There were only two persons in the room beyond. A gentleman stood at the window reading the Gazette; a lady in mourning sat writing at a very shabby little table in the middle of the room. A glance at each assured Celia that they were mother and son; and she speedily discovered who they were, by Lady Ingram's kneeling before the quiet-looking lady in mourning, who sat at the shabby little table.
"Ah, ma chère!" said the lady, in a soft voice, turning to her; adding, "I am very glad to see you. It is long since I had the pleasure."
Lady Ingram answered in French, and still kneeling, "I have been in Paris, Madame, and in England for a short time. I had the honor to inform your Majesty that I was going there to fetch my step-daughter."
"This is your daughter?" asked the Queen, turning with a smile to Celia.
Lady Ingram drew aside to leave room for her. "She scarcely speaks French yet," she observed.
As Celia knelt and looked up into the face before her, she was much struck with that smile. It changed the aspect of the whole face. The air of subdued sadness which had dwelt upon the classic regular features and in the quiet soft eyes, passed away, and a brighter expression lighted them brilliantly while the smile remained. She could fancy what that face might have been in the old days, when, at the close of the coronation, nearly thirty years before, the Westminster students had called up that smile by their spontaneous shout of "Vivat Regina Maria!" Celia forgot all about kissing the Queen's hand, until she heard Lady Ingram's voice beside her whisper, in a subdued tone, "Cette folle!" Then she blushed painfully and hastily performed her homage. The charm which enfolded the Jacobites had been cast around her; the spell of voice, and eyes, and smile, which she would never forget any more.
"Why so hurried, my child?" asked the soft voice, in Celia's own tongue. "Do not be frightened of me, I pray you."
Frightened of her? No, indeed! thought Celia, as she rose from her knees with a smile in answer to the Queen's. What fright she felt was not for Her Majesty, but for Lady Ingram. As she regained her feet, she suddenly saw that the Queen's son was standing beside his mother. The formidable mortal, whom Squire Passmore would have knocked down as his first greeting, and Patient have sermonized as an uncovenanted King! Hardly knowing what she did, Celia knelt again and kissed the hand that was extended to her. It was a soft white hand, which did not look as if it would hold the sceptre very harshly, and on one finger glittered a large gold ring set with a balas ruby, upon which a cross was engraved. Celia would have regarded that jewel with deep interest and veneration had she known its romantic history, stranger than any romance. This was the last relic of James's fallen fortunes, the ancient coronation-ring, "the wedding-ring of England," which had gleamed from many a royal hand before, and had been employed to many a strange end. While Philip in his turn performed his homage, Celia studied the royal persons before her.
First, the King. He was tall, very tall[[16]]—a man whom few would pass without wondering who he was; rather thin, but with all this not ungraceful, and with an air of much distinction about him. An oval face he had, with a bright complexion; a forehead smooth and high, but not at all broad; arched eyebrows; eyes of a dark, rich brown,[[17]] large, and very soft; a mouth rather too large for strict proportion, but bearing an expression of mingled sadness and sweetness, which grew into fascination when he smiled. His smiles were rare, and his voice seldom heard; but very often Celia caught a momentary upward glance of the eyes, accompanied by a silent motion of the lips, and she wondered if it were possible that he was praying.[[18]] He wore no wig, only his own dark chestnut hair curling over his shoulders.
This was the King whom England had cast out. She would have none of him, under any pretext. Rather than be ruled by this son of her own, she had set "a stranger over her, which was not her brother."[[19]] Celia wondered, for the first time in her life, whether England had done well. She turned with a sigh from the son to the mother, who was conversing familiarly with Lady Ingram, seated beside her.