Out in the Forty-Five Part 15

Sophy said nothing. I think she knew. And all at once it seemed to come over me--as if somebody had shut me up inside a lump of ice--what it was that was going to happen.

"I mean, my dear," my Aunt Kezia replied quietly, "that your father intends to marry again."

Sophy's face and tongue gave no sign that she had heard anything which was news to her. f.a.n.n.y cried, "Never, surely!" Hatty said, "How jolly!" and then in a whisper to me, "Won't I lead her a life!" I believe I said nothing. I felt shut up in that lump of ice.

"But, Aunt Kezia, what is to become of us all? Are we to stay here, or go with you?" asked f.a.n.n.y.

"Your father desires me to tell you, my dears," said my Aunt Kezia, "that he wishes to leave you quite free to please yourselves. If you choose to remain here, he will be glad to have you; and if any of you like to come with me to Fir Vale, you will be welcome, and you know what to expect."

"What are we to expect if we stop here?" asked Sophy, in a hard, dry voice.

"That is more than I can say," was my Aunt Kezia's answer.

"But who is it?" said f.a.n.n.y, in the same bewildered way.

"O f.a.n.n.y, what a bat you are!" cried Hatty.

"I wonder you ask," answered Sophy. "I have seen her fishing-rod for ever so long. Cecilia, of course."

"Cecilia!" screamed f.a.n.n.y. "I thought it was some middle-aged, respectable gentlewoman."

Hatty burst out laughing. I never felt less inclined to laugh. My Aunt Kezia had taken off her spectacles, and was going on with her tucks as if nothing had happened.

"Well, I will think about it," said Sophy. "I am not sure I shall stay."

"_I_ shall stay," announced Hatty. "I expect it will be grand fun. She will fill the house with company--that will suit me; and I shall just look sharp after her and keep her in order."

"Hatty!" cried f.a.n.n.y, in a shocked tone.

"I hope you will keep yourself in order," said my Aunt Kezia, drily.

"Little Cary, you have not spoken yet. What do you want to do?"

Her voice softened as I had never heard it do before when she spoke to me. It touched me very much; yet I think I should have said the same without it.

"O Aunt Kezia, please let me go with you!"

"Thank you, Cary," said my Aunt Kezia in the same tone. "The old woman is not to be left quite alone, then? But it will be dull, child, for a young thing like you."

"I would rather have it dull than lively the wrong way about," said I; and Hatty broke out again.

"Would you!" said she, when she had done laughing. "I wouldn't, I promise you. Sophy, don't you know a curate you could marry? You had better, if you can find one."

"Not one that has asked me," was Sophy's dry answer. "You don't want me, then, Miss Hatty?"

"You would be rather meddlesome, I am afraid," said Hatty, with charming frankness. "You would always be doing conscience."

"Don't you intend to keep one?" returned Sophy.

"I mean to lay it up in lavender," said Hatty, "and take it out on Sundays."

"Hatty, if you haven't a care--"

"Please go on, Aunt Kezia. Unfinished sentences are always awful things, because you don't know how they are going to end."

"_You_'ll end in the lock-up, if you don't mind," said my Aunt Kezia; "and if I were you, I wouldn't."

"I'll try to keep on this side the door," said Hatty, as lightly as ever. "And when is it to be, Aunt Kezia?"

"The month after next, I believe."

"Isn't Cecilia going home first, to see what her friends say about it?"

"She has none belonging to her, except an uncle and his family, and she says they will be delighted to hear it. Hatty, you had better get out of the way of calling her Cecilia. It won't do now, you know."

"But you don't mean, Aunt Kezia, that we are to call her Mother!" cried f.a.n.n.y, in a most beseeching tone.

"My dear, that must be as your father wishes. He may allow you to call her Mrs Courtenay. That is what I shall call her."

"Isn't it dreadful!" said poor f.a.n.n.y.

"One thing more I have to say," continued my Aunt Kezia, laying down her flannel again and putting on her spectacles. "Your father does not wish you to be present at his marriage."

"Aunt Kezia!" came, I think, from us all--indignantly from Sophy, sorrowfully from f.a.n.n.y, petulantly from Hatty, and from me in sheer astonishment.

"I suppose he has his reasons," said my Aunt Kezia; "but that being so, I think Sophy had better go home for a while with the Bracewells, and Hatty, too. You, Cary, may go with Flora instead, if you like. f.a.n.n.y, of course, is arranged for already, as she will be married by then, and will only have to stop at home."

I thought I would very much rather go with Flora.

"I have had a letter from your Aunt Dorothea lately," my Aunt Kezia went on, "in which she asks for Cary to pay her a visit next June. But now we are only in March. So, as Cary must be somewhere between times, and I think she would be better out of the way, she will go to Abbotscliff with Flora--unless, my dear," she added, turning to me, "you would rather be at Bracewell Hall? You may, if you like."

"I would rather be at Abbotscliff, very much, Aunt Kezia," said I; and I think Aunt Kezia was pleased.

"Aunt Kezia, don't send me away!" pleaded Sophy. "Do let me stay and help you to settle at Fir Vale. I should hate to stay at Bracewell, and I should just like bustling about and helping you in that way. Won't you let me?"

"Well, my dear, we will see," said my Aunt Kezia; and I think she was pleased with Sophy too. Hatty declared that Bracewell would just suit her, and she would not stay at any price, if she had leave to choose.

So it seems to be settled in that way. f.a.n.n.y will be married on the 30th,--that is three weeks hence; and the week after, Hatty goes with the Bracewells, and I with Flora, to their own homes; and my Aunt Kezia and Sophy will remain here, and only leave the house on the evening before the marriage.

It seems very odd that Father should have wished not to have us at his wedding. Was it Cecilia who did not wish it? But I am not to call her Cecilia any more.

When my cousins came in for tea, they were told too. Charlotte cried, "Well, I never!" for which piece of vulgarity she was sharply pulled up by my Aunt Kezia. Amelia fanned herself--she always does, whatever time of year it may be--and languidly remarked, "Dear!" Angus said, "Castor and Pollux!" for which he also got rebuked. And after a sort of "Oh!"

Flora said nothing, but looked very sorrowfully at us. Cec--I mean Miss...o...b..rne--did not appear at all until tea was nearly over, and then she came in from the garden, and Mr Parmenter with her, that everlasting eyegla.s.s stuck in his eye. I do so dislike the man.

Father never comes to tea. He says it is only women's rubbish, and laughs at Ephraim Hebblethwaite because he says he likes it. I fancy few men drink tea. My Uncle Charles never does, I know; but my Aunt Dorothea says she could not exist a day without tea and cards.

I wonder if it will be pleasant to stay with my Aunt Dorothea. I believe she and my Uncle Charles are living in London now. I should like dearly to see London, and the fine shops, and the lions in the Tower, and Ranelagh, and all the grand people. And yet, somehow, I feel just a little bit uneasy about it, as if I were going into some place where I did not know what I should find, and it might be something that would hurt me. I do not feel that about Abbotscliff. I expect it will be pleasant there, only perhaps rather dull. And I want to see my Uncle Drummond, and Flora's friend, Annas Keith. I wonder if she is like her brother. And I never saw a Presbyterian minister, nor indeed a minister of any sort. I do hope my Uncle Drummond will not be like Mr Bagnall, and I hope all the gentlemen in the South are not like that odious Mr Parmenter.

Flora seems very much pleased about my going back with her. I do not know why, but I fancied Angus did not quite like it. Can he be afraid of my telling his father the story of the hunt-supper? He knows nothing of what I heard up on the Scar.

I do hope Ephraim Hebblethwaite is not very unhappy about f.a.n.n.y. I should think it must be dreadful, when you love any one very much, to see her go and give herself quite away to somebody else. And Ambrose thinks of going to live in Cheshire, where his uncle has a large farm, and he has no children, so the farm will come to Ambrose some day; and his uncle, Mr Minshull, would like him to come and live there now. Of course, if that be settled so, we shall lose f.a.n.n.y altogether.