"Angus, what is wrong?" she cried.
"Why should anything be wrong? Can't something be right?" cried Angus,
as he came up; and I saw that his cheeks were flushed and his eyes
flashing. "The Prince has landed, and the old flag is flying at
Glenfinnan. Hurrah!"
And Angus snatched off his cap, and flung it up so high that I wondered
if it would come down again.
"The Prince!" cried Flora; and looking at her, I saw that she had caught
the infection too. "O Angus, what news! Who told you? Is it true?
Are you quite sure?"
"Sure as the hills. Duncan told me. I have been over to Monksburn, and
he has just come home. All the clans in Scotland will be up to-morrow.
That was the one thing we wanted--our Prince himself among us. You will
hear of no faint hearts now."
"What will the Elector do?" said Flora. "He cannot, surely, make head
against our troops."
"Make head! We shall be in London in a month. Sir John Cope has gone
to meet Tullibardine at Glenfinnan. I expect he will come back a trifle
faster than he went. Long live the King, and may God defend the right!"
All at once, Angus's tone changed, as his eyes fell upon me. "Cary, I
hope you are not a traitor in the camp? You look as if you cared
nothing about it, and you rather wondered we did."
"I know next to nothing about it, Angus," I answered. "Father would
care a great deal; and if I understood it, I dare say I might. But I
don't, you see."
"What do I hear!" cried Angus, in mock horror, clasping his hands, and
casting up his eyes. "The daughter of Squire Courtenay of Brocklebank
knows next to nothing about Toryism! Hear it, O hills and dales!"
"About politics of any sort," said I. "Don't you know, I was brought up
with Grandmamma Desborough, who is a Whig so far as she is anything--but
she always said it was vulgar to get warm over politics, so I never had
the chance of hearing much about it."
"Poor old tabby!" said irreverent Angus.
"But have you heard nothing since you came to Brocklebank?" asked Flora,
with a surprised look.
"Oh, I have heard Father toast `the King over the water,' and rail at
the Elector; and I have heard Fanny chant that `Britons never shall be
slaves' till I never wanted to hear the tune again; and I have heard
Ambrose Catterall sing Whig songs to put Father in a pet, and heard lots
of people talk about lots of things which are to be done when the King
has his own again. That is about all I know. Of course I know how the
Revolution came about, and all that: and I have heard of the war thirty
years ago, and the dreadful executions after it--"
"Executions! Massacres!" cried Angus, hotly.
"Well, massacres if you like," said I. "I am sure they were shocking
enough to be called any ugly name."
Angus seemed altogether changed. He could not keep to one subject, nor
stand still for one minute. I was not much surprised so long as it was
only he; but I was astonished when I saw the change which came over my
Uncle Drummond. I never supposed he could get so excited about anything
which had to do with earth. And yet his first thought was to connect it
with Heaven. [Note 1.]
I shall never forget the ring of his prayer that night. An exile within
sight of home, a prisoner to whom the gates had just been opened, might
have spoken in the words and tones that he did.
"Lord, Thou hast been gracious unto Thy land!" "Let them give thanks
whom the Lord hath redeemed, and delivered from the hand of the enemy!"
That was the key-note of every sentence.
I found, before long, that I had caught the complaint myself. I went
about singing, "The King shall ha'e his ain again," and got as hot and
eager for fresh news as anybody.
"Oh dear, I hope the Prince will conquer the Elector before I go to
London," I said to Flora: "for I do not know whatever Grandmamma will
say if I go to her in this mood. She always says there is nothing so
vulgar as to get enthusiastic over anything. You ought to be calm,
composed, collected, and everything else which is cold and begins with
C."
Flora laughed, but was grave again directly.
"I expect, Cary, your journey to London is a long way off," said she.
"How are you to travel, if all the country be up, and troops going to
and fro everywhere?"
"I am sure I don't care if it be," said I. "I would rather stay here, a
great deal."
I thought we were tolerably warm about the Prince's landing, at
Abbotscliff; but when I got to Monksburn, I found the weather still
hotter. The Laird is almost beside himself; Mr Keith as I never saw
him before. Annas has the air of an inspired prophetess, and even Lady
Monksburn is moved out of her usual quietude, though she makes the least
ado of any. News came while we were there, that Sir John Cope had been
so hard pressed by the King's army that he was forced to fall back on
Inverness; and nothing would suit the Laird but to go out and make a
bonfire on the first hill he came to, so as to let people see that
something had happened. The Elector, we hear, has come back from
Hanover, and his followers are in a panic, I hope they will stay there.
Everybody agrees that the army will march southwards at once after this
victory, and that unless my journey could take place directly, I shall
have to stay where I am, at least over the winter. The Laird wishes he
could get Annas out of the way. If I were going, I believe he would
send her with me, to those friends of Lady Monksburn in the Isle of
Wight. I thought Lady Monksburn looked rather anxious, and wistful too,
when he spoke about it. Annas herself did not seem to care.
"The Lord will not go to the Isle of Wight," she said, quietly.
Oh, if I could feel as they do--that God is everywhere, and that
everywhere He is my Friend! And then, my Uncle Drummond's words come
back upon me. But how do you trust Christ? What have you to do? If
people would make things plain!
Well, it looks as if I should have plenty of time for learning. For it
seems pretty certain, whatever else is doubtful, that I am a fixture at
Abbotscliff.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wonder if things always happen just when one has made up one's mind
that they are not going to happen?
About ten o'clock this morning, Flora and I were sewing in the parlour,
just as we have been doing every day since I came here. My Uncle
Drummond was out, and Angus was fixing a white cockade in his bonnet.
Helen Raeburn put in her head at the door.
"If you please, Miss Cary," said she, "my cousin Samuel wad be fain to
speak wi' ye."
For one moment I could not think who she meant. What had I to do with
her cousin Samuel? And then, all at once, it flashed upon me that
Helen's cousin Samuel was our own old Sam.
"Sam!" I almost screamed. "Has he come from Brocklebank? Oh, is
anything wrong at home?"
"There's naething wrang ava, Miss Cary, but a hantle that's richt--only
ane thing belike--and that's our loss mair than yours. But will ye see
Samuel?"
"Oh, yes!" I cried. And Flora bade Helen bring him in.
In marched Sam--the old familiar Sam, though he had put on a flowered
waistcoat and a glossy green tie which made him look rather like a Merry
Andrew.
"Your servant, ladies! Your servant, Maister Angus! I trust all's weel
wi' ye the morn?"
And Sam sighed, as if he felt relieved after that speech.
"Sam, is all well at home? Who sent you?"
"All's weel, Miss Cary, the Lord be thanked. And Mrs Kezia sent me."
"Is my Aunt Kezia gone to her new house? Does she want me to come
back?"
"Thank goodness, na!" said Sam, which at first I thought rather a poor
compliment; but I saw the next minute that it was the answer to my first
question. "Mrs Kezia's gone nowhere. Nor they dinna want ye back at
Brocklebank nae mair. I'm come to ha'e a care of ye till London town.
The Lord grant I win hame safe mysel' at after!"
"Is the country so disturbed, Sam?" said Flora.
"The country's nae disturbed, Miss Flora. I was meanin' temptations and
sic-like. Leastwise, ay--the country is a bit up and down, as ye may
say; but no sae mickle. We'll win safe eneuch to London, me and Miss
Cary, if the Lord pleases. It's the comin' haim I'm feared for."
"And is--" I hardly knew how to ask what I wanted to know. Flora helped
me. I think she saw I needed it.
"Was the wedding very grand, Sam?"
"Whose wedding, Miss Flora? There's been nae weddings at Brocklebank,
but Ben Dykes and auld Bet Donnerthwaite, and I wish Ben joy on't. I am
fain he's no me."
"Nay, you are fain you are no he," laughed Angus.
"I'm fain baith ways, Maister Angus. The Laird 'd hae his table ill
served gin Ben tried his haun."
"But what do you mean, Sam?" cried I. "Has not--"