Out in the Forty-Five Part 13

But stay! G.o.d must be better than the extra good people. Then will He not think even worse of such things than they do?

It was just because those three seemed to think it so awful, and to be inclined to make a fuss over it, that I did not like to hear what Angus said about Father. Grandmamma never thought anything about it; she always said drinking and gaming were gentlemanly vices, which the King himself--(I mean, of course, the Elector, but Grandmamma said the King)--need not be ashamed of practising.

I listened rather uneasily for Mr Keith's answer. I am beginning to feel a good deal of respect for his opinion and himself, and I did not want to hear him say anything about Father that was not agreeable. But he put it quietly aside.

"If you please, Angus, we will let other people alone. Both you and I shall find our own sins quite enough to repent of, I expect. You have not answered my question, Angus."

"What question?" grumbled Angus. I fancy he did not want to answer it.

"Would you, three months since, have let your father see and hear what you have let me do within even the last week?"

Angus growled something in the bottom of his throat which I could not make out.

Mr Keith's tone changed suddenly.

"Angus, dear old fellow, are you happier now than you were then?"

"Duncan, I am the most miserable wretch that ever lived! I want no preaching to, I can tell you. That last text my father preached from keeps tolling in my ear like a funeral bell--and it is all the worse because it comes in his voice: 'Remember from whence thou art fallen!'

Don't I remember it? Do I want telling whence I have fallen? Haven't I made a thousand resolves never, _never_ to fail again, and the next time I get into company, all my resolves melt away and my hard knots come undone, and I feel as strong as a spoonful of water, and any of them can lead me that tries, like an animal with a ring through his nose?"

"Water is not a bad comparison, Angus, if you look at both sides of it.

What is stronger than water, when the wind blows it with power? And you know who is compared to the wind. 'Awake, O North Wind, and come, Thou South; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.' It is the wind of G.o.d's Spirit that we want, to blow the water--powerless of itself--in the right direction. It will carry all before it then."

"Oh, yes, all that sounds very well," said Angus, but in a pleasanter tone than before--not so much like a big growling dog. "But you don't know, Duncan--you don't know! You have no temptations. What can you know about it? I tell you I _can't_ keep out of it. It is no good talking."

"'No temptations!' I wish that were true. But you are quite right as to yourself; you cannot keep out of it. Do you mean to add that G.o.d cannot keep you?"

I did not hear Angus's reply, and I fancy it came in a gesture, and not in words. But Mr Keith said, very softly,--

"Angus, will you let Him keep you?"

Instead of the answer for which I was eagerly listening, another sound came to my ear, which made me jump up in a hurry, almost without caring whether I was heard or not. That was the clock of Brocklebank Church striking twelve. I should be ever so much too late for dinner; and what would my Aunt Kezia say? I got away as quietly as I could for a few yards, and then ran down the Scar as fast as I dared for fear of falling, and came into the dining-room, feeling hot and breathless, just as Cecilia, looking fresh and bright as a white lily, was entering it from the other end. The rest were seated at the table. Of course Mr Keith and Angus were not there.

"Caroline, where have you been?" saith my Aunt Kezia.

I trembled, for I knew what I had to expect when my Aunt Kezia said Caroline in full.

"I am very sorry, Aunt," said I. "I went up the Scar, and--well, I am afraid I forgot all about the time."

My Aunt Kezia nodded, as if my frank confession satisfied her, and Father said, "Good maid!" as I slipped into the chair where I always sit, on his left hand. But Cecilia, who was arranging her skirts just opposite, said in that way which men seem to call charming, and women always see through and despise (at least my Aunt Kezia says so),--

"Am I a little late?"

"Don't name it!" said Father.

"Dear, no, my charmer!" cried Hatty. "Cary's shockingly late, of course: but you are not--quite impossible."

Cecilia gave one of her soft smiles, and said no more.

I really am beginning to wish the Bracewells gone. Yet it is not so much on their own account, Amelia is vain and silly, and Charlotte rude and romping; but I do not think either of them is a hypocrite.

Charlotte is not, I am sure; she lets you see the very worst side of her: and Amelia's affectation is so plain and unmistakable, that it cannot be called insincerity. It is on account of that horrid Cecilia that I want them to go, because I suppose she will go with them. Yes, truth is truth, and Cecilia is horrid. I am getting quite frightened of her. I do not know what she means to do next: but she seems to me to be always laying traps of some sort, and for somebody.

I wonder if people ever do what you expect of them? If somebody had asked me to make a list of things that could not happen, I expect that I should have put on it one thing that has just happened.

Sophy and I went up this morning to Goody Brans...o...b..'s cot, to take her some wine and eggs from my Aunt Kezia. Anne Brans...o...b.. thinks she is failing, poor old woman, and my Aunt Kezia told her to beat up an egg with a little wine and sugar, and give it to her fasting of a morning: she thinks it a fine thing for keeping up strength. We came round by the Vicarage on our way back, and stepped in to see old Elspie. We found her ironing the Vicar's shirts and ruffles, and she put us in rocking-chairs while we sat and talked.

Old Elspie wanted to know all we could tell her about Flora and Angus, and I promised I would bring Flora to see her some day. She says Mr Keith--Mr Duncan Keith's father, that is--is the squire of Abbotscliff, a very rich man, and a tremendous Tory.

"You're vara nigh strangers, young leddies," said Elspie, as she ironed away. "Miss f.a.n.n.y, she came to see me a twa-three days back, and Miss Bracewell wi' her; and there was anither young leddy, but I disremember her name."

"Was it Charlotte Bracewell?" said Sophy.

"Na, na, I ken Miss Charlotte ower weel to forget her, though she has grown a deal sin' I saw her afore. This was a la.s.sie wi' black hair, and e'en like the new wood the minister has his dinner-table, wi' the fine name--what ca' ye that, now?"

"Mahogany?" said I.

"Ay, it has some sic fremit soun'," said old Elspie, rather scornfully.

"I ken it was no sae far frae muggins [mugwort]. Mrs Sophy, my dear, ha'e ye e'er suppit muggins in May? 'Tis the finest thing going for keeping a la.s.sie in gude health, and it suld be drinkit in the spring.

Atweel, what's her name wi' the copper-colourit e'en?"

"Cecilia Osborne," said I. "What did you think of her, Elspie?"

The iron went up and down the Vicar's shirt-front, and I saw a curious gathering together of old Elspie's lips--still she did not speak. At last Sophy said,--

"Couldn't you make up your mind about her, Elspie?"

"I had nae mickle fash about _that_, Mrs Sophy," said Elspeth, setting down her iron on the stand with something like a bang. "And gin I can see through a millstane a wee bittie, she'll gi'e ye the chance to make up yourn afore lang."

"Nay, mine's made up long since," answered Sophy. "I shall see the back of her with a deal more pleasure than I did her face a month ago. Won't you, Cary?"

"I don't like her the least bit," said I.

"Ye'll be wiser la.s.sies, young leddies, gin ye're no ower ready to say it," said Elspie, coolly. "It was no ane o' _your_ white days when she came to Brocklebank Fells. Ay, weel, weel! The Lord's ower a'."

As we went down the road, I said to Sophy, "What did old Elspie mean, do you suppose?"

"I am afraid I can guess what she meant, Cary."

Sophy's tone was so strange that I looked up at her; and I saw her eyes flashing and her lips set and white.

"Sophy! what is the matter?" I cried.

"Don't trouble your little head, Cary," she said, kindly enough. "It will be trouble in plenty when it comes."

I could not get her to say more. As we reached the door, Hatty came dancing out to meet us.

"'The rose is white, the rose is red,'-- The sun gives light, Queen Anne is dead: Ladies with white and rosy hues, What will you give me for my news?"