Out in the Forty-Five Part 25

"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 d.y.k.es 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--"

I stopped again, but Sam helped me out himself.

"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 gla.s.s 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 la.s.sie. 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 gla.s.s 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' la.s.sies 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 la.s.sies, 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 la.s.sies, and discreet--that's as true as my father's epitaph."

"Where is Miss...o...b..rne 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 s.h.i.+p 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.

I do so wish that Flora might stay with me!

This afternoon we went over to Monksburn to say farewell.

Flora and Annas had a good deal to settle about our journey, and all the people and things we were leaving behind. They went into the garden, but I asked leave to stay. I did so want a talk with Lady Monksburn on two points. I thought, I hardly know why, that she would understand me.

I sat for a few minutes, watching her bright needles glance in and out among the soft wools: and at last I brought out the less important of my two questions. If she answered that kindly, patiently, and as if she understood, the other was to come after. If not, I would keep it to myself.

"Will you tell me, Madam--is it wrong to pray about anything? I mean, is there anything one ought not to pray about?"

Lady Monksburn looked up, but only for a moment.

"Dear child!" she said, with a gentle smile, "is it wrong to tell your Father of something you want?"

"But may one pray about things that do not belong to church and Sunday and the Bible?" said I.