and my Lady Magdalene not the year out, when they were married. Howbeit, that was their business, not mine. Madam Sophia said, in her odd way, that if her sister did not care, she saw no reason why she should: but the tears stood in Madam Amata's eyes, though she said nought. I liked Madam Amata very much. She died about two years thereafter."

"Patient, whom do you think Philip like?—his father or his mother?"