Out in the Forty-Five Part 33

I have been reading over the last page or two that I writ, and I came on a line that set me thinking. Things do set me thinking of late in a way they never used to do. It was that about Ephraim's not being used to the best society. What is the best society? G.o.d and the angels; I suppose n.o.body could question that. Yet, if an angel had been in Grandmamma's rooms just then, would he not have cared more that Caesar should not fall and hurt himself, and most likely be scolded as well, than that he should be thought to have fine easy manners himself? And I suppose the Lord Jesus died even for Caesar, black though he be. Well, then, the next best society must be those who are going to Heaven: and Ephraim is one of them, I believe. And those who are not going must be bad society, even if they are dressed up to the latest fashion-book, and have the newest and finest breeding at the tips of their fingers. The world seems to be turned round. Ah, but what was that text Mr Whitefield quoted? "Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the l.u.s.t of the flesh, and the l.u.s.t of the eyes, and the pride of life, are not of the Father, but are of the world." Then must we turn the world round before we get things put straight? It looks like it. I have just been looking at another text, where Saint Paul gives a list of the works of the flesh; [Note: Galatians five 19 to 21.] and I find, along with some things which everybody calls wicked, a lot of others which everybody in "the world"

does, and never seems to think of as wrong. "Hatred, variance, emulations, ... envyings, ... drunkenness, revellings, and such like:"

and he says, "They which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of G.o.d." That is dreadful. I am afraid the world must be worse than I thought. I must take heed to my Aunt Kezia's rules--set the Lord always before me, and remember that this world pa.s.seth away. I suppose the world will laugh at me, if I be not one of its people. What will that matter, if it pa.s.seth away? The angels will like me all the better: and they are the best society.

And I was thinking the other night as I lay awake, what an awful thing it would be to hear the Lord Jesus, the very Man who died for me, say, "Depart from Me!" I think I could stand the world's laughter, but I am sure I could never bear that. Christ could help and comfort me if the world used me ill; but who could help me, or comfort me, when He had cast me out? There would be nothing to take refuge in--not even the world, for it would be done with then.

Oh, I do hope our Saviour will never say that to me!

I seem bound to get into fights with Miss Newton. I do not mean quarrels, but arguments. She is a pleasant, good-humoured girl, but she has such queer ideas. I dare say she thinks I have. I do not know what my Aunt Kezia would say to her. She does not appear to see the right and wrong of things at all. It is only what people will think, and what one likes. If everybody did only what they liked,--is that proper grammar, I wonder? Oh, well, never mind!--I think it would make the world a very disagreeable place to live in, and it is not too pleasant now. And as to people thinking, what on earth does it signify what they think, if they don't think right? If one person thinking that two and two make three does not alter the fact, why should ten thousand people thinking so be held to make any difference? How many simpletons does it take to be equal to a wise man? I wonder people do not see how ridiculous such notions are.

We hear nothing at all from the North--the seat of war, as they begin to call it now. Everybody supposes that the Prince is marching southwards, and will be here some day before long. It diverts me exceedingly to sit every Tuesday in a corner of the room, and watch the red ribbons disappearing and the white ones coming instead. Grandmamma's two footmen, Morris and Dobson, have orders to take the black c.o.c.kade out of their hats and clap on a white one, the minute they hear that the royal army enters Middles.e.x.

November 22nd.

The Prince has taken Carlisle! It is said that he is marching on Derby as fast as his troops can come. Everybody is in a flutter. I can guess where Father is, and how excited he will be. I know he would go to wait on his Royal Highness directly, and I should not wonder if a number of the officers are quartered at Brocklebank--were, I should say. I almost wish we were there! But when I said so to Ephraim, who comes every Tuesday, such a strange look of pain came into his eyes, and he said, "Don't, Cary!" so sadly. I wonder what the next thing will be!

After I had written this, came one of Grandmamma's extra a.s.semblies--Oh, I should have altered my date! it is so troublesome--on Thursday evening, and I looked round, and could not see one red ribbon that was not mixed with white. A great many wore plain white, and among them Miss Newton. I sat down by her.

"How do you this evening, Miss Newton?" I mischievously asked. "I am so delighted to see you become a Tory since I saw you last Tuesday."

"How do you know I was not one before?" asked she, laughing.

"Your ribbons were not," said I. "They were red on Tuesday."

"Well, you ought to compliment me on the suddenness of my conversion,"

said she: "for I never was a trimmer. Oh, how absurd it is to make ribbons and patches mean things! Why should one not wear red and white just as one does green and blue?"

"It would be a boon to some people, I am sure," said I.

"Perhaps we shall, some day, when the world has become sensible," said Miss Newton.

"Can you give me the date, Madam?"

It was a strange voice which asked this question. I looked up over my shoulder, and saw a man of no particular age, dressed in gown and ca.s.sock. [Note 1.] Miss Newton looked up too, laughing.

"Indeed I cannot, Mr Raymond," said she. "Can you?"

"Only by events," he answered. "I should expect it to be after the King has entered His capital."

I felt, rather than saw, what he meant.

"I am a poor hand at riddles," said Miss Newton, shaking her head. "I did not expect to see you here, Mr Raymond."

"Nor would you have seen me here," was the answer, "had I not been charged to deliver a message of grave import to one who is here."

"Not me, I hope?" said Miss Newton, looking graver.

"Not you. I trust you will thank G.o.d for it. And now, can you kindly direct me to the young lady for whom I am to look? Is there here a Miss Flora Drummond?"

I sprang up with a smothered cry of "Angus!"

"Are you Miss Drummond?" he asked, very kindly.

"Flora Drummond is my cousin," I answered. "I will take you to her.

But is it about Angus?"

"It is about her brother, Lieutenant Drummond. He is not killed--let me say so at once."

We were pressing through the superb crowd, and the moment afterwards we reached Flora. She was standing by a little table, talking with Ephraim Hebblethwaite, who spoke to Mr Raymond in a way which showed that they knew each other. Flora just looked at him, and then said, quietly enough to all appearance, though she went very white--

"You have bad news for some one, and I think for me."

"Lieutenant Drummond was severely wounded at Prestonpans, and has fallen into the hands of the King's troops," said Mr Raymond, gently, as if he wished her to know the worst at once. "He is a prisoner now."

Flora clasped her hands with a long breath of pain and apprehension.

"You are sure, Sir? There is no mistake?"

"I think, none," he replied. "I have the news from Colonel Keith."

"If you heard it from him, it must be true," she said. "But is he in London?"

"Yes; and he ran some risk, as you may guess, to send that message to you."

"Duncan is always good," said Flora, with tears in her eyes. "He was not hurt, I hope? Will you see him again?"

"He said he was not hurt worth mention." (I began to wonder what size of a hurt Mr Keith would think worth mention.) "Yes, I shall see him again this evening or to-morrow."

"Oh, do give him the kindest words and thanks from me," said Flora, commanding her voice with some difficulty. "I wish I could have seen him! Let me tell Annas--she may wish--" and away she went to fetch Annas, while Mr Raymond looked after her with a look which I thought half sad and half diverted.

"Will you tell me," I said, "how Mr Keith ran any risk?"

"Why, you do not suppose, young lady, that London is in the hands of the rebels?"

"The rebels!--Oh, you are a Whig; I see. But the Prince is coming, and fast. Is he not?"

"Not just yet, I think," said Mr Raymond, with an odd look in his eyes.

"Why, we hear it from all quarters," said I; "and the red ribbons are all getting white."

Mr Raymond smiled. "Rather a singular transformation, truly. But I think the ribbons will be well worn before the young Chevalier reviews his army in Hyde Park."

"I will not believe it!" cried I. "The Prince must be victorious! G.o.d defends the right!"

"G.o.d defends His own," said Mr Raymond. "Do you see in history that He always defends the cause which you account to be right?"