Out in the Forty-Five Part 60

"I shall hope to see more of my friends now," he went on, with a smile.

"I know I have seemed rather a hermit of late, while this matter has been trembling in the balance. I hope the old friend will not be further off because he is the curate. I should not like that."

"I do not think you need fear," said I, trying to speak lightly. But how far my heart went down! The future master of the Fells Farm was a fixture at Brocklebank: but the future parson of some parish might be carried a hundred miles away from us. A few months, and we might see him no more. Just then, Father set his foot on one of the great logs, and it blazed and crackled, sending a shower of sparkles up the chimney, and a ruddy glow all over the room. But my fire was dying out, and the sparkles were gone already.

Perhaps it was as well that just at that moment a rather startling diversion occurred, by the entrance of Sam with a letter, which he gave to Flora.

"Here's ill tidings, Sir!" said Sam to Father. "Miss Flora's letter was brought by ane horseman, that's ridden fast and far; the puir beastie's a' o'er foam, and himsel's just worn-out. He brings news o' a gran'

battle betwixt the Prince and yon loon they ca' c.u.mberland,--ma certie, but c.u.mberland's no mickle beholden to 'em!--and the Prince's army's just smashed to bits, and himsel' a puir fugitive in the Highlands. Ill luck tak' 'em!--though that's no just becoming to a Christian man, but there's times as a chiel disna stop to measure his words and cut 'em off even wi' scissors. 'Twas at a place they ca' Culloden, this last week gane: and they say there's na mair chance for the Prince the now than for last year's Christmas to come again."

Father, of course, was extreme troubled by this news, and went forth into the hall to speak with the horseman, whom Sam had served with a good supper. Ambrose followed, and so did my Aunt Kezia, for she said men knew nought about airing beds, and it was as like as not Bessy would take the blankets from the wrong chest if she were not after her. Hatty was not in the room, and Flora had carried off her letter, which was from my Uncle Drummond. So Ephraim and I were left alone, for, somewhat to my surprise, he made no motion to follow the rest.

"Cary," he said, in a low tone, as he took the next chair, "I have had news, also."

It was bad news--in a moment I knew that. His tone said so. I looked up fearfully. I felt, before I heard, the terrible words that were coming.

"Duncan Keith rests with G.o.d!"

Oh, it was no wonder if I let my work drop, and hid my face in my hands, and wept as if my heart were breaking. Not for Colonel Keith. He should never see evil any more. For Annas, and for Flora, and for the stricken friends at Monksburn, and for my Uncle Drummond, who loved him like another son,--and--yes, let me confess it, for Cary Courtenay, who had just then so much to mourn over, and must not mourn for it except with the outside pretence of something else.

"Did you care so much for him, Cary?"

What meant that intense pain in Ephraim's voice? Did he fancy--And what did it matter to him, if he did? I tried to wipe away my tears and speak.

"Did you care so little?" I said, as well as I could utter. "Think of Annas, and his parents, and--And, Ephraim, we led him to his death--you and I!"

"Nay, not so," he answered. "You must not look at it in that light, Cary. We did but our duty. It is never well to measure duties by consequences. Yes, of course I think of his parents and sister, poor souls! It will be hard for them to bear. Yet I almost think I would change with them rather than with Angus, when he comes to know. Cary, somebody must write to Miss Keith: and it ought to be either Miss Drummond or you."

I felt puzzled. Would he not break it best to her himself? If all were settled betwixt them, and it looked as if it were, was he not the proper person to write?

"You have not written to her?" I said.

"Why, no," he answered. "I scarce like to intrude myself on her. She has not seen much of me, you know. Besides, I think a woman would know far better how to break such news. Men are apt to touch a wound roughly, even when they wish to act as gently as possible. No, Cary--I am unwilling to place such a burden on you, but I think it must be one of you."

Could he speak of Annas thus, if--I felt bewildered.

"Unless," he said, thoughtfully, looking out of the window, where the moon was riding like a queen through the somewhat troubled sky, "unless you think--for you, as a girl, can judge better than I--that Raymond would be the best breaker. Perhaps you do not know that Raymond is not at home? My Lady Inverness writ the news to him, and said she had not spoken either to Mrs Raymond or Miss Keith. She plainly shrank from doing it. Perhaps he would help her to bear it best."

"How should he be the best?" I said. "Mrs Raymond might--"

"Why, Cary, is it possible you do not know that Raymond and Miss Keith are troth-plight?"

"Troth-plight! Mr Raymond! Annas!"

I started up in my astonishment. Here was a turning upside down of all my notions!

"So that is news to you?" said Ephraim, evidently surprised himself.

"Why, I thought you had known it long ago. Of course I must have puzzled you! I see, now."

"I never heard a word about it," I said, feeling as though I must be dreaming, and should awake by-and-by. "I always thought--"

"You always thought what?"

"I thought you cared for Annas," I forced my lips to say.

"You thought I cared for Miss Keith?" Ephraim's tone was a stronger negative than any words could have been. "Yes, I cared for her as your friend, and as a woman in trouble, and a woman of fine character: but if you fancied I wished to make her my wife, you were never more mistaken.

No, Cary; I fixed on somebody else for that, a long while ago--before I ever saw Miss Keith. May I tell you her name?"

Then we were right at first, and it was f.a.n.n.y. I said, "Yes," as well as I could.

"Cary, I never loved, and never shall love, any one but you."

I cannot tell you, little book, either what I said, or exactly what happened after that. I only know that the moaning wind outside chanted a triumphal march, and the dying embers on my hearthstone sprang up into a brilliant illumination, and I did not care a straw for all the battles that ever were fought, and envied neither Annas Keith nor anybody else.

"Well, Hatty! I did not think you were going to be the old maid of the family!" said my Aunt Kezia.

"I did not, either, once," was Hatty's answer, in a low tone, but not a sad one. "Perhaps I was the best one for it, Aunt. At any rate, you and Father will always have one girl to care for you."

We did not see Flora till the next morning. I knew that my Uncle Drummond's letter must be that in which he answered the news of Angus's escape, and I did not wonder if it unnerved her. She let me read it afterwards. The Laird and Lady Monksburn had plainly given up their son for ever when they heard what he had done. And knowing what I knew, I felt it was best so. I had to tell Flora my news:--to see the light die suddenly out of her dear brown velvet eyes,--will it ever come back again? And I wondered, watching her by the light of my own new-born happiness, whether Duncan Keith were as little to her as I had supposed.

I knew, somewhat later, that I had misunderstood her, that we had misinterpreted her. Her one wish seemed to be to get back home. And Father said he would take her himself as far as the Border, if my Uncle Drummond would come for her to the place chosen.

When the parting came, as we took our last kiss, I told her I prayed G.o.d bless her, and that some day she might be as happy as I was. There was a moment's flash in the brown eyes.

"Take that wish back, Cary," she said, quietly. "Happy as you are, the woman whom Duncan Keith loved can never be, until she meet him again at the gates of pearl."

"That may be a long while, dear."

"It will be just so long as the Lord hath need of me," she answered: "and I hope, for his sake, that will be as long as my father needs me.

And then--Oh, but it will be a blithe day when the call comes to go home!"

The Fells Farm, September 25th.

Five months since I writ a word! And how much has happened in them--so much that I could never find time to set it down, and now I must do it just in a few lines.

I have been married six weeks. Father shook his head with a smile when Ephraim first spoke to him, and said his la.s.s was only in the cradle yesterday: but he soon came round. It was as quiet a wedding as Sophy's, and I am sure I liked it all the better, whatever other people might think. We are to live at the Fells Farm during the year of Ephraim's curacy, and then Father thinks he can easily get him a living through the interest of friends. Where it will be, of course we cannot guess.

Flora has writ thrice since she returned home. She says my Uncle Drummond was very thankful to have her back again: but she can see that Lady Monksburn is greatly changed, and the Laird has so failed that he scarce seems the same man. Of herself she said nothing but one sentence,--

"Waiting, dear Cary,--always waiting."

From Angus we do not hear a word. Mr Raymond and Annas are to be married when their year of mourning is out. I cannot imagine how they will get along--he a Whig clergyman, and she a Tory Presbyterian!

However, that is their affair. I am rather thankful 'tis not mine.

My Aunt Dorothea has writ me one letter--very kind to me--(it was writ on the news of my marriage), but very stiff toward my Aunt Kezia. I see she cannot forgive her easily, and I do not think Grandmamma ever will.