Out in the Forty-Five Part 1

Out in the Forty-Five.

by Emily Sarah Holt.

CHAPTER ONE.

WE ALIGHT AT BROCKLEBANK FELLS.

"Sure, there is room within our hearts good store; For we can lodge transgressions by the score: Thousands of toys dwell there, yet out of door We leave Thee."

GEORGE HERBERT.

"Girls!" said my Aunt Kezia, looking round at us, "I should just like to know what is to come of the whole four of you!"

My Aunt Kezia has an awful way of looking round at us. She begins with Sophy--she is our eldest--then she goes to f.a.n.n.y, then to Hatty, and ends up with me. As I am the youngest, I have to be ended up with. She generally lays down her work to do it, too; and sometimes she settles her spectacles first, and that makes it feel more awful than ever.

However, when she has gone round, she always takes them off--spectacles, I mean--and wipes them, and gives little solemn shakes of her head while she is doing it, as if she thought we were all four going to ruin together, and had got very near the bottom.

This afternoon, when she said that, instead of sitting quiet, as we generally do, Hatty--she is the pert one amongst us--actually spoke up.

"I should think we shall be married, Aunt Kezia, one of these days-- shan't we?"

"My dear, if you are," was my Aunt Kezia's reply, more solemn than ever, "the only wedding present that I shall be conscientiously able to give to those four misguided men will be a rope a-piece to hang themselves with."

"Oh dear! I do wish she would not!" said f.a.n.n.y in a plaintive whisper behind me.

"Considering who brought us up, Aunt Kezia," replied impertinent Hatty, "I should have thought they would have had better bargains than that."

"Hester, you forget yourself," said my aunt severely. Then, though she had only just finished wiping her spectacles, she took them off, and wiped them again, with more little shakes of her head. "And I did not bring you all up, neither."

My cheeks grew hot, for I knew that meant me. My Aunt Kezia did not bring me up, as she did the rest. I was thought sickly in my youth, and as Brocklebank Fells is but a bleak place, I was packed off to Carlisle, where Grandmamma lived, and there I have been with her until six weeks back, when she went to live with Uncle Charles down in the South, and I came home to Brocklebank, being thought to have now outgrown my sickliness. My Aunt Kezia is Father's sister, and has kept house for him since Mamma died, so of course she is no kin to Grandmamma at all.

I know it sounds queer to say "Father and Mamma," instead of "Father and Mother," but I cannot help it. Grandmamma would never let me say "Mother;" she said it was old-fashioned and vulgar: and now, when I come back, Father will not hear of my calling him "Papa," which he says is new-fangled finnicking nonsense. I did not get used, either, to saying "Papa," as I did "Mamma," for Grandmamma never seemed to care to hear about him; I don't believe she liked him. She never seemed to want to hear about anything at Brocklebank. I don't think she ever took even to the girls, except f.a.n.n.y. They all came to see me in turns, but Grandmamma said Sophy was only fit to be a country parson's wife; she knew nothing except things about the house and sewing and mending: she said fine breeding would be thrown away upon her. She might do very well, Grandmamma said, with her snuff-box elegantly held in her left hand, and taking a pinch out of it with the mittened fingers of her right--that is, Grandmamma, not Sophy--she said Sophy might do very well for a country squire's eldest daughter and some parson's wife, to cut out clothes and roll pills and make dumplings, but that was all she was good for. Then Hatty's pert speeches she could not bear one bit.

Grandmamma said it was perfectly dreadful, and that her great glazed red cheeks--that is what she called them--were insufferably vulgar; she wouldn't like anybody to hear that such a creature was her grand-daughter. She wanted Hatty to take a lot of castor oil or some such horrid stuff, to bring down her red cheeks and make her slender and ladylike; she was ever so much too fat, Grandmamma said, and she thought it so vulgar to be fat. She wanted to pinch her in with stays, too, but it was all of no use. Hatty would not be pinched, and she would not take castor oil, and she would eat and drink--like a plough-boy, Grandmamma said--so at last she gave her up as a bad job. Then f.a.n.n.y came, and she is more like Grandmamma in her ways, and she did not mind the castor oil, but swallowed bottles of it; and she did not mind the stays, but let Grandmamma pinch her anyhow she pleased, so I think she rather liked f.a.n.n.y. I was pale and thin enough without castor oil, so she did not give me any, for which I am thankful, for I could not have swallowed it as meekly as f.a.n.n.y.

It looked very queer to me, after Grandmamma's houseful of servants, to come home and find only four at Brocklebank, and but three of those in the house, and my Aunt Kezia doing half the work herself, and expecting us girls to help her. Grandmamma would hardly let me pick up my kerchief, if I dropped it; I had to call Willet, her woman, to give it to me. And here, my Aunt Kezia looks as if she thought I ought to want no telling how to dust a table or make an apple pie. She has only cook-maid and chambermaid,--Maria and Bessy, their names are,--and Sam the serving-man. There is the old shepherd, Will, but he only comes into the house by nows and thens. Grandmamma had a black man who waited on us. She said it gave the place an air, and that there were gentlewomen in Carlisle who would scarce have come to see her if she had not had a black man to look genteel. I don't fancy I should care much for people who would not come to see me unless I had a black servant. I should think they came to visit him, not me. But Grandmamma said that my old Lady Mary Garsington, in the Close, never came to see anybody who had less than a thousand a year, and did not keep a black. She was the grandest person Grandmamma knew at Carlisle, for most of her friends live in the South.

I do not know exactly where the South is, nor what it is like. Of course London is in the South; I know that. But Grandmamma used to talk about the South as if she thought it so fine; and my Uncle Charles once said n.o.body could be a gentleman who had not lived in the South. They were all clodhoppers up here, he said, and you could only get any proper polish in the South. f.a.n.n.y was there then, and she was quite hurt with it. She did not like to think Father a clodhopper; and I am sure he is not. Besides, our ancestors did come from the South. Our grandfather, William Courtenay, who bought the land and built Brocklebank, belonged [Note 1.] Wiltshire, and his father was a Devonshire man, and a Courtenay of Powderham, whatever that may mean: Father knows more about it than I do, and so, I think, does f.a.n.n.y. Grandmamma once told me she would never have thought of allowing Mamma to marry Father, if he had not been a Courtenay and a man of substance. She said all his other relations were so very mean and low, she could not have condescended so far as to connect herself with them. Why, I believe one of them was only a farmer's daughter: and I think, from what I have heard Grandmamma and my Uncle Charles say, that another of them had something to do with those low people called Dissenters. I don't suppose she really was one--that would be too shocking; but Grandmamma always went into the clouds when she mentioned these vulgar ancestors of mine, so I never heard more than "that poor wretched mother of your grandfather's, my dear," or "that dreadful farming creature whom your grandfather married." I once asked my Aunt Dorothea--that is, Uncle Charles's wife--if this wretched great-grandmother of mine had been a very bad woman. But she said, "Oh no, not _bad_"--and I think she might have told me something more, but my Uncle Charles put in, in that commanding way he has, "Could not have been worse, my dear Dorothea--connected with those Dissenters,"--so I got to know no more, and I was sorry.

Father once had two more sisters, who were both married, one in Derbyshire, and one in Scotland. They both left children, so we have two lots of cousins on Father's side. Our cousins in Derbyshire are both girls; their names are Charlotte and Amelia Bracewell: and there are two of our Scotch cousins, but they are a boy and a girl, and they have queer Scotch names, Angus and Flora Drummond. At least, they were boy and girl, I suppose; for Angus Drummond must be over twenty now, and Flora is not far off it. It is more than ten years since we saw the Drummonds, but the Bracewells have been to visit us several times.

Amelia Bracewell is f.a.n.n.y made hotter, or f.a.n.n.y is Amelia and water-- which you like. She makes me laugh, and my Aunt Kezia sniff. The other day, my Aunt Kezia came into the room while we were talking about Amelia, and she heard f.a.n.n.y say,--

"She is so full of sympathy. She always comes and wants you to sympathise with her. She just lives upon sympathy."

"So full of sympathy!" said my Aunt Kezia, turning round on f.a.n.n.y. "So empty, child, you mean. What poor weak thing are you talking about?"

"Cousin Amelia Bracewell," answered f.a.n.n.y. "She is such a charming creature. Don't you think so, Aunt Kezia? Such a dear sympathetic darling!"

"It is well you told me whom you meant, f.a.n.n.y," said my Aunt Kezia, pursing up her lips. "I should never have guessed you meant Amelia Bracewell, from what you said. Well, how differently two people can see the same thing, to be sure!"

"Don't you like her, Aunt Kezia?" returned f.a.n.n.y in an astonished tone.

"If I am to speak the full truth, my dear," said my Aunt Kezia, "I am afraid I come as near to despising her as a Christian woman and a communicant has any business to do. I never had any fancy for birds of prey."

"Birds of prey!" exclaimed f.a.n.n.y, blankly.

"Birds of prey," repeated my aunt in a very different tone. "She is one of those folks who are for ever drawing twopenny cheques upon your feelings, and there are no funds in my bank to meet them. I can stand a bucketful of feeling drawn out of me, but I hate to let it waste away in a drop here and a driblet there about nothing at all. Now I will just tell you, girls--I once went to see a woman who had lost fifteen hundred a year, all at a blow, without a bit of warning. What she had to say was--'The Lord has taken it, and He knows best. I can trust Him to care for me.' Well, about a week afterwards, I had a visit from another woman, who had let a pan boil over, and had spoilt a lot of jam. She wanted me to say she was the most tried creature since Adam. And I could not, girls--I really could not. I have not the slightest doubt there have been a million women worse tried since the battle of Prague, never mention Adam. As to Amelia Bracewell, who carries her fan as if it were a sceptre, and slurs her r's like a Londoner, silly chit! I have hardly any patience with her. Charlotte's bad enough, but Amelia!

My word, she takes some standing, I can tell you!"

Now, I always admired the way Amelia sounds her r's, or, I suppose I ought to say, the way she does not sound them. It is so soft and pretty. Then she writes poetry,--all about the blue sea and the silver moon, or else the gleaming sunbeams and the h.o.a.ry hills--so grand! I never read anything so beautiful as Amelia's poetry. She told me once that a gentleman from London, who was fourth cousin to a peer of some sort, had told her she wrote as well as Mr Pope. Only think!

Charlotte is as different as she can be. Her notion of things is to go down to the stable and saddle her own horse, and scamper all over the country, all by herself. Father says she is a fine girl, but she will break her neck some day. My Aunt Kezia says, Saint Paul told women to be keepers at home, and she thinks that page must have dropped out of Charlotte's Bible. She does some other things, too, that I do not fancy she would care for my Aunt Kezia to hear. She calls her father "the old gentleman," and sometimes "the old boy." I do not know what my Aunt Kezia would say, if she did hear it.

I wonder what Flora Drummond is like now. I used to think she had not much in her. Perhaps it was only that she did not let it come out.

However, I shall have a chance of finding out soon; for she and Angus are coming to stay with us, on his way to York, where his father is sending him on some kind of business. I do not know what it is, and I don't care. Business is always dry, uninteresting stuff. Flora will stay with us while Angus goes on to York, and then he will pick her up again as he comes back. I wish the Bracewells might be here at the same time. I should like Flora and Amelia to know one another, and I do not think they do at all.

It is shocking dull here at Brocklebank. I dare say I feel it more than my sisters, having lived in Carlisle all my life, so to speak: and as to my Aunt Kezia, I do believe, if she had her garden, and orchard, and kitchen, and dairy, and her work-box, and a Bible, and Prayer-book, and The Compleat Gentlewoman, she would be satisfied to live at the North Pole or anywhere. But I am perfectly delighted when anybody comes to see us, if 'tis only Ephraim Hebblethwaite. He is the son of Farmer Hebblethwaite, lower down the valley, and I believe he admires f.a.n.n.y.

f.a.n.n.y cannot bear him; she says he has such an ugly name. But I think he is very pleasant, and I suppose he could change his name, though I can't see why it signifies. Beside him, and Ambrose Catterall, and Esther Langridge, we know no young people except our cousins. Father being Squire of Brocklebank, we cannot mix with the common folks.

Old Mr Digby is the Vicar, and I do not think he is far short of a hundred years old. He is an old bachelor, and has n.o.body to keep his house but our Sam's mother, a Scotchwoman--old Elspie they call her. He does not often preach of late years--except on Good Friday and Easter Sunday, and such high days. A pleasant old man he used to be, but he grows forgetful now, for the last time we met him, he patted my head just as if I were still a little child, and I shall be seventeen in March. He has been Vicar over sixty years, and christened Father and married my grand-parents.

I do wish we had just a few more friends. It really is too bad, for we might have known the family at Seven Stones, only two miles off, if they had not been Whigs, and there are five sons and four daughters there.

Father would no more think of shaking hands with a Whig (if he knew it) than he would eat roast beef on Good Friday. I should not care. Why should one not have some fun, because old Mr Outhwaite is a Whig?

I shall have to keep my book locked up if I tell it all I think, as I have been doing now. I would not have Hatty get hold of it for all the world. And as to my Aunt Kezia--I believe she would whip me and send me to bed if she read only the last page.

Here comes Ambrose Catterall up the walk, and I must go down, though I do not expect there will be any fun. He will stay supper, I dare say, and then he and Father will have a game of whist with Sophy and f.a.n.n.y, and I shall sit by with my sewing, and Hatty will knit and whisper into my ear things that I want to laugh at and dare not. If I did, Father would look up over his cards with a black brow and say "Silence!" in such a tone that I shall wish I was somebody else. Who I don't know-- only not Caroline Courtenay.

Father does not like our names--at least mine and Sophy's. Mamma named us, and he says we have both fine romantic silly names. Hatty was called after his mother, and that he likes; and f.a.n.n.y is after a sister of Mamma's who died young. But Father never gives over growling because one of us was not a boy.

"Four girls!" he says: "four girls, and never a lad! Who on earth wants four girls? I'll sell one or two of you cheap, if I can find him."

But I don't think he would, if it came to the point. I know, for all his queer speeches sometimes, he is proud of f.a.n.n.y's good looks, and Sophy's good housekeeping, and even Hatty's pert sayings. I know by the way he chuckles now and then when she says anything particularly smart.

I don't know what he is proud of in me, unless it is my manners. Of course, having lived in Carlisle with Grandmamma, I have the best manners of any. And I speak the best, I know. Sophy talks shockingly broad; she says, "Aw wanted him to coom, boot he would not." f.a.n.n.y has found that will not do, so she tries to imitate my Aunt Dorothea and Amelia Bracewell, but she goes on the other side of her pattern, and does not sound the u full where she ought to do it, but says, "The basin is fell of shegar." Hatty laughs at them both, and lets her u go where it likes, but she is not so bad as Sophy.

I think I shall try and put the notion into my Aunt Kezia's head to have the Bracewells here for Christmas. I know Angus and Flora will be here then, and later. That would make a decent party, if we got Ephraim Hebblethwaite, and Ambrose Catterall too.

After all, I went on writing so late, that I only got down-stairs in time to see Ambrose Catterall's back as he went down the drive. He could not stay for some reason--I did not hear what. Father growled as he heard him go off, singing, down the walk.

"Where on earth did the fellow get hold of that piece of whiggery?" said he. "Just listen to him!"

I listened, and heard the refrain of the Whigs' favourite song,--

"Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us--"

"Disgusting stuff!" said Father, with some stronger words which I know my Aunt Kezia would not let me put down if she were looking. "Where did the fellow get hold of it? His father is a decent Tory enough. What is he at now? Listen, girls."

Ambrose's tune had changed to,--

"King George he was born in the month of October,-- 'Tis a sin for a subject that month to be sober!"