Out in the Forty-Five Part 32

"Have you been to see it?" I asked, more to give myself time to cool down than because I cared to know.

"Yes, I have been to see it," he said, and smiled.

"And did you find it as agreeable as you expected?"

"Quite. I had seen it before, and I wanted to know if it were spoiled."

"Oh, I hope it is not spoiled!" said I.

"Not at all," said he, his voice growing softer and softer. "No, it is not spoiled yet, Cary."

"Do you expect it will be?" I was getting cooler now.

"I don't know," he answered, very gravely for him, for Ephraim is not at all given to moroseness and long faces. "G.o.d grant it never may!"

I could not think what he meant, and I did not like to ask him. Indeed, I had not much opportunity, for he began talking about our journey, and Brocklebank, and all the people there, and I was so interested that we did not get back to what Ephraim came to see.

There is a new Vicar, he says, whose name is Mr Liversedge, and he has quite changed things in the parish. The people are divided about him; some like him, and some do not. He does not read his sermons, which is very strange, but speaks them out just as if he were talking to you; and he has begun to catechise the children in an afternoon, and to visit everybody in the parish; and he neither shoots, hunts, nor fishes. His sermons have a ring in them, says Ephraim; they wake you up, Old John Oakley complains that he can't nap nigh so comfortable as when th' old Vicar were there; and Mally Crosthwaite says she never heard such goings on--why, th' parson asked her if she were a Christian!--she that had always kept to her church, rain and shine, and never missed once! and it was hard if she were to miss the Christmas dole this year, along o' not being a Christian. She'd always thought being Church was plenty good enough--none o' your low Dissenting work: but, mercy on us, she didn't know what to say to this here parson, that she didn't! A Christian, indeed! The parson was a Christian, was he? Well, if so, she didn't make much 'count o' Christians, for all he was a parson. Didn't he tell old John he couldn't recommend him for the dole, just by reason he rapped out an oath or two when his grand-daughter let the milk-jug fall?--and if old Bet Donnerthwaite had had a sup too much one night at the ale-house, was it for a gentleman born like the parson to take note of that?

"But he has done worse things than that, Cary," said Ephraim, with grave mouth and laughing eyes.

"What? Go on," said I, for I saw something funny was coming.

"Why, would you believe it?" said Ephraim. "He called on Mr Bagnall, and asked him if he felt satisfied with the pattern he was setting his flock."

"I am very glad he did!" said I. "What did Mr Bagnall say?"

"Got into an awful rage, and told it to all the neighbourhood--as bearing against Mr Liversedge, you understand."

"Well, then, he is a greater simpleton than I took him for," said I.

"I am rather afraid," said Ephraim, in a hesitating tone, "that he will call at the Fells: and if he say anything that the Squire thinks impertinent or interfering, he will make an enemy of him."

"Oh, Father would just show him the door," said I, "without more ado."

"Yes, I fear so," replied Ephraim. "And I am sure he is a good man, Cary. A little rash and incautious, perhaps; does not take time to study character, and so forth; but I am sure he means to do right."

"It will be a pity," said I. "Ephraim, do you think the Prince will march on London?"

"I have not a doubt of it, Cary."

"Oh!" said I. I don't quite know whether I felt more glad or sorry.

"But you will not stay here if he do?"

"Yes, I think I shall," said he.

"You will join the army?"

"No, not unless I am pressed."

I suppose my face asked another question, for he added with a smile, "I came to keep watch of--that. I must see that it is not spoiled."

I wonder what _that_ is! If Ephraim would tell me, I might take some care of it too. I should not like anything he cared for to be spoiled.

As I sat in a corner afterwards, I was looking at him, and comparing him in my own mind with all the fine gentlemen in the chamber. Ephraim was quite as handsome as any of them; but his clothes certainly had a country cut, and he did not show as easy manners as they. I am afraid Grandmamma would say he had no manners. He actually put his hand out to save a tray when Grandmamma's black boy, Caesar, stumbled at the tiger-skin mat: and I am sure no other gentleman in the room would have condescended to see it. There are many little things by which it is easy to tell that Ephraim has not been used to the best society. And yet, I could not help feeling that if I were ill and wanted to be helped up-stairs, or if I were wretched and wanted comforting, it would be Ephraim to whom I should appeal, and not one of these fine gentlemen.

They seemed only to be made for sunshine. He would wear, and stand rain. If Hatty's "men" were all Ephraims, there might be some sense in caring for their opinions. But these fellows--I really can't afford a better word--these "chiels with gla.s.ses in their e'en," as Sam says, who seem to have no opinions beyond the colour of their coats and paying compliments to everything they see with a petticoat on--do they expect sensible women to care what they think? Let them have a little more sense themselves first--that's what I say!

I said so, one morning as we were dressing: and to my surprise, Annas replied,--

"I fancy they have sense enough, Cary, when there are no women in the room. They think we only care for nonsense."

"Yes, I expect that is it," added Flora.

I flew out. I could not stand that. What sort of women must their mothers and sisters be?

"Card-playing snuff-takers and giddy flirts," said Annas. "Be just to them, Cary. If they never see women of any other sort, how are they to know that such are?"

"Poor wretches! do you think that possible. Annas?" said I.

"Miserably possible," she said, very seriously. "In every human heart, Cary, there is a place where the man or the woman dwells inside all the frippery and mannerism; the real creature itself, stripped of all disguises. Dig down to that place if you want to see it."

"I should think it takes a vast deal of digging!"

"Yes, in some people. But that is the thing G.o.d looks at: that is it for which Christ died, and for which Christ's servants ought to feel love and pity."

I thought it would be terribly difficult to feel love or pity for some people!

My Uncle Charles has just come in, and he says a rumour is flying that there has been a great battle near Edinburgh, and that the Prince (who was victorious) is marching on Carlisle. Flora went very white, and even Annas set her lips: but I do not see what we have to fear--at least if Angus and Mr Keith are safe.

"Charles," said Grandmamma, "where are those white c.o.c.kades we used to have?"

"I haven't a notion, Mother."

Nor had my Aunt Dorothea. But when Perkins was asked, she said, "Isn't it them, Madam, as you pinned in a parcel, and laid away in the garret?"

"Oh, I dare say," said Grandmamma. "Fetch them down, and let us see if they are worth anything."

So Perkins fetched the parcel, and the c.o.c.kades were looked over, and p.r.o.nounced useable by torchlight, though too bad a colour for the day-time.

"Keep the packet handy, Perkins," said Grandmamma.

"Shall I give them out now, Madam?" asked Perkins.

"Oh, not yet!" said Grandmamma. "Wait till we see how things turn out.

White soils so soon, too: we had much better go on with the black ones, at any rate, till the Prince has pa.s.sed Bedford."

It is wicked, I suppose, to despise one's elders. But is it not sometimes very difficult to help doing it?