"Na, Miss Cary, there's nae been siccan a thing, the Lord be thanked!
She took pepper in the nose, and went affa gude week afore it suld ha'e
been; and a gude riddance o' ill rubbish, say I. Mrs Kezia and Miss
Sophy, they are at hame, a' richt: and Miss Hatty comes back in a
twa-three days, without thae young leddies suld gang till London toun,
and gin they do she'll gang wi' 'em."
"Father is not married?" I exclaimed.
"He's better aff," said Sam, determinedly. "I make na count o' thae
hizzies."
How glad I felt! Though Father might be sorry at first, I felt so sure
he would be thankful afterwards. As for the girl who had jilted him, I
thought I could have made her into mincemeat. But I was so glad of his
escape.
"The Laird wad ha'e had ye come wi' yon lanky loon wi' the glass of his
e'e," went on Sam: "he was bound frae Carlisle to London this neist
month. But Mrs Kezia, she wan him o'er to send me for ye. An' I was
for to say that gin the minister wad like Miss Flora to gang wi' ye, I
micht care ye baith, or onie ither young damsel wha's freens wad like to
ha'e her sent soothwards."
"O Flora," I cried at once--"Annas!"
"Yes, we will send word to Monksburn," answered Flora: and Angus jumped
up and said he would walk over.
"As for me," said Flora, turning to Sam, "I must hear my father's
bidding. I do not think I shall go--not if I may stay with him. But
the Laird of Monksburn wishes Miss Keith to go south, and I think he
would be glad to put her in your care."
"And I'd be proud to care Miss Annas," said Sam, with a pull at his
forelock. "I mind her weel, a bit bonnie lassie. The Laird need nae
fear gin she gangs wi' me. But I'd no ha'e said sae mickle for yon puir
weak silken chiel wi' the glass in his e'e."
"Why, Sam, who do you mean?" said I.
"Wha?" said Sam. "Yon pawky chiel, the auld Vicar's nevey--Maister
Parchmenter, or what ye ca him--a bonnie ane to guard a pair o' lassies
he'd be!"
"Mr Parmenter!" cried I. "Did Father think of sending us with him?"
"He just did, gin Mrs Kezia had nae had mair wit nor himsel'. She sent
ye her loving recommend, young leddies, and ye was to be gude lassies,
the pair o' ye, and no reckon ye kent better nor him that had the charge
o' ye."
"Sam, you put that in yourself," said Angus.
"Atweel, Sir, Mrs Kezia said she hoped they'd be gude lassies, and
discreet--that's as true as my father's epitaph."
"Where is Miss Osborne gone, Sam?" asked Flora.
"Gin naebody wants to ken mair than me, Miss Flora, there'll no be
mickle speiring. I'm only sure o' ane place where she'll no be gane,
I'm thinkin', and that's Heaven."
"You don't seem to me to have fallen in love with her, Sam," said Angus,
who appeared exceedingly amused.
"Is't me, Sir? Ma certie, but gin there were naebody in this haill
warld but her an' me, I'd tak' a lodging for her in the finest street I
could find i' London toun, an' I'd be aff mysel' to the Orkneys by the
neist ship as left the docks. I wad, sae!"
Angus laughed till he cried, and Flora and I were no much better. He
went at once to Monksburn, and came back with tidings that the Laird was
very glad of the opportunity to send Annas southwards. And when my
Uncle Drummond came in, though his lip trembled and her eyes pleaded
earnestly, he said Flora must go too.
And to-night Mr Keith brought news that men were up all over the
Highlands, and that the Prince was marching on Perth.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
My Uncle Drummond says we must go at once--there is not to be a day's
delay that can be helped. Mr Keith and Angus are both to join the
Prince as soon as they can be ready. My Uncle will go with us himself
to Hawick, and then Sam will go on with us to Carlisle, where we are to
wait one day, while Sam rides over to Brocklebank to fetch and exchange
such things as we may need, and if we can hear of any friend of Father's
or my Uncle's who is going south, we are to join their convoy. The
Laird of Monksburn sends one of his men with us; and both he and Sam
will be well armed. I am sure I hope there will be no occasion for the
arms.
Angus is in a mental fever, and dashes about, here, there, and
everywhere, without apparent reason, and also without much
consideration. I mean consideration in both senses--reflection, and
forbearance. Flora is grave and anxious--I think, a little frightened,
both for herself and Angus. Mr Keith takes the affair very seriously;
that I can see, though he does not say much. Annas seems (now that the
first excitement is over) as calm as a summer eve. We are to start, if
possible, on Friday, and sleep at Hawick the first night.
"Hech, Sirs!" was Helen's comment, when she heard it. "My puir bairns,
may the Lord be wi' ye! It's ill setting forth of a Friday."
"Clashes and clavers!" cries Sam, turning on her. "Helen Raeburn, ye're
just daft! Is the Lord no sae strang o' Friday as ither days? What
will fules say neist?"
"Atweel, ye may lauch, Sam, an' ye will," answered Helen: "but I tell
ye, I ne'er brake my collar-bone of a journey but ance, and that was
when I'd set forth of a Friday."
"And I ne'er brake mine ava, and I've set forth monie a time of a
Friday," returned Sam. "Will ye talk sense, woman dear, gin women maun
talk?"
I do feel so sorry to leave Abbotscliff. I wish I were not going to
London. And I do not quite like to ask myself why. I should not mind
going at all, if it were only a change of place. Abbotscliff is very
lovely, but there is a great deal in London that I should like to see.
If I were to lead the same sort of life as here, and with the same sort
of people, I should be quite satisfied to go. But I know it will be
very different. Everything will be changed. Not only the people, but
the ways of the people. Instead of breezy weather there will be hot
crowded rooms, and instead of the Tweed rippling over the pebbles there
will be noisy music and empty chatter. And it is not so much that I am
afraid it will be what I shall not like. It will at first, I dare say:
but I am afraid that in time I shall get to like it, and it will drive
all the better things out of my head, and I shall just become one of
those empty chatterers. I am sure there is danger of it. And I do not
know how to help it. It is pleasant to please people, and to make them
laugh, and to have them say how pretty, or how clever you are: and then
one gets carried away, and one says things one never meant to say, and
the things go and do something which one never meant to do. And I
should not like to be another of my Aunt Dorothea!
I do not think there is half the fear for Flora that there is for me.
She does not seem to get carried off her mind's feet, as it were: there
is something solid underneath her. And it is not at all certain that
Flora will be there. If she be asked to stay, Uncle says, she may
please herself, for he knows she can be trusted: but if Grandmamma or my
Aunt Dorothea do not ask her, then she goes on with Annas to her
friends, who, Annas says, will be quite delighted to see her.