On the Monday morning, we left Gloucester on horseback, with two
baggage-horses beside those we rode. We dined at Worcester, and lay
that night at Bridgenorth. On the Tuesday, we slept at Macclesfield; on
the Wednesday, at Colne; on the Thursday, at Appleby; and on Friday,
about four o'clock in the afternoon, we reached home.
On the steps, waiting for us, stood Father and Sophy.
I had not been many minutes in the house before I felt, in some inward,
indescribable way, that things were changed. I wonder what that is by
which we feel things that we cannot know? It was not the house which
was altered. The old things, which I had known from a child, all seemed
to bid me welcome home. It was Father and Sophy in whom the change was.
It was not like Sophy to kiss me so warmly, and call me "darling." And
I was not one bit like Father to stroke my hair, and say so solemnly,
"God bless my lassie!" I have had many a kiss and a loving word from
him, but I never heard him speak of God except when he repeated the
responses in church, or when--
I wondered what had come to Father. And how I did wonder when after
supper Sam brought, not a pack of cards, but the big Bible which used to
lie in the hall window with such heaps of dust on it, and he and Maria
and Bessy sat down on the settle at the end of the hall, and Father, in
a voice which trembled a little, read a Psalm, and then we knelt down,
and said the Confession, and the General Thanksgiving, and the Lord's
Prayer. I looked at my Aunt Kezia, and saw that this was nothing new to
her. And then I remembered all at once that she had hinted at something
which we should see when we came home, and had bidden us keep our eyes
open.
The pack of cards did not come out at all.
The next morning I was the first to come down. I found Sam setting the
table in the parlour. We exchanged good-morrows, and Sam hoped I was
not very tired with the journey. Then he said, without looking up, as
he went on with his work--
"Ye'll ha'e found some changes here, I'm thinking, Miss."
"I saw one last night, Sam," said I, smiling.
"There's mair nor ane," he replied. "There's three things i' this warld
that can ne'er lie hidden: ye may try to cover them up, but they'll ay
out, sooner or later. And that's blood, and truth, and the grace o'
God."
"I am not so sure the truth of things always comes out, Sam," said I.
"Ye've no been sae lang i' this warld as me, Miss Cary," said Sam. "And
'deed, sometimes 'tis a lang while first. But the grace o' God shows up
quick, mostly. 'Tis its nature to be hard at wark. Ye'll no put barm
into a batch o' flour, and ha'e it lying idle. And the kingdom o'
Heaven is like unto leaven: it maun wark. Ay, who shall let it?"
"Is Mr Liversedge well liked, Sam?" I asked, when I had thought a
little.
"He's weel eneuch liked o' them as is weel liking," said Sam, setting
his forks in their places. "The angels like him, I've nae doubt; and
the lost sheep like him: but he does nae gang doun sae weel wi' the
ninety and nine. They'd hae him a bit harder on the sinners, and a bit
safter wi' the saints--specially wi' theirsels, wha are the vara crown
and flower o' a' the saints, and ne'er were sinners--no to speak o', ye
ken, and outside the responses. And he disna gang saft and slippy doun
their throats, as they'd ha'e him, but he is just main hard on 'em. He
tells 'em gin they're saints they suld live like saints, and they'd like
the repute o' being saints without the fash o' living. He did himsel a
main deal o' harm wi' sic-like by a discourse some time gane--ye'll
judge what like it was when I tell ye the Scripture it was on: `He that
saith he abideth in Him ought himself also so to walk even as He
walked.' And there's a gey lot of folks i' this warld 'd like vara weel
to abide, but they're a hantle too lazy to walk. And the minister, he
comes and stirs 'em up wi' the staff o' the Word, and bids 'em get up
and gang their ways, and no keep sat down o' the promises, divertin'
theirsels wi' watching ither folk trip. He's vara legal, Miss Cary, is
the minister; he reckons folk suld be washed all o'er, and no just dip
their tongues in the fountain, and keep their hearts out. He disna make
much count o' giving the Lord your tongue, and ay hauding the De'il by
the hand ahint your back. And the o'er gude folks disna like that.
They'd liever keep friendly wi' baith."
"Then you think the promises were not made to be sat on, Sam?" said I,
feeling much diverted with Sam's quaint way of putting things.
Sam settled the cream-jug and sugar-bowl before he answered.
"I'll tell ye how it is, Miss. The promises was made to be lain on by
weary, heavy-laden sinners that come for rest, and want to lay down both
theirsels and their burden o' sins on the Lord's heart o' love: but they
were ne'er made for auld Jeshurun to sit on and wax fat, and kick the
puir burdened creatures as they come toiling up the hill. Last time I
was in Carlisle, I went to see a kinsman o' mine there as has set up i'
the cabinet-making trade, and he showed me a balk o' yon bonnie new wood
as they ha'e getten o'er o' late--the auld Vicar used to ha'e his
dining-table on't; it comes frae some outlandish pairts, and they call
it a queer name; I canna just mind it the noo--I reckon I'm getting too
auld to tak' in new notions."
"Mahogany?"
"Ay, maybe that's it: I ken it minded me o' mud and muggins. Atweel, my
cousin tauld me they'd a rare call for siccan wood, and being vara
costly, they'd hit o' late in the trade on a new way o' making
furniture, as did nae come to sae mickle--they ca' it veneer."
"Oh yes, I know," said I.
"Ay, ye'll hae seen it i' London toun, I daur say? all that's bad's safe
to gang there." I believe Sam thinks all Londoners a pack of thieves.
"Atweel, Miss Cary, there's a gran' sicht o' veneered Christians i' this
country. They look as spic-span, and as glossy, and just the richt
shade o' colour, and bonnily grained, and a' that--till ye get ahint
'em, and then ye see that, saving a thin bit o' facing, they're just
common deal, like ither folk. Ay, and it's maistly the warst bits o'
the deal as is used up ahint the veneer. It is, sae! Ye see, 'tis no
meant to last, but only to sell. And there's a monie folks 'll gi'e the
best price for sic-like, and fancy they ha'e getten the true thing. But
I'm thinkin' the King 'll no gi'e the price. His eyes are as a flame o'
fire, and they'll see richt through siccan rubbish, and burn it up."
"And Mr Liversedge, I suppose, is the real mahogany?"
"He is sae: and he's a gey awkward way of seeing ahint thae bits o'
veneered stuff, and finding out they're no worth the money. And they
dinna like him onie better for 't."
"But I hope he does not make a mistake the other way, Sam, and take the
real thing for the veneer?"
"You trust him for that. He was no born yestre'en. There's a hantle o'
folk makes that blunder, though."
Away went Sam for the kettle. When he brought it back, he said,--"Miss
Cary, ye'll mind Annie Crosthwaite, as lives wi' auld Mally?"
Ah, did I not remember Annie Crosthwaite?--poor, fragile, pretty spring
flower, that some cruel hand plucked and threw away, and men trod on the
bemired blossom as it lay in the mire, and women drew their skirts aside
to keep from touching the torn, soiled petals? "Yes, Sam," I said, in a
low voice.
"Ay, the minister brought yon puir lassie a message frae the gude
Lord--`Yet return again to Me'--and she just took it as heartily as it
was gi'en, and went and fand rest--puir, straying, lost sheep!--but when
she came to the table o' the Lord, the ninety and nine wad ha'e nane o'
her--she was gude eneuch for Him in the white robe o' His richteousness,
but she was no near gude eneuch for them, sin she had lost her ain--and
not ane soul i' a' the parish wad kneel down aside o' her. Miss Cary, I
ne'er saw the minister's e'en flash out sparks o' fire as they did when
he heard that! And what, think ye, said he?"
"I should like to hear, Sam."
"`Vara gude,' says he. `I beg,' he says, `that none o' ye all will come
to the Table to-morrow. Annie Crosthwaite and I will gang thither our
lane: but there'll be three,' says he, `for the blessed Lord Himsel'
will come and eat wi' us, and we wi' Him, for He receiveth sinners, and
eateth with them.' And he did it, for a' they tald him the Bishop wad
be doun on him. `Let him,' says he, `and he shall hear the haill
story': and not ane o' them a' wad he let come that morn. They were no
worthy, he said."
"And did the Bishop hear of it?"
"Ay, did he, and sent doun a big chiel, like an auld eagle, wi' a' his
feathers ruffled the wrang way. But the minister, he stood his ground:
`There were three, Mr Archdeacon,' says he, as quiet as a mill-tarn,
`and the Lord Himsel' made the third.' `And how am I to ken that?' says
the big chiel, ruffling up his feathers belike. `Will ye be sae gude as
to ask Him?' says the minister. I dinna ken what the big chiel made o'
the tale to the Bishop, but we heard nae mair on't. Maybe he did ask
Him, and gat the auld answer,--`Touch not Mine anointed, and do My
prophet no harm.'"
"Still, rules ought to be kept, Sam."
"Rules ought to be kept in ordinar'. But this was bye-ordinar', ye see.
If a big lad has been tauld no to gang frae the parlour till his
faither comes back, and he sees his little brither drooning in the pond
just afore the window, I reckon his faither 'll no be mickle angered if
he jumps out of the window and saves him. Any way, I wad nae like to
ha'e what he'd get, gin he said,--`Faither, ye bade me tarry in this
chalmer, and sae I could nae do a hand's turn for Willie.' Rules are
man's, Miss Cary, but truth and souls belang to God."
My Aunt Kezia and Sophy had come in while Sam was talking, and Father
and Hatty followed now, so we sat down to breakfast.
"Sam has told you one story, girls," said my Aunt Kezia, "and I will
tell you another. You will find the singers changed when you go to
church. Dan Oldfield and Susan Nixon are gone."
"Dan and Susan!" cried Hatty. "The two best voices in the gallery!"
"Well, you know, under old Mr Digby, there always used to be an anthem
before the service began, in which Dan and Susan did their best to show
off. The second week that Mr Liversedge was here, he stopped the
anthem. Up started the singers, and told him they would not stand it.
It wasn't worth their while coming just for the psalms. Mr Liversedge
heard them out quietly, and then said,--`Do you mean what you have just
said?' Yes, to be sure they meant it. `Then consider yourselves
dismissed from the gallery without more words,' says he. `You are not
worthy to sing the praises of Him before whom multitudes of angels veil
their faces. Not worth your while to praise God!--but worth your while
to show man what fine voices He gave you whom you think scorn to thank
for it!' And he turned them off there and then."
The next time I was alone with Sophy, she said to me, with tears in her
eyes,--"Cary, I don't want you to reckon me worse than I am. That is
bad enough, in all conscience. I would have knelt down with Annie
Crosthwaite, and so, I am sure, would my Aunt Kezia; but it was while
she was up in London with you, and Father was so poorly with the gout, I
could not leave him. You see there was nobody to take my place, with
all of you away. Please don't fancy I was one of those that refused,
for indeed it was not so."
"I fancy you are a dear, good Sophy," said I, kissing her; "and I
suppose, if Mr Liversedge asked you to shake hands with a chimney-sweep
just come down the chimney, you would be delighted to do it."
"Well, perhaps I might," said Sophy, laughing. "But that, Cary, I
should have done, not for him, but for our Master."
I found that I liked Mr Liversedge very much, as one would wish to like
a brother-in-law that was to be. His whole heart seems to be in his
Lord's work: and if, perhaps, he is a little sharp and abrupt at times,
I think it is simply because he sees everything quickly and distinctly,
and speaks as he sees. I was afraid he would have something of the pope
about him, but I find he is not like that at all. He lets you alone for
all mere differences of opinion, though he will talk them over with you
readily if he sees that you wish it. But let those keen, black eyes
perceive something which he thinks sin, and down he comes on you in the
very manner of the old prophets. Yet show him that he has made a
mistake, and that your action was justified, and he begs your
forgiveness in a moment. And I never saw a man who seemed more fitted
to deal with broken-hearted sinners. To them he is tenderness and
comfort itself.
"He just takes pattern frae his Maister; that's whaur it is," said old
Elspie. "Mind ye, He was unco gentle wi' the puir despised publicans,
and vara tender to the wife that had been a sinner. It was the
Pharisees He was hard on. And that's just what the minister is. Miss
Cary, he's just the best blessing the Lord ever sent till Brocklebank!"
"I hardly thought, Elspie," said I, a little mischievously, "to hear you
speak so well of a Prelatist clergyman."
"Hoot awa', we a' ha'e our bees in our bonnets, Miss Cary," said the old
woman, a trifle testily. "The minister's no pairfect, I daur say. But
he's as gran' at praying as John Knox himself and he gars ye feel the
loue and loueliness o' Christ like Maister Rutherford did. And sae lang
's he'll do that, I'm no like to quarrel wi' him, if he do ha'e a fancy
for lawn sleeves and siccan rubbish, I wish him better sense, that's a'.
Maybe he'll ha'e it ane o' thae days."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I cannot understand Hatty as she is now. For a while after that affair
with the Crosslands she was just like a drooping, broken-down flower;
all her pertness, and even her brightness, completely gone. Now that is
changed, and she has become, not pert again, but hard--hard and bitter.
Nobody can do anything to suit her, and she says things now and then
which make me jump. Things, I mean, as if she believed nothing and
cared for nobody. When Hatty speaks in that way, I often see my Aunt
Kezia looking at her with a strange light in her eyes, which seems to be
half pain and half hopefulness. Mr Liversedge, I fancy, is studying
her; and I am not sure that he knows what to make of her.
Yesterday evening, Fanny and Ambrose came in and sat a while. Fanny is
ever so much improved. She has brightened up, and lost much of that
languid, limp, fanciful way she used to have; and, instead of writing
odes to the stars, she seems to take an interest in her poultry-yard and
dairy. My Aunt Kezia says Fanny wanted an object in life, and I suppose
she has it now.
When they had been there about an hour, Mr Liversedge came in. He does
not visit Sophy often; I fancy he is too busy; but Tuesday evening is
usually his leisure time, so far as he can be said to have one, and he
generally spends it here when he can. He and Ambrose presently fell
into discourse upon the parish, and somehow they got to talking of what
a clergyman's duties were. Ambrose thought if he baptised and married
and buried people, and administered the sacrament four times a year, and
preached every month or so, and went to see sick people when they sent
for him, he had done all that could be required, and might quite
reasonably spend the rest of his time in hunting either foxes or Latin
and Greek, according as his liking led him.
"You think Christ spent His life so?" asked Mr Liversedge, in that very
quiet tone in which he says his sharpest things, and which reminds me so
often of Colonel Keith.
Ambrose looked as if he did not know what to say; and before he had
found out, Mr Liversedge went on,--
"Because, you see, He left me an example, that I should follow His
steps."
"Mr Liversedge, I thought you were orthodox."
"I certainly should have thought so, as long as I quoted Scripture,"
said the Vicar.
"But, you know, nobody does such a thing," said Ambrose.
"Then is it not high time somebody should?"
"Mr Liversedge, you will never get promotion, if that be the way you
are going on."
"In which world?"
"`Which world'! There is only one."
"I thought there were two."
Ambrose fidgetted uneasily on his chair.
"I tell you what, my good Sir, you are on the way to preach your church
empty. The pews have no souls to be saved, I believe,"--and Ambrose
chuckled over his little joke.
"What of the souls of the absent congregation?" asked Mr Liversedge.
"Oh, they'll have to get saved elsewhere," answered Ambrose.
"Then, if they do get saved, what reason shall I have to regret their
absence? But suppose they do not, Mr Catterall,--is that my loss or
theirs?"
"Why couldn't you keep them?" said Ambrose.
"At what cost?" was the Vicar's answer.
"A little more music and rather less thunder," said Ambrose, laughing.
"Give us back the anthem--you have no idea how many have taken seats at
All Saints' because of that. And do you know your discarded singers are
there?"
"All Saints' is heartily welcome to everybody that has gone there,"
replied Mr Liversedge. "If I drive them away by preaching error, I
shall answer to God for their souls. But if men choose to go because
they find truth unpalatable, I have no responsibility for them. The
Lord has not given me those souls; that is plain. If He have given them
to another sower of seed, by all means let them go to him as fast as
they can."
"Mr Liversedge, I do believe,"--Ambrose drew his chair back an inch--"I
do almost think--you must be--a--a Calvinist."
"It is not catching, I assure you, Mr Catterall."
"But are you?"
"That depends on what you mean. I certainly do not go blindly over
hedge and ditch after the opinions of John Calvin. I am not sure that
any one does."
"No, but--you believe that people are--a--are elect or non-elect; and if
they be elect, they will be saved, however they live, and if they be
not, they must needs be lost, however good they are. Excuse my speaking
so freely."
"I am very much obliged to you for it. No, Mr Catterall, I do not
believe anything of the sort. If that be what you mean by Calvinism, I
abhor it as heartily as you do."
"Why, I thought all Calvinists believed that!"
"I answer most emphatically, No. I believe that men are elect, but that
they are elected `unto sanctification': and a man who has not the
sanctification shows plainly--unless he repent and amend--that he is not
one of the elect."
"Now I know a man who says, rolling the whites of his eyes and clasping
his palms together as if he were always saying his prayers, like the
figures on that old fellow's tomb in the chancel--he says he was elected
to salvation from all eternity, and cannot possibly be lost: and he is
the biggest swearer and drinker in the parish. What say you to that?
Am I to believe him?"
"Can you manage it?"
"I can't: that is exactly the thing."
"Don't, then. I could not."
"But now, do you believe, Mr Liversedge,--I have picked up the words
from this fellow--that God elected men because He foreknew them, or that
He foreknew because He had elected them?"
Ambrose gave a little wink at Fanny and me, sitting partly behind him,
as if he thought that he had driven the Vicar completely into a corner.
"When the Angel Gabriel is sent to tell me, Mr Catterall, I shall be
most happy to let you know. Until then, you must excuse my deciding a
question on which I am entirely ignorant."
Ambrose looked rather blank.
"Well, then, Mr Liversedge, as to free-will. Do you think that every
man can be saved, if he likes, or not?"
"Let Christ answer you--not me. `No man can come to Me, except the
Father which hath sent Me draw him.'"
"Ah! then man has no responsibility?" And Ambrose gave another wink at
us.
"Let Christ answer you again. `Ye will not come unto Me, that ye might
have life.' If they had come, you see, they might have had it."
"But how do you reconcile the two?" said Ambrose, knitting his brows.
"When the Lord commands me to reconcile them, He will show me how. But
I do not expect Him to do either, in this world. To what extent our
knowledge on such subjects may be enlarged in Heaven, I cannot venture
to say."
"But surely you must reconcile them?"
"Pardon me. I must act on them."
"Can you act on principles you cannot reconcile?"
"Certainly--if you can put full trust in their proposer. Every child
does it, every day. You will be a long while in the dark, Mr
Catterall, if you must know why a candle burns before you light it.
Better be content to have the light, and work by it."
"There are more sorts of light than one," said my Aunt Kezia.
"That is the best light by which you see clearest," was the Vicar's
answer.
"What have you got to see?" asked Ambrose.
"Your sins and your Saviour," was the reply. "And till you have looked
well at both those, Mr Catterall, and are sure that you have laid the
sins upon the Sacrifice, it is as well not to look much at anything
else."
I think Ambrose found that he was in the corner this time, and just the
kind of corner that he did not care to get in. At any rate, he said no
more.
Sophy's wedding, which took place this evening, was the quietest I ever
saw. She let Mr Liversedge say how everything should be, and he seemed
to like it as plain and simple as possible. No bridesmaids, no favours,
no dancing, no throwing the stocking, no fuss of any sort! I asked him
if he had any objection to a cake.
"None at all," said he, "so long as you don't want me to eat it. And
pray don't let us have any sugary Cupids on the top, nor any rubbish of
that sort."
So the cake was quite plain, but I took care it should be particularly
good, and Hatty made a wreath of spring flowers to put round it.
The house feels so quiet and empty now, when all is over, and Sophy
gone. Of course she is not really gone, because the Vicarage is only
across a couple of fields, and ten minutes will take us there at any
time. But she is not one of us any longer, and that always feels sad.
I do feel, somehow, very sorrowful to-night--more, I think, than I have
any reason. I cannot tell why sometimes a sort of tired, sad feeling
comes over one, when there seems to be no cause for it. I feel as if I
had not something I wanted: and yet, if anybody asked me what I wanted,
I am not sure that I could tell. Or rather, I am afraid I could tell,
but I don't want to say so. There is something gone out of my life
which I wanted more of, and since we came home I have had none of it, or
next to none. No, little book, I am not going to tell you what it is.
Only there is a reason for my feeling sad, and I must keep it to myself,
and never let anybody know it. I suppose other women have had to do the
same thing many a time. And some of them, perhaps, grow hard and cold,
and say bitter things, and people dislike and avoid them, not knowing
that if they lifted up the curtain of their hearts they would see a
grave there, in which all their hopes were buried long ago. Well, God
knows best, and will do His best for us all. How can I wish for
anything more?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
22nd.
When we went up to bed last night, to my surprise Hatty came to me, and
put her arms round me.
"There are only us two left now, Cary," she said. "And I know I have
been very bitter and unloving of late. But I mean to try and do better,
dear. Will you love me as much as you can, and help me? I have been
very unhappy."
"I was afraid so, and I was very sorry for you," I answered, kissing
her. "Must I not ask anything, Hatty?"
"You can ask what you like," she replied. "I think, Cary, that Christ
was knocking at my door, and I did not want to open it; and I could not
be happy while I knew that I was keeping Him outside. And at last--it
was last night, in the sermon--He spoke to me, as it were, through that
closed door; and I could not bear it any longer--I had to rise and open
it, and let Him in. And before that, with Him, I kept everybody out;
and now I feel as if, with Him, I wanted to take everybody in."
Dear Hatty! She seems so changed, and so happy, and I am so thankful.
But my prospect looks very dark. It ought not to do so, for I let Him
in before Hatty did; and I suppose some day it will be clearer, and I
shall have nobody but Him, and shall be satisfied with it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
25th.
You thought you knew a great deal of what was going to happen, did you
not, Cary Courtenay? Such a wise girl you were! And how little you did
know!
This evening, Esther Langridge came in, and stayed to supper. She said
Ephraim had gone to the Parsonage on business, and had promised to call
for her on his way home. He came rather later than Esther expected.
(We have only seen him twice since we returned from London, except just
meeting at church and so forth: he seemed to be always busy.) He said
he had had to see Mr Liversedge, and had been detained later than he
thought. He sat and talked to all of us for a while, but I thought his
mind seemed somewhere else. I guessed where, and thought I found myself
right whet after a time, when Father had come in, and Ambrose with him,
and they were all talking over the fire, Ephraim left them, and coming
across to my corner, asked me first thing if I had heard anything from
Annas.
I have not had a line from her, nor heard anything of her, and he looked
disappointed when I said so. He was silent for a minute, and then he
said,--
"Cary, what do you think I have been making up my mind to do?"
"I do not know, Ephraim," said I. I did not see how that could have to
do with Annas, for I believed he had made up his mind on that subject
long ago.
"Would you be very much surprised if I told you that I mean to take holy
orders?"
"Ephraim!" I was very, very much surprised. How would Annas like it?
"Yes, I thought you would be," said he. "It is no new idea to me. But
I had to get my father's consent, and smooth away two or three
difficulties, before I thought it well to mention it to any one but the
Vicar. He will give me a title. I am to be ordained, Cary, next
Trinity Sunday."
"Why, that is almost here!" cried I.
"Yes, it is almost here," he replied, with that far-away look in his
eyes which I had seen now and then.
Then Annas had been satisfied, for of course she was one of the
difficulties which had to be smoothed away.
"I shall hope to see more of my friends now," he went on, with a smile.
"I know I have seemed rather a hermit of late, while this matter has
been trembling in the balance. I hope the old friend will not be
further off because he is the curate. I should not like that."
"I do not think you need fear," said I, trying to speak lightly. But
how far my heart went down! The future master of the Fells Farm was a
fixture at Brocklebank: but the future parson of some parish might be
carried a hundred miles away from us. A few months, and we might see
him no more. Just then, Father set his foot on one of the great logs,
and it blazed and crackled, sending a shower of sparkles up the chimney,
and a ruddy glow all over the room. But my fire was dying out, and the
sparkles were gone already.
Perhaps it was as well that just at that moment a rather startling
diversion occurred, by the entrance of Sam with a letter, which he gave
to Flora.
"Here's ill tidings, Sir!" said Sam to Father. "Miss Flora's letter was
brought by ane horseman, that's ridden fast and far; the puir beastie's
a' o'er foam, and himsel's just worn-out. He brings news o' a gran'
battle betwixt the Prince and yon loon they ca' Cumberland,--ma certie,
but Cumberland's no mickle beholden to 'em!--and the Prince's army's
just smashed to bits, and himsel' a puir fugitive in the Highlands. Ill
luck tak' 'em!--though that's no just becoming to a Christian man, but
there's times as a chiel disna stop to measure his words and cut 'em off
even wi' scissors. 'Twas at a place they ca' Culloden, this last week
gane: and they say there's na mair chance for the Prince the now than
for last year's Christmas to come again."
Father, of course, was extreme troubled by this news, and went forth
into the hall to speak with the horseman, whom Sam had served with a
good supper. Ambrose followed, and so did my Aunt Kezia, for she said
men knew nought about airing beds, and it was as like as not Bessy would
take the blankets from the wrong chest if she were not after her. Hatty
was not in the room, and Flora had carried off her letter, which was
from my Uncle Drummond. So Ephraim and I were left alone, for, somewhat
to my surprise, he made no motion to follow the rest.
"Cary," he said, in a low tone, as he took the next chair, "I have had
news, also."
It was bad news--in a moment I knew that. His tone said so. I looked
up fearfully. I felt, before I heard, the terrible words that were
coming.
"Duncan Keith rests with God!"
Oh, it was no wonder if I let my work drop, and hid my face in my hands,
and wept as if my heart were breaking. Not for Colonel Keith. He
should never see evil any more. For Annas, and for Flora, and for the
stricken friends at Monksburn, and for my Uncle Drummond, who loved him
like another son,--and--yes, let me confess it, for Cary Courtenay, who
had just then so much to mourn over, and must not mourn for it except
with the outside pretence of something else.
"Did you care so much for him, Cary?"
What meant that intense pain in Ephraim's voice? Did he fancy--And what
did it matter to him, if he did? I tried to wipe away my tears and
speak.
"Did you care so little?" I said, as well as I could utter. "Think of
Annas, and his parents, and--And, Ephraim, we led him to his death--you
and I!"
"Nay, not so," he answered. "You must not look at it in that light,
Cary. We did but our duty. It is never well to measure duties by
consequences. Yes, of course I think of his parents and sister, poor
souls! It will be hard for them to bear. Yet I almost think I would
change with them rather than with Angus, when he comes to know. Cary,
somebody must write to Miss Keith: and it ought to be either Miss
Drummond or you."
I felt puzzled. Would he not break it best to her himself? If all were
settled betwixt them, and it looked as if it were, was he not the proper
person to write?
"You have not written to her?" I said.
"Why, no," he answered. "I scarce like to intrude myself on her. She
has not seen much of me, you know. Besides, I think a woman would know
far better how to break such news. Men are apt to touch a wound
roughly, even when they wish to act as gently as possible. No, Cary--I
am unwilling to place such a burden on you, but I think it must be one
of you."
Could he speak of Annas thus, if--I felt bewildered.
"Unless," he said, thoughtfully, looking out of the window, where the
moon was riding like a queen through the somewhat troubled sky, "unless
you think--for you, as a girl, can judge better than I--that Raymond
would be the best breaker. Perhaps you do not know that Raymond is not
at home? My Lady Inverness writ the news to him, and said she had not
spoken either to Mrs Raymond or Miss Keith. She plainly shrank from
doing it. Perhaps he would help her to bear it best."
"How should he be the best?" I said. "Mrs Raymond might--"
"Why, Cary, is it possible you do not know that Raymond and Miss Keith
are troth-plight?"
"Troth-plight! Mr Raymond! Annas!"
I started up in my astonishment. Here was a turning upside down of all
my notions!
"So that is news to you?" said Ephraim, evidently surprised himself.
"Why, I thought you had known it long ago. Of course I must have
puzzled you! I see, now."
"I never heard a word about it," I said, feeling as though I must be
dreaming, and should awake by-and-by. "I always thought--"
"You always thought what?"
"I thought you cared for Annas," I forced my lips to say.
"You thought I cared for Miss Keith?" Ephraim's tone was a stronger
negative than any words could have been. "Yes, I cared for her as your
friend, and as a woman in trouble, and a woman of fine character: but if
you fancied I wished to make her my wife, you were never more mistaken.
No, Cary; I fixed on somebody else for that, a long while ago--before I
ever saw Miss Keith. May I tell you her name?"
Then we were right at first, and it was Fanny. I said, "Yes," as well
as I could.
"Cary, I never loved, and never shall love, any one but you."
I cannot tell you, little book, either what I said, or exactly what
happened after that. I only know that the moaning wind outside chanted
a triumphal march, and the dying embers on my hearthstone sprang up into
a brilliant illumination, and I did not care a straw for all the battles
that ever were fought, and envied neither Annas Keith nor anybody else.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Well, Hatty! I did not think you were going to be the old maid of the
family!" said my Aunt Kezia.
"I did not, either, once," was Hatty's answer, in a low tone, but not a
sad one. "Perhaps I was the best one for it, Aunt. At any rate, you
and Father will always have one girl to care for you."
We did not see Flora till the next morning. I knew that my Uncle
Drummond's letter must be that in which he answered the news of Angus's
escape, and I did not wonder if it unnerved her. She let me read it
afterwards. The Laird and Lady Monksburn had plainly given up their son
for ever when they heard what he had done. And knowing what I knew, I
felt it was best so. I had to tell Flora my news:--to see the light die
suddenly out of her dear brown velvet eyes,--will it ever come back
again? And I wondered, watching her by the light of my own new-born
happiness, whether Duncan Keith were as little to her as I had supposed.
I knew, somewhat later, that I had misunderstood her, that we had
misinterpreted her. Her one wish seemed to be to get back home. And
Father said he would take her himself as far as the Border, if my Uncle
Drummond would come for her to the place chosen.
When the parting came, as we took our last kiss, I told her I prayed God
bless her, and that some day she might be as happy as I was. There was
a moment's flash in the brown eyes.
"Take that wish back, Cary," she said, quietly. "Happy as you are, the
woman whom Duncan Keith loved can never be, until she meet him again at
the gates of pearl."
"That may be a long while, dear."
"It will be just so long as the Lord hath need of me," she answered:
"and I hope, for his sake, that will be as long as my father needs me.
And then--Oh, but it will be a blithe day when the call comes to go
home!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Fells Farm, September 25th.
Five months since I writ a word! And how much has happened in them--so
much that I could never find time to set it down, and now I must do it
just in a few lines.
I have been married six weeks. Father shook his head with a smile when
Ephraim first spoke to him, and said his lass was only in the cradle
yesterday: but he soon came round. It was as quiet a wedding as
Sophy's, and I am sure I liked it all the better, whatever other people
might think. We are to live at the Fells Farm during the year of
Ephraim's curacy, and then Father thinks he can easily get him a living
through the interest of friends. Where it will be, of course we cannot
guess.
Flora has writ thrice since she returned home. She says my Uncle
Drummond was very thankful to have her back again: but she can see that
Lady Monksburn is greatly changed, and the Laird has so failed that he
scarce seems the same man. Of herself she said nothing but one
sentence,--
"Waiting, dear Cary,--always waiting."
From Angus we do not hear a word. Mr Raymond and Annas are to be
married when their year of mourning is out. I cannot imagine how they
will get along--he a Whig clergyman, and she a Tory Presbyterian!
However, that is their affair. I am rather thankful 'tis not mine.
My Aunt Dorothea has writ me one letter--very kind to me--(it was writ
on the news of my marriage), but very stiff toward my Aunt Kezia. I see
she cannot forgive her easily, and I do not think Grandmamma ever will.
Grandmamma sent me a large chest from London, full of handsome
presents,--a fine set of Dresden tea china (which travelled very well--
only one saucer broke); a new hoop, so wide round that methinks I shall
never dare to wear it in the country; a charming piece of dove-coloured
damask, and a petticoat, to wear with it, of blue quilted satin; two
calico gowns from India, a beautiful worked scarf from the same country,
six pair pearl-coloured silk stockings, a new fan, painted with flowers,
most charmingly done, a splendid piece of white and gold brocade, and a
superb set of turquoise and pearl jewellery. I cannot think when or how
I am to wear them; they seem so unfit for the wife of a country curate.
"Oh, wait till I am a bishop," says Ephraim, laughingly; "then you can
make the Dean's lady faint away for envy of all your smart things. And
as to the white and gold brocade, keep it till the King comes to stay
with us, and it will be just the thing for a state bed for him."
"I wonder what colour it will be!" said I. "Which king?"