"Ephraim Hebblethwaite!" I cried out.
"I believe so," he said, laughing.
"Where did you come from?"
"From a certain place in the North, called Brocklebank."
"But what brought you to London?" I cried.
"What brought me to London?" he repeated, in quite a different tone,--so
much softer. "Well, Cary, I wanted to see something."
"Have you been to see it?" I asked, more to give myself time to cool
down than because I cared to know.
"Yes, I have been to see it," he said, and smiled.
"And did you find it as agreeable as you expected?"
"Quite. I had seen it before, and I wanted to know if it were spoiled."
"Oh, I hope it is not spoiled!" said I.
"Not at all," said he, his voice growing softer and softer. "No, it is
not spoiled yet, Cary."
"Do you expect it will be?" I was getting cooler now.
"I don't know," he answered, very gravely for him, for Ephraim is not at
all given to moroseness and long faces. "God grant it never may!"
I could not think what he meant, and I did not like to ask him. Indeed,
I had not much opportunity, for he began talking about our journey, and
Brocklebank, and all the people there, and I was so interested that we
did not get back to what Ephraim came to see.
There is a new Vicar, he says, whose name is Mr Liversedge, and he has
quite changed things in the parish. The people are divided about him;
some like him, and some do not. He does not read his sermons, which is
very strange, but speaks them out just as if he were talking to you; and
he has begun to catechise the children in an afternoon, and to visit
everybody in the parish; and he neither shoots, hunts, nor fishes. His
sermons have a ring in them, says Ephraim; they wake you up, Old John
Oakley complains that he can't nap nigh so comfortable as when th' old
Vicar were there; and Mally Crosthwaite says she never heard such goings
on--why, th' parson asked her if she were a Christian!--she that had
always kept to her church, rain and shine, and never missed once! and it
was hard if she were to miss the Christmas dole this year, along o' not
being a Christian. She'd always thought being Church was plenty good
enough--none o' your low Dissenting work: but, mercy on us, she didn't
know what to say to this here parson, that she didn't! A Christian,
indeed! The parson was a Christian, was he? Well, if so, she didn't
make much 'count o' Christians, for all he was a parson. Didn't he tell
old John he couldn't recommend him for the dole, just by reason he
rapped out an oath or two when his grand-daughter let the milk-jug
fall?--and if old Bet Donnerthwaite had had a sup too much one night at
the ale-house, was it for a gentleman born like the parson to take note
of that?
"But he has done worse things than that, Cary," said Ephraim, with grave
mouth and laughing eyes.
"What? Go on," said I, for I saw something funny was coming.
"Why, would you believe it?" said Ephraim. "He called on Mr Bagnall,
and asked him if he felt satisfied with the pattern he was setting his
flock."
"I am very glad he did!" said I. "What did Mr Bagnall say?"
"Got into an awful rage, and told it to all the neighbourhood--as
bearing against Mr Liversedge, you understand."
"Well, then, he is a greater simpleton than I took him for," said I.
"I am rather afraid," said Ephraim, in a hesitating tone, "that he will
call at the Fells: and if he say anything that the Squire thinks
impertinent or interfering, he will make an enemy of him."
"Oh, Father would just show him the door," said I, "without more ado."
"Yes, I fear so," replied Ephraim. "And I am sure he is a good man,
Cary. A little rash and incautious, perhaps; does not take time to
study character, and so forth; but I am sure he means to do right."
"It will be a pity," said I. "Ephraim, do you think the Prince will
march on London?"
"I have not a doubt of it, Cary."
"Oh!" said I. I don't quite know whether I felt more glad or sorry.
"But you will not stay here if he do?"
"Yes, I think I shall," said he.
"You will join the army?"
"No, not unless I am pressed."
I suppose my face asked another question, for he added with a smile, "I
came to keep watch of--that. I must see that it is not spoiled."
I wonder what _that_ is! If Ephraim would tell me, I might take some
care of it too. I should not like anything he cared for to be spoiled.
As I sat in a corner afterwards, I was looking at him, and comparing him
in my own mind with all the fine gentlemen in the chamber. Ephraim was
quite as handsome as any of them; but his clothes certainly had a
country cut, and he did not show as easy manners as they. I am afraid
Grandmamma would say he had no manners. He actually put his hand out to
save a tray when Grandmamma's black boy, Caesar, stumbled at the
tiger-skin mat: and I am sure no other gentleman in the room would have
condescended to see it. There are many little things by which it is
easy to tell that Ephraim has not been used to the best society. And
yet, I could not help feeling that if I were ill and wanted to be helped
up-stairs, or if I were wretched and wanted comforting, it would be
Ephraim to whom I should appeal, and not one of these fine gentlemen.
They seemed only to be made for sunshine. He would wear, and stand
rain. If Hatty's "men" were all Ephraims, there might be some sense in
caring for their opinions. But these fellows--I really can't afford a
better word--these "chiels with glasses in their e'en," as Sam says, who
seem to have no opinions beyond the colour of their coats and paying
compliments to everything they see with a petticoat on--do they expect
sensible women to care what they think? Let them have a little more
sense themselves first--that's what I say!
I said so, one morning as we were dressing: and to my surprise, Annas
replied,--
"I fancy they have sense enough, Cary, when there are no women in the
room. They think we only care for nonsense."
"Yes, I expect that is it," added Flora.
I flew out. I could not stand that. What sort of women must their
mothers and sisters be?
"Card-playing snuff-takers and giddy flirts," said Annas. "Be just to
them, Cary. If they never see women of any other sort, how are they to
know that such are?"
"Poor wretches! do you think that possible. Annas?" said I.
"Miserably possible," she said, very seriously. "In every human heart,
Cary, there is a place where the man or the woman dwells inside all the
frippery and mannerism; the real creature itself, stripped of all
disguises. Dig down to that place if you want to see it."
"I should think it takes a vast deal of digging!"
"Yes, in some people. But that is the thing God looks at: that is it
for which Christ died, and for which Christ's servants ought to feel
love and pity."
I thought it would be terribly difficult to feel love or pity for some
people!
My Uncle Charles has just come in, and he says a rumour is flying that
there has been a great battle near Edinburgh, and that the Prince (who
was victorious) is marching on Carlisle. Flora went very white, and
even Annas set her lips: but I do not see what we have to fear--at least
if Angus and Mr Keith are safe.
"Charles," said Grandmamma, "where are those white cockades we used to
have?"
"I haven't a notion, Mother."
Nor had my Aunt Dorothea. But when Perkins was asked, she said, "Isn't
it them, Madam, as you pinned in a parcel, and laid away in the garret?"
"Oh, I dare say," said Grandmamma. "Fetch them down, and let us see if
they are worth anything."
So Perkins fetched the parcel, and the cockades were looked over, and
pronounced useable by torchlight, though too bad a colour for the
day-time.
"Keep the packet handy, Perkins," said Grandmamma.
"Shall I give them out now, Madam?" asked Perkins.
"Oh, not yet!" said Grandmamma. "Wait till we see how things turn out.
White soils so soon, too: we had much better go on with the black ones,
at any rate, till the Prince has passed Bedford."
It is wicked, I suppose, to despise one's elders. But is it not
sometimes very difficult to help doing it?
I have been reading over the last page or two that I writ, and I came on
a line that set me thinking. Things do set me thinking of late in a way
they never used to do. It was that about Ephraim's not being used to
the best society. What is the best society? God and the angels; I
suppose nobody could question that. Yet, if an angel had been in
Grandmamma's rooms just then, would he not have cared more that Caesar
should not fall and hurt himself, and most likely be scolded as well,
than that he should be thought to have fine easy manners himself? And I
suppose the Lord Jesus died even for Caesar, black though he be. Well,
then, the next best society must be those who are going to Heaven: and
Ephraim is one of them, I believe. And those who are not going must be
bad society, even if they are dressed up to the latest fashion-book, and
have the newest and finest breeding at the tips of their fingers. The
world seems to be turned round. Ah, but what was that text Mr
Whitefield quoted? "Love not the world, neither the things that are in
the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in
him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust
of the eyes, and the pride of life, are not of the Father, but are of
the world." Then must we turn the world round before we get things put
straight? It looks like it. I have just been looking at another text,
where Saint Paul gives a list of the works of the flesh; [Note:
Galatians five 19 to 21.] and I find, along with some things which
everybody calls wicked, a lot of others which everybody in "the world"
does, and never seems to think of as wrong. "Hatred, variance,
emulations, ... envyings, ... drunkenness, revellings, and such like:"
and he says, "They which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of
God." That is dreadful. I am afraid the world must be worse than I
thought. I must take heed to my Aunt Kezia's rules--set the Lord always
before me, and remember that this world passeth away. I suppose the
world will laugh at me, if I be not one of its people. What will that
matter, if it passeth away? The angels will like me all the better: and
they are the best society.
And I was thinking the other night as I lay awake, what an awful thing
it would be to hear the Lord Jesus, the very Man who died for me, say,
"Depart from Me!" I think I could stand the world's laughter, but I am
sure I could never bear that. Christ could help and comfort me if the
world used me ill; but who could help me, or comfort me, when He had
cast me out? There would be nothing to take refuge in--not even the
world, for it would be done with then.
Oh, I do hope our Saviour will never say that to me!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I seem bound to get into fights with Miss Newton. I do not mean
quarrels, but arguments. She is a pleasant, good-humoured girl, but she
has such queer ideas. I dare say she thinks I have. I do not know what
my Aunt Kezia would say to her. She does not appear to see the right
and wrong of things at all. It is only what people will think, and what
one likes. If everybody did only what they liked,--is that proper
grammar, I wonder? Oh, well, never mind!--I think it would make the
world a very disagreeable place to live in, and it is not too pleasant
now. And as to people thinking, what on earth does it signify what they
think, if they don't think right? If one person thinking that two and
two make three does not alter the fact, why should ten thousand people
thinking so be held to make any difference? How many simpletons does it
take to be equal to a wise man? I wonder people do not see how
ridiculous such notions are.
We hear nothing at all from the North--the seat of war, as they begin to
call it now. Everybody supposes that the Prince is marching southwards,
and will be here some day before long. It diverts me exceedingly to sit
every Tuesday in a corner of the room, and watch the red ribbons
disappearing and the white ones coming instead. Grandmamma's two
footmen, Morris and Dobson, have orders to take the black cockade out of
their hats and clap on a white one, the minute they hear that the royal
army enters Middlesex.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
November 22nd.
The Prince has taken Carlisle! It is said that he is marching on Derby
as fast as his troops can come. Everybody is in a flutter. I can guess
where Father is, and how excited he will be. I know he would go to wait
on his Royal Highness directly, and I should not wonder if a number of
the officers are quartered at Brocklebank--were, I should say. I almost
wish we were there! But when I said so to Ephraim, who comes every
Tuesday, such a strange look of pain came into his eyes, and he said,
"Don't, Cary!" so sadly. I wonder what the next thing will be!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
After I had written this, came one of Grandmamma's extra assemblies--Oh,
I should have altered my date! it is so troublesome--on Thursday
evening, and I looked round, and could not see one red ribbon that was
not mixed with white. A great many wore plain white, and among them
Miss Newton. I sat down by her.
"How do you this evening, Miss Newton?" I mischievously asked. "I am
so delighted to see you become a Tory since I saw you last Tuesday."
"How do you know I was not one before?" asked she, laughing.
"Your ribbons were not," said I. "They were red on Tuesday."
"Well, you ought to compliment me on the suddenness of my conversion,"
said she: "for I never was a trimmer. Oh, how absurd it is to make
ribbons and patches mean things! Why should one not wear red and white
just as one does green and blue?"
"It would be a boon to some people, I am sure," said I.
"Perhaps we shall, some day, when the world has become sensible," said
Miss Newton.
"Can you give me the date, Madam?"
It was a strange voice which asked this question. I looked up over my
shoulder, and saw a man of no particular age, dressed in gown and
cassock. [Note 1.] Miss Newton looked up too, laughing.
"Indeed I cannot, Mr Raymond," said she. "Can you?"
"Only by events," he answered. "I should expect it to be after the King
has entered His capital."