"Then she is put on her guard: so far, well."
"Ephraim, have you heard anything more of Angus?"
"Nothing but what you know already."
"Nor, I suppose, of Colonel Keith? I wish I knew what he is doing."
"He has not had much chance of doing anything yet," said Ephraim, rather
drily. "A sick-bed is not the most favourable place for helping one's
friends out of prison."
"Has Colonel Keith been ill?" cried I.
"Mr Raymond did not tell you?"
"He never told me a word. I do not know what he may have said to
Annas."
"A broken arm, and a fever on the top of it," said Ephraim. "The doctor
talks of letting him go out to-morrow, if the weather suit."
"O Ephraim!" cried I. "But where is he?"
"Don't tell any one, if I tell you. Remember, Colonel Keith is a
proscribed man."
"I will do no harm to Annas's brother, trust me!" said I.
"He is at Raymond's house, where he and I have been nursing him."
"In a fever!"
"Oh, it is not a catching fever. Think you either of us would have come
here if it were?"
"Ephraim, is Mr Raymond to be trusted?" said I. "I am sure he is a
good man, but he is a shocking Whig. And I do believe one of the
queerest things in this queer world is the odd notions that men take of
what it is their duty to do."
"Have you found that out?" said he, looking much diverted.
"I am always finding things out," I answered. "I had no idea there was
so much to be found. But, don't you see, Mr Raymond might fancy it his
duty to betray Colonel Keith? Is there no danger?"
"Not the slightest," said Ephraim, warmly. "Mr Raymond would be much
more likely to give up his own life. Don't you know, Cary, that
Scripture forbids us to betray a fugitive? And all the noblest
instincts of human nature forbid it too."
"I know all one's feelings are against it," said I, "but I did not know
that there was anything about it in the Bible."
"Look in the twenty-third of Deuteronomy," replied Ephraim, "the
fifteenth verse. The passage itself refers to a slave, but it must be
equally applicable to a political fugitive."
"I will look," I answered. "But tell me, Ephraim, can nothing be done
for Angus?"
"If it can, it will be done," he made answer.
He said no more, but from his manner I could not but fancy that somebody
was trying to do something.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I never had two letters at once, by the same post, in my life: but this
morning two came--one from Flora, and one from my Aunt Kezia. Flora's
is not long: it says that she and Annas have reached the Isle of Wight
in safety, and were but three hours a-crossing from Portsmouth; and she
begs me, if I can obtain it, to send her some news of Angus. My Lady De
Lannoy was extreme kind to them both, and Flora says she is very
comfortable, and would be quite happy but for her anxiety about my Uncle
Drummond and Angus. My Uncle Drummond has not writ once, and she is
very fearful lest some ill have befallen him.
My Aunt Kezia's letter is long, and full of good counsel, which I am
glad to have, for I do find the world a worse place than I thought it,
and yet not in the way I expected. She warns me to have a care lest my
tongue get me into trouble; and that is one of the dangers I find, and
did not look for. Father is well, and all other friends: and I am not
to be surprised if I should hear of Sophy's marriage. Fanny gets on
very well, and makes a better housekeeper than my Aunt Kezia expected.
But I have spent much thought over the last passage of her letter, and I
do not like it at all:--
"Is Hatty yet in Charles Street? We have had but one letter from the
child in all this time, and that was short and told nothing. I hope you
see her often, and can give us some tidings. Squire Bracewell writ to
your father a fortnight gone that he was weary of dwelling alone, and as
the Prince's army is in retreat, he thinks it now safe to have the girls
home. If this be so, we shall soon have Hatty here. I have writ to
her, by your father's wish, that she is not to tarry behind."
I cried aloud when I came to this: "The Prince in retreat from Derby!
Uncle Charles, do you know anything of it? Sure, it can never be true!"
"Nonsense!" he made answer. "Some silly rumour, no doubt."
"But my Uncle Bracewell writ it to my Aunt Kezia, and he dwells within
fifteen miles," I said.
My Uncle Charles looked much disturbed.
"I must go forth and see about this," answered he.
"With your catarrh, Mr Desborough!" cried my Aunt Dorothea.
For above a week my Uncle Charles has not ventured from the door, having
a bad catarrh.
"My catarrh must take care of itself," he made answer. "This is serious
news. Dobson, have you heard aught about the Prince being in retreat?"
Dobson, who was setting down the chocolate-pot, looked up and smiled.
"Yes, Sir, we heard that yesterday."
"You idiot! why did you not tell me?" cried my Uncle Charles. "In
retreat! I cannot believe it."
"Run to the coffee-house, Dobson," said Grandmamma, "and ask what news
they have this morning."
So Dobson went off, and has not yet returned. My Aunt Dorothea laughs
all to scorn, but my Uncle Charles is uneasy, and I am sure Grandmamma
believes the report. It is dreadful if it is true. Are we to sit down
under another thirty years of foreign oppression?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Before Dobson could get back, Mrs Newton came in her chair. She is a
very stout old lady, and she puffed and panted as she came up the
stairs, leaning on her black footman, with her little Dutch pug after,
which is as fat as its mistress, and it panted and puffed too. Her two
daughters came in behind her.
"Oh, my dear--Mrs Desborough! My--dear creature! This is--the
horridest news! We must--go back to our--red ribbons and--black
cockades! Could I ever have--thought it! Aren't you--perfectly
miserable? Dear, dear me!"
"Ma is miserable because red does not suit her," said Miss Marianne. "I
can wear it quite well, so I don't need to be."
"Marianne!" said her sister, laughing.
"Well, you know, Theresa, you don't care two pins whether the Prince
wins or loses. Who does?"
"The Prince and my Lord Tullibardine," said Miss Newton.
"Oh, of course, those who looked to the Prince to make their fortunes
are disappointed enough. I don't."
"I rather thought Mr Crossland did," said Miss Newton, with a
mischievous air.
"Well, I hope there are other people in the world beside Mr Crossland,"
said Miss Marianne.
"All right, my dear," replied her sister. "If you don't care, I am sure
I need not. I am not in love with Mr Crossland--not by any means. I
never did admire the way in which his nose droops over his mouth. He
has fine teeth--that is a redeeming point."
"Is it? I don't want him to bite me," observed Miss Marianne.
Miss Newton went off into a little (subdued) burst of silvery laughter,
and I sat astonished. Was this the sort of thing which girls called
love?--and was this the way in which fashionable women spoke of the men
whom they had pledged themselves to marry? I am sure I like Mr
Crossland little enough; but I felt almost sorry for him as I listened
to the girl who professed to love him.
Meanwhile, Grandmamma and Mrs Newton were lamenting over the news--as I
supposed: but when I began to listen, I found all that was over and done
with. First, the merits of Puck, the fat pug, were being discussed, and
then the wretchedness of being unable to buy or wear French cambrics,
and the whole history of Mrs Newton's last cambric gown: they washed
it, and mended it, and ripped it, and made it up again. And then
Grandmamma's brocaded silk came on, and how much worse it wore than the
last: and when I was just wondering how many more gowns would have to be
taken to pieces, Mrs Newton rose to go.
"Really, Mrs Desborough, I ought to make my apologies for coming so
early. But this sad news, you know,--the poor Prince! I could not bear
another minute. I knew you would feel it so much. I felt as if I must
come. Now, my dear girls."
"Ma, you haven't asked Mrs Desborough what you came for," said Miss
Marianne.
"What I--Oh!" and Mrs Newton turned back. "This absurd child! Would
you believe it, she gave me no peace till I had asked if you would be so
good as to allow your cook to give mine her receipt for Paradise
pudding. Marianne dotes on your Paradise puddings. Do you mind? I
should be so infinitely obliged to you."
"Dear, no!" said Grandmamma, taking a pinch of snuff, just as Dobson
tapped at the door. "Dobson, run down and tell Cook to send somebody
over to Mrs Newton's with her receipt for Paradise pudding. Be sure it
is not forgotten."
"Yes, Madam," said Dobson. "If you please, Madam, the army is a-going
back; all the coffee-houses have the news this morning."
"Dear, it must be true, then," said Grandmamma, taking another pinch.
"What a pity!--Be sure you do not forget the Paradise pudding."
"Yes, Madam. They say, Madam, the Prince was nigh heart-broke that he
couldn't come on."
"Ah, I dare say. Poor young gentleman!" said Mrs Newton. "Dear Mrs
Desborough, do excuse me, but where did you meet with that lovely crewel
fringe on your curtains? It is so exactly what I wanted and could not
get anywhere."
"I got it at Cooper and Smithson's--Holborn Bars, you know," said
Grandmamma. "This is sad news, indeed. But your curtains, my dear,
have an extreme pretty trimming."
"Oh, tolerable," said Mrs Newton, gathering up her hoop.
Away they went, with another lament over the Prince and the news; and I
sat wondering whether everybody in this world were as hollow as a
tobacco-pipe. I do think, in London, they must be.
Then my thoughts went back to my Aunt Kezia's letter.
"Grandmamma," I said, after a few minutes' reflection, "may I have a
chair this afternoon? I want to go and see Hatty."
Grandmamma nodded. She had come, I think, to an awkward place in her
tatting.
"Take Caesar with you," was all she said.
So after dinner I sent Caesar for the chair, and, dressed in my best,
went over to Charles Street to see Hatty. I sent in my name, and waited
an infinite time in a cold room before any one appeared. At last
Charlotte bounced in--I cannot use another word, for it was just what
she did--saying,--
"O Cary, you here? Emily is coming, as soon as she can settle her
ribbons. Isn't it fun? They are all coming out in red now."
"I don't think it is fun at all," said I. "It is very sad."
"Oh, pother!--what do you and I care?" cried she.
"You do not care much, it seems," said I: but Charlotte was off again
before I had finished.
A minute later, the door opened much more gently, and Amelia entered in
her calm, languid way. But as soon as she saw me, her eyes lighted up,
and she closed the door and sat down.
Amelia spoke in a hurried whisper as she kissed me.
"One word, before any one comes," she said. "Insist on seeing Hatty.
Don't go without it."
"Will they try to prevent me?" I replied.
Before she could answer, Mrs Crossland sailed in, all over
rose-coloured ribbons.
"Why, Miss Caroline, what an unexpected pleasure!" said she, and if she
had added "an unwelcome one," I fancy she would have spoken the truth.
"Dear, what was Cicely thinking of to put you in this cold room? Pray
come up-stairs to the fire."
"Thank you," said I, and rose to follow her.
The room up-stairs was warm and comfortable, but Hatty was not there. A
girl of about fourteen, in a loose blue sacque, which looked very cold
for the weather, came forward and shook hands with me.
"My daughter," said Mrs Crossland. "Annabella, my dear, run up and ask
Miss Hester if she feels well enough to come down. Tell her that her
sister is here."
"Allow me to go up with Miss Annabella, and perhaps save her a journey,"
said I. "Messages are apt to be returned and to make further errands."
"Oh, but--pray do not give yourself that trouble," said Miss Annabella,
glancing at her mother.
"Certainly not. I cannot think of it," answered Mrs Crossland,
hastily. "Poor Miss Hester has been suffering so much from toothache--I
beg you will not disturb her, Miss Caroline."