“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 God’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 God and the King, and on the other a miserable mass of silly nobodies 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 God 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.”