Out in the Forty-Five Part 36

"You are too good, Cary," said he. "Did you think the s.h.i.+lling was a knife to cut you off something? It means she will only leave you a s.h.i.+lling in her will."

"Well, that will be a s.h.i.+lling more than I expect," said I: and Ephraim went off laughing.

I asked Miss Newton, as she seemed to know him, who Mr Raymond was.

She says he is the lecturer at Saint Helen's, and might have been a decent man if that horrid creature Mr Wesley had not got hold of him.

"Oh, do you know anything about Mr Wesley, or Mr Whitefield?" cried I.

"Are they in London now?"

If I could hear them again!

"I am sure I cannot tell you," said Miss Newton, laughing. "I have heard my father speak of them with some very strong language after it-- that I know. My dear Miss Courtenay, does everything rouse your enthusiasm? For how you can bring that brilliant light into your eyes for the Prince, and for Mr Wesley, is quite beyond me. I should have thought they were the two opposite ends of a pole."

"I don't know anything about Mr Wesley," I said, "and I have only heard Mr Whitefield preach once in Scotland."

"You have heard him?" she asked.

"Yes, and liked him very much," said I.

Miss Newton shrugged her shoulders in that little French way she has.

"Why, some people think him the worse of the two," she said. "I don't know anything about them, I can tell you--only that Mr Wesley makes Dissenters faster than you could make tatting-st.i.tches."

"What does he do to them?" said I.

"I don't know, and I don't want to know," said she. "If he had lived in former times, I am sure he would have been taken up for witchcraft. He is a clergyman, or they say so; but I really wonder the Bishops have not turned him out of the Church long ago."

"A clergyman, and makes people Dissenters!" cried I. "Why, Mr Whitefield quoted the Articles in his sermon."

"They said so," she replied. "I know nothing about it; I never heard the man, thank Heaven! but they say he goes about preaching to all sorts of dreadful creatures--those wild miners down in Cornwall, and coal-heavers, and any sort of mobs he can get to listen. Only fancy a clergyman--a gentleman--doing any such thing!"

I thought a moment, and some words came to my mind.

"Do you think Mr Wesley was wrong?" I said. "'The common people heard Him gladly.' And I suppose you would not say that our Lord was not a gentleman."

"Dear Miss Courtenay, forgive me, but what very odd things you say!

And--excuse me--don't you know it is not thought at all good taste to quote the Bible in polite society?"

"Is the Bible worse off for that?" said I. "Or is it the polite society? The best society, I suppose, ought to be in Heaven: and I fancy they do not shut out the Bible there. What think you?"

"Are you very innocent?" she answered, laughing; "or are you only making believe? You must know, surely, that religion is not talked about except from the pulpit, and on Sundays."

"But can we all be sure of dying on a Sunday?" I answered. "We shall want religion then, shall we not?"

"Hus.h.!.+ we don't talk of dying either--it is too shocking!"

"But don't we do it sometimes?" I said.

Miss Newton looked as if she did not know whether to laugh or be angry-- certainly very much disturbed.

"Let us talk of something more agreeable, I beg," said she. "See, Miss Bracewell is going to sing."

"Oh, she will sing nothing worth listening to," said I.

"I suppose you think only Methodist hymns worth listening to," responded Miss Newton, rather sneeringly.

I don't like to be sneered at. I suppose n.o.body does. But it does not make me feel timid and yield, as it seems to do many: it only makes me angry.

"Well," said I, "listen how much this is worth."

Amelia drew off her gloves with a listless air which I believe she thought exceedingly genteel. I cannot undertake to describe her song: it was one of those queer lackadaisical ditties which always remind me of those tunes which go just where you don't expect them to go, and end nowhere. I hate them. And I don't like the songs much better. Of course there was a lady wringing her hands--why do people in ballads wring their hands so much? I never saw anybody do it in my life--and a cavalier on a coal-black steed, and a silvery moon; what would become of the songwriters if there were no moon and no sea?--and "she sat and wailed," and he did something or other, I could not exactly hear what; and at last he, or she, or both of them (only that would not suit the grammar) "was at rest," and I was thankful to hear it, for Amelia stopped singing.

"How sweet and sad!" said Miss Newton.

"Do you like that kind of song? I think it is rubbish."

She laughed with that little deprecating air which she often uses to me.

I looked up to see who was going to sing next: and to my extreme surprise, and almost equal pleasure, I saw Annas sit down to the harp.

"Oh, Miss Keith is going to sing!" cried I. "I should like to hear hers."

"A Scottish ballad, no doubt," replied Miss Newton.

There was a soft, low, weird-like prelude: and then came a voice like that of a thrush, at which every other in the room seemed to hush instinctively. Each word was clear.

This was Annas's song.

"She said,--'We parted for a while, But we shall meet again ere long; I work in lowly, lonely room, And he amid the foreign throng: But here I willingly abide,-- Here, where I see the other side.

"'Look to those hills which reach away Beyond the sea that rolls between; Here from my cas.e.m.e.nt, day by day, Their happy summits can be seen: Happy, although they us divide,-- I know he sees the other side.

"'The days go on to make the year-- A year we must be parted yet-- I sing amid my crosses light, For on those hills mine eyes are set: You say, those hills our eyes divide?

Ay, but he sees the other side!

"'So these dividing hills become Our point of meeting, every eve; Up to the hills we look and pray And love--our work so soon we leave; And then no more shall aught divide-- We dwell upon the other side.'"

"Pretty!" said Miss Newton, in the tone which people use when they do not think a thing pretty, but fancy that you expect them to say so: "but not so charming as Miss Bracewell's song."

"Wait," said I; "she has not finished yet."

The harp was speaking now--in a sad low voice, rising gradually to a note of triumph. Then it sank low again, and Annas's voice continued the song.

"She said,--'We parted for a while, But we shall meet again ere long; I dwell in lonely, lowly room, And he hath joined the heavenly throng: Yet here I willingly abide, For yet I see the Other Side.

"'I look unto the hills of G.o.d Beyond the life that rolls between; Here from my work by faith each day Their blessed summits can be seen; Blessed, although they us divide,-- I know he sees the Other Side.

"'The days go on, the days go on,-- Through earthly life we meet not yet; I sing amid my crosses light, For on those hills mine eyes are set: 'Tis true, those hills our eyes divide-- Ay, but he sees the Other Side!

"'So the eternal hills become Our point of meeting, every eve; Up to the hills I look and pray And love--soon all my work I leave: And then no more shall aught divide-- We dwell upon the Other Side.'"