Out in the Forty-Five Part 39

"I am not fit to talk to such a seraph. I am a sinner."

"Oh, but I think there is some distinction, which I do not properly understand. She does not wilfully sin; and as to those little things which everybody does, that are not quite right, you know,--well, they don't count for anything. She is a child of G.o.d, she says, and therefore He will not be hard upon her for little nothings. Is that your creed, Mr Raymond?"

"Do you know the true name of that creed, Miss Theresa?"

"Dear, no! I understand nothing about it."

Mr Raymond's voice was very solemn: "'So hast thou also them that hold the doctrine of the Nicolaitanes, _which thing I hate_.' 'Turning the grace of our G.o.d into lasciviousness.' Antinomianism is the name of it.

It has existed in the Church of G.o.d from a date, you see, earlier than the close of the inspired canon. Essentially the same thing survives in the Popish Church, under the name of mortal and venial sins; and it creeps sooner or later into every denomination, in its robes of an angel of light. But it belongs to the darkness. Sin! Do we know the meaning of that awful word? I believe none but G.o.d knows rightly what sin is.

But he who does not know something of what sin is can have very poor ideas of the Christ who saves from sin. He does not save men in sin, but from sin: not only from penalty,--from sin. Christ is not dead, but alive. And sin is not a painted plaything, but a deadly poison. G.o.d forgive them who speak lightly of it!"

I do not know what Miss Newton said to this, for at that minute I caught sight of Hatty in a corner, alone, and seized my opportunity at once.

Threading my way with some difficulty among bewigged and belaced gentlemen, and ladies with long trains and fluttering fans, I reached my sister, and sat down by her.

"Hatty," said I, "I hardly ever get a word with you. How long do you stay with the Crosslands?"

"I do not know, Cary," she answered, looking down, and playing with her fan.

"Do you know that you look very far from well?"

"There are mirrors in Charles Street," she replied, with a slight curl of her lip.

"Hatty, are those people kind to you?" I said, thinking I had better, like Annas, take the bull by the horns.

"I suppose so. They mean to be. Let it alone, Cary; you are not old enough to interfere--hardly to understand."

"I am only eighteen months younger than you," said I. "I do not wish to interfere, Hatty; but I do want to understand. Surely your own sister may be concerned if she see you looking ill and unhappy."

"Do I look so, Cary?"

I thought, from the tone, that Hatty was giving way a little.

"You look both," I said. "I wish you would come here."

"Do you wish it, Cary?" The tone now was very unlike Hatty.

"Indeed I do, Hatty," said I, warmly. "I don't half believe in those people in Charles Street; and as to Amelia and Charlotte, I doubt if either of them would see anything, look how you might."

"Oh, Charlotte is not to blame; thoughtlessness is her worst fault,"

said Hatty, still playing with her fan.

"And somebody is to blame? Is it Amelia?"

"I did not say so," was the answer.

"No," I said, feeling disappointed; "I cannot get you to say anything.

Hatty, I do wish you would trust me. n.o.body here loves you except me."

"You did not love me much once, Cary."

"Oh, I get vexed when you tease me, that is all," said I. "But I want you to look happier, Hatty, dear."

"I should not tease you much now, Cary."

I looked up, and saw that Hatty's eyes were full of tears.

"Do come here, Hatty!" I said, earnestly.

"Grandmamma has not asked me," she replied.

"Then I will beg her to ask you. I think she will. She said the other day that you were very much improved."

"At all events, my red cheeks and my plough-boy appet.i.te would scarcely distress her now," returned Hatty, rather bitterly. "Mr Crossland is coming for me--I must go." And while she held my hand, I was amazed to hear a low whisper, in a voice of unutterable longing,--"Cary, pray for me!"

That horrid Mr Crossland came up and carried her off. Poor dear Hatty!

I am sure something is wrong. And somehow, I think I love her better since I began to pray for her, only that was not last night, as she seemed to think.

This morning at breakfast, I asked Grandmamma if she would do me a favour.

"Yes, child, if it be reasonable," said she. "What would you have?"

"Please, Grandmamma, will you ask Hatty to come for a little while? I should so like to have her; and I cannot talk to her comfortably in a room full of people."

Grandmamma took a pinch of snuff, as she generally does when she wants to consider a minute.

"She is very much improved," said she. "She really is almost presentable. I should not feel ashamed, I think, of introducing her as my grand-daughter. Well, Cary, if you wish it, I do not mind. You are a tolerably good girl, and I do not object to give you a pleasure. But it must be after she has finished her visit to the Crosslands. I could not entice her away."

"I asked her how long she was going to stay there, Grandmamma, and she said she did not know."

"Then, my dear, you must wait till she do." [Note 1.]

But what may happen before then? I knew it would be of no use to say any more to Grandmamma: she is a perfect Mede and Persian when she have once declared her royal pleasure. And my Aunt Dorothea will never interfere. My Uncle Charles is the only one who dare say another word, and it was a question if he would. He is good-natured enough, but so careless that I could not feel at all certain of enlisting him. Oh dear! I do feel to be growing so old with all my cares! It seems as if Hatty, and Annas, and Flora, and Angus, and Colonel Keith, and the Prince,--I beg his pardon, he should have come first,--were all on my shoulders at once. And I don't feel strong enough to carry such a lot of people.

I wish my Aunt Kezia was here. I have wished it so many times lately.

When I had written so far, I turned back to look at my Aunt Kezia's rules. And then I saw how foolish I am. Why, instead of putting the Lord first, I had been leaving Him out of the whole thing. Could He not carry all these cares for me? Did He not know what ailed Hatty, and how to deliver Angus, and all about it? I knelt down there and then (I always write in my own chamber), and asked Him to send Hatty to me, and better still, to bring her to Him; and to show me whether I had better speak to my Uncle Charles, or try to get things out of Amelia. As to Charlotte, I would not ask her about anything which I did not care to tell the town crier.

The next morning--(there, my dates are getting all wrong again! It is no use trying to keep them straight)--as my Uncle Charles was putting on his gloves to go out, he said,--

"Well, Cary, shall I bring you a fairing of any sort?"

"Uncle Charles," I said, leaping to a decision at once, "do bring me Hatty! I am sure she is not happy. Do get Grandmamma to let her come now."

"Not happy!" cried my Uncle Charles, lifting his eyebrows. "Why, what is the matter with the girl? Can't she get married? Time enough, surely."

Oh dear, how can men be so silly! But I let it pa.s.s, for I wanted Hatty to come, much more than to make my Uncle Charles sensible. In fact, I am afraid the last would take too much time and labour. There, now, I should not have said that.

"Won't you try, Uncle Charles? I do want her so much."