Out in the Forty-Five Part 20

"I thank you, Miss Keith," said I. "I should like to come very much."

"Annas, please," she said quietly, with that sweet smile of hers. It is only when she smiles that she reminds me of her brother.

"And how are the Laird and Lady Monksburn?" said Flora.

I did not know that the Laird (as they always seem to call the squires here) had been a t.i.tled gentleman: and I said so. Annas smiled.

"Our t.i.tles will seem odd to you," said she. "We call a Scots gentleman by the name of his estate, and every laird's wife is 'Lady'--only by custom and courtesy, you understand. My mother really is only Mrs Keith, but you will hear everybody call her Lady Monksburn."

"Then if my father were here, they would call him--" I hesitated, and Flora ended the sentence for me.

"The Laird of Brocklebank; and if you had a mother she would be Lady Brocklebank."

I thought it sounded rather pleasant.

"And when is Duncan coming home?" asked Flora.

"To-morrow, or the day after, we hope," said Annas.

I noticed that she had less of the Scots accent than Flora; and Mr Keith has it scarcely at all. I found after a while that Lady Monksburn is English, and that Annas has spent much of her life in England. I wanted to know what part of England it was, and she said, "The Isle of Wight."

"Why, then you do really come from the South!" cried I. "Do tell me something about it. Are there any agreeable people there?--I mean, except you."

Annas laughed. "I hope you have seen few people from the South," said she, "if that be your impression of them."

"Only two," said I; "and I did not like either of them one bit."

"Well, two is no large acquaintance," said Annas. "Let me a.s.sure you that there are plenty of agreeable people in the South, and good people also; though I will not say that they are not different from us in the North. They speak differently, and their manners are more polished."

"But it is just that polish I feel afraid of," I replied. "It looks to me so like a mask. If we are bears in the North, at least we mean what we say."

"I do not think you need fear a polished Christian," said Annas. "A worldly man, polished or unpolished, may do you hurt."

"But are we not all Christians?" said I. And the words were scarcely out of my lips when the thoughts came back to me which had been tormenting me as we walked up from old Mirren's cottage. Those two roads! Did Annas mean that only those were Christians who took the higher one? Only, what was there in the air of Abbotscliff which seemed to make people Christians? or in that of Brocklebank, which seemed unfavourable to it?

"Those are Christians who follow Christ," said Annas. "Do you think they who do not, have a right to the name?"

"I should like to think more about it," I answered. "It all looks strange to me."

"Do think about it," replied Annas.

When we came to Monksburn, which is about a mile from the manse, I found it was a most charming place on the banks of the Tweed. The lawn ran sloping down to the river; and the house was a lovely old building of grey stone, in some places almost lost in ivy. Annas said it had been the Abbots grange belonging to the old Abbey which gives its name to Abbotscliff and Monksburn, and several other estates and villages in the neighbourhood. Here we found Lady Monksburn in the drawing-room, busied with some soft kind of embroidered work; and I thought I could have guessed her to be the mother of Mr Keith. Then when the Laird came in, I saw that his grey eyes were Annas's, though I should not call them alike in other respects.

Lady Monksburn is a dear old lady; and as she comes from the South, I must never say a word against Southerners again. She took both my hands in her soft white ones, and spoke to me so kindly that before I had known her ten minutes I was almost surprised to find myself chattering away to her as if she were quite an old friend--telling her all about Brocklebank, and my sisters, and Father, and my Aunt Kezia. I could not tell how it was,--I felt so completely at home in that Monksburn drawing-room. Everybody was so kind, and seemed to want me to enjoy myself, and yet there was no fuss about it. If those be southern manners, I wish I could catch them, like small-pox. But perhaps they are Christian manners. That may be it. And I don't suppose you can catch that like the small-pox. However, I certainly did enjoy myself this afternoon. Mr Keith, I find, can draw beautifully, and they let me look through some of his portfolios, which was delightful. And when Annas, at her mother's desire, at down to the harpsichord, and sang us some old Scots songs, I thought I never heard anything so charming-- until Flora joined in, and then it was more delicious still.

I think it would be easy to be good, if one lived at Monksburn!

Those grey eyes of Annas's seem to see everything. I am sure she saw that Flora would like a quiet talk with Lady Monksburn, and she carried me to see her peac.o.c.ks and silver pheasants, which are great pets, she says; and they are so tame that they will come and eat out of her hand.

Of course they were shy with me. Then we had a charming little walk on the path which ran along by the side of the river, and Annas pointed out some lovely peeps through the trees at the scenery beyond. When we came in, I saw that Flora had been crying; but she seemed so much calmer and comforted, that I am sure her talk had done her good. Then came supper, and then Angus, who had cleared up wonderfully, and was more what he used to be as a boy, instead of the cross, gloomy young man he has seemed of late. Lady Monksburn offered to send a servant with arms to accompany us home, but Angus appeared to think it quite unnecessary. He had his dirk and a pistol, he said; and surely he could take care of two girls! I am not sure that Flora would not rather have had the servant, and I know I would. However, we came safe to the manse, meeting nothing more terrific than a white cow, which wicked Angus tried to persuade us was a lady without a head.

CHAPTER SIX.

NEW IDEAS FOR CARY.

"O Jesu, Thou art pleading, In accents meek and low, I died for you, My children, And will ye treat Me so?

O Lord, with shame and sorrow, We open now the door: Dear Saviour, enter, enter, And leave us never more!"

BISHOP WALSHAM HOW.

As we drank our tea, this evening, I said,--

"Uncle, will you please tell me something?"

"Surely, my dear, if I can," answered my Uncle Drummond kindly, laying down his book.

"Are all the people at Abbotscliff going to Heaven?"

I really meant it, but my Uncle Drummond put on such a droll expression, and Angus laughed so much, that I woke up to see that they thought I had said something very queer. When my uncle spoke, it was not at first to me.

"Flora," said he, "where have you taken your cousin?"

"Only into the cottages, Father, and to Monksburn," said Flora, in a diverted tone, as if she were trying not to laugh.

"Either they must all have had their Sabbath manners on," said my Uncle Drummond, "or else there are strange folks at Brocklebank. No, my dear; I fear not, by any means."

"I am afraid," said I, "we must be worse folks at Brocklebank than I thought we were. But these seem to me, Uncle, such a different kind of people--as if they were travelling on another road, and had a different end in view. Nearly all the people I see here seem to think more of what they ought to do, and at Brocklebank we think of what we like to do."

I did not, somehow, like to say right out what I really meant--to the one set G.o.d seemed a Friend, to the other He was a Stranger.

"Do you hear, Angus, what a good character we have?" said my Uncle Drummond, smiling. "We must try to keep it, my boy."

Of course I could not say that I did not think Angus was included in the "we." But the momentary trouble in Flora's eyes, as she glanced at him, made me feel that she saw it, as indeed I could have guessed from what I had heard her say to Mr Keith.

"Well, my la.s.sie," my Uncle Drummond went on, "while I fear we do not all deserve the compliment you pay us, yet have you ever thought what those two roads are, and what end they have in view?"

"Yes, Uncle, I can see that," said I. "Heaven is at the end of one, I am sure."

"And of the other, Cary?"

I felt the tears come into my eyes.

"Uncle, I don't like to think about that. But do tell me, for that is what I want to know, what is the difference? I do not see how people get from the one road to the other."

I did not say--but I feel sure that my Uncle Drummond did not need it-- that I felt I was on the wrong one.

"La.s.sie, if you had fallen into a deep tank of water, where the walls were so high that it was not possible you could climb out by yourself, for what would you hope?"