Chapter Seven.
Rumours of War.
“They’ve left their bonnie Highland hills,
Their wives and bairnies dear,
To draw the sword for Scotland’s Lord,
The young Chevalier.”
Caroline, Lady Nairn.
Yesterday, when Flora and I sat at our sewing in the manse parlour, something happened which has set everything in a turmoil. We had been talking, but we were silent just then: and I was thinking over what my Uncle Drummond and Mr Whitefield had said, when all at once we heard the gate dashed open, and Angus came rushing up the path with his plaid flying behind him. Flora sprang up and ran to meet him.
“What is the matter?” she said. “’Tis so unlike Angus to come dashing up in that way. I do hope nothing is wrong with Father.”
I dropped my sewing and ran after her.
“Angus, what is wrong?” she cried.
“Why should anything be wrong? Can’t something be right?” cried Angus, as he came up; and I saw that his cheeks were flushed and his eyes flashing. “The Prince has landed, and the old flag is flying at Glenfinnan. Hurrah!”
And Angus snatched off his cap, and flung it up so high that I wondered if it would come down again.
“The Prince!” cried Flora; and looking at her, I saw that she had caught the infection too. “O Angus, what news! Who told you? Is it true? Are you quite sure?”
“Sure as the hills. Duncan told me. I have been over to Monksburn, and he has just come home. All the clans in Scotland will be up to-morrow. That was the one thing we wanted—our Prince himself among us. You will hear of no faint hearts now.”
“What will the Elector do?” said Flora. “He cannot, surely, make head against our troops.”
“Make head! We shall be in London in a month. Sir John Cope has gone to meet Tullibardine at Glenfinnan. I expect he will come back a trifle faster than he went. Long live the King, and may God defend the right!”
All at once, Angus’s tone changed, as his eyes fell upon me. “Cary, I hope you are not a traitor in the camp? You look as if you cared nothing about it, and you rather wondered we did.”
“I know next to nothing about it, Angus,” I answered. “Father would care a great deal; and if I understood it, I dare say I might. But I don’t, you see.”
“What do I hear!” cried Angus, in mock horror, clasping his hands, and casting up his eyes. “The daughter of Squire Courtenay of Brocklebank knows next to nothing about Toryism! Hear it, O hills and dales!”
“About politics of any sort,” said I. “Don’t you know, I was brought up with Grandmamma Desborough, who is a Whig so far as she is anything—but she always said it was vulgar to get warm over politics, so I never had the chance of hearing much about it.”
“Poor old tabby!” said irreverent Angus.
“But have you heard nothing since you came to Brocklebank?” asked Flora, with a surprised look.
“Oh, I have heard Father toast ‘the King over the water,’ and rail at the Elector; and I have heard Fanny chant that ‘Britons never shall be slaves’ till I never wanted to hear the tune again; and I have heard Ambrose Catterall sing Whig songs to put Father in a pet, and heard lots of people talk about lots of things which are to be done when the King has his own again. That is about all I know. Of course I know how the Revolution came about, and all that: and I have heard of the war thirty years ago, and the dreadful executions after it—”
“Executions! Massacres!” cried Angus, hotly.
“Well, massacres if you like,” said I. “I am sure they were shocking enough to be called any ugly name.”
Angus seemed altogether changed. He could not keep to one subject, nor stand still for one minute. I was not much surprised so long as it was only he; but I was astonished when I saw the change which came over my Uncle Drummond. I never supposed he could get so excited about anything which had to do with earth. And yet his first thought was to connect it with Heaven. (Note 1.)
I shall never forget the ring of his prayer that night. An exile within sight of home, a prisoner to whom the gates had just been opened, might have spoken in the words and tones that he did.
“Lord, Thou hast been gracious unto Thy land!” “Let them give thanks whom the Lord hath redeemed, and delivered from the hand of the enemy!” That was the key-note of every sentence.
I found, before long, that I had caught the complaint myself. I went about singing, “The King shall ha’e his ain again,” and got as hot and eager for fresh news as anybody.
“Oh dear, I hope the Prince will conquer the Elector before I go to London,” I said to Flora: “for I do not know whatever Grandmamma will say if I go to her in this mood. She always says there is nothing so vulgar as to get enthusiastic over anything. You ought to be calm, composed, collected, and everything else which is cold and begins with C.”
Flora laughed, but was grave again directly.
“I expect, Cary, your journey to London is a long way off,” said she. “How are you to travel, if all the country be up, and troops going to and fro everywhere?”
“I am sure I don’t care if it be,” said I. “I would rather stay here, a great deal.”
I thought we were tolerably warm about the Prince’s landing, at Abbotscliff; but when I got to Monksburn, I found the weather still hotter. The Laird is almost beside himself; Mr Keith as I never saw him before. Annas has the air of an inspired prophetess, and even Lady Monksburn is moved out of her usual quietude, though she makes the least ado of any. News came while we were there, that Sir John Cope had been so hard pressed by the King’s army that he was forced to fall back on Inverness; and nothing would suit the Laird but to go out and make a bonfire on the first hill he came to, so as to let people see that something had happened. The Elector, we hear, has come back from Hanover, and his followers are in a panic, I hope they will stay there.
Everybody agrees that the army will march southwards at once after this victory, and that unless my journey could take place directly, I shall have to stay where I am, at least over the winter. The Laird wishes he could get Annas out of the way. If I were going, I believe he would send her with me, to those friends of Lady Monksburn in the Isle of Wight. I thought Lady Monksburn looked rather anxious, and wistful too, when he spoke about it. Annas herself did not seem to care.
“The Lord will not go to the Isle of Wight,” she said, quietly.
Oh, if I could feel as they do—that God is everywhere, and that everywhere He is my Friend! And then, my Uncle Drummond’s words come back upon me. But how do you trust Christ? What have you to do? If people would make things plain!
Well, it looks as if I should have plenty of time for learning. For it seems pretty certain, whatever else is doubtful, that I am a fixture at Abbotscliff.
I wonder if things always happen just when one has made up one’s mind that they are not going to happen?
About ten o’clock this morning, Flora and I were sewing in the parlour, just as we have been doing every day since I came here. My Uncle Drummond was out, and Angus was fixing a white cockade in his bonnet. Helen Raeburn put in her head at the door.
“If you please, Miss Cary,” said she, “my cousin Samuel wad be fain to speak wi’ ye.”
For one moment I could not think who she meant. What had I to do with her cousin Samuel? And then, all at once, it flashed upon me that Helen’s cousin Samuel was our own old Sam.
“Sam!” I almost screamed. “Has he come from Brocklebank? Oh, is anything wrong at home?”
“There’s naething wrang ava, Miss Cary, but a hantle that’s richt—only ane thing belike—and that’s our loss mair than yours. But will ye see Samuel?”
“Oh, yes!” I cried. And Flora bade Helen bring him in.
In marched Sam—the old familiar Sam, though he had put on a flowered waistcoat and a glossy green tie which made him look rather like a Merry Andrew.
“Your servant, ladies! Your servant, Maister Angus! I trust all’s weel wi’ ye the morn?”
And Sam sighed, as if he felt relieved after that speech.
“Sam, is all well at home? Who sent you?”
“All’s weel, Miss Cary, the Lord be thanked. And Mrs Kezia sent me.”
“Is my Aunt Kezia gone to her new house? Does she want me to come back?”
“Thank goodness, na!” said Sam, which at first I thought rather a poor compliment; but I saw the next minute that it was the answer to my first question. “Mrs Kezia’s gone nowhere. Nor they dinna want ye back at Brocklebank nae mair. I’m come to ha’e a care of ye till London town. The Lord grant I win hame safe mysel’ at after!”
“Is the country so disturbed, Sam?” said Flora.
“The country’s nae disturbed, Miss Flora. I was meanin’ temptations and sic-like. Leastwise, ay—the country is a bit up and down, as ye may say; but no sae mickle. We’ll win safe eneuch to London, me and Miss Cary, if the Lord pleases. It’s the comin’ haim I’m feared for.”
“And is—” I hardly knew how to ask what I wanted to know. Flora helped me. I think she saw I needed it.
“Was the wedding very grand, Sam?”
“Whose wedding, Miss Flora? There’s been nae weddings at Brocklebank, but Ben Dykes and auld Bet Donnerthwaite, and I wish Ben joy on’t. I am fain he’s no me.”
“Nay, you are fain you are no he,” laughed Angus.
“I’m fain baith ways, Maister Angus. The Laird ’d hae his table ill served gin Ben tried his haun.”
“But what do you mean, Sam?” cried I. “Has not—”
I stopped again, but Sam helped me out himself.
“Na, Miss Cary, there’s nae been siccan a thing, the Lord be thanked! She took pepper in the nose, and went affa gude week afore it suld ha’e been; and a gude riddance o’ ill rubbish, say I. Mrs Kezia and Miss Sophy, they are at hame, a’ richt: and Miss Hatty comes back in a twa-three days, without thae young leddies suld gang till London toun, and gin they do she’ll gang wi’ ’em.”
“Father is not married?” I exclaimed.
“He’s better aff,” said Sam, determinedly. “I make na count o’ thae hizzies.”
How glad I felt! Though Father might be sorry at first, I felt so sure he would be thankful afterwards. As for the girl who had jilted him, I thought I could have made her into mincemeat. But I was so glad of his escape.
“The Laird wad ha’e had ye come wi’ yon lanky loon wi’ the glass of his e’e,” went on Sam: “he was bound frae Carlisle to London this neist month. But Mrs Kezia, she wan him o’er to send me for ye. An’ I was for to say that gin the minister wad like Miss Flora to gang wi’ ye, I micht care ye baith, or onie ither young damsel wha’s freens wad like to ha’e her sent soothwards.”
“O Flora,” I cried at once—“Annas!”
“Yes, we will send word to Monksburn,” answered Flora: and Angus jumped up and said he would walk over.
“As for me,” said Flora, turning to Sam, “I must hear my father’s bidding. I do not think I shall go—not if I may stay with him. But the Laird of Monksburn wishes Miss Keith to go south, and I think he would be glad to put her in your care.”
“And I’d be proud to care Miss Annas,” said Sam, with a pull at his forelock. “I mind her weel, a bit bonnie lassie. The Laird need nae fear gin she gangs wi’ me. But I’d no ha’e said sae mickle for yon puir weak silken chiel wi’ the glass in his e’e.”
“Why, Sam, who do you mean?” said I.
“Wha?” said Sam. “Yon pawky chiel, the auld Vicar’s nevey—Maister Parchmenter, or what ye ca him—a bonnie ane to guard a pair o’ lassies he’d be!”
“Mr Parmenter!” cried I. “Did Father think of sending us with him?”
“He just did, gin Mrs Kezia had nae had mair wit nor himsel’. She sent ye her loving recommend, young leddies, and ye was to be gude lassies, the pair o’ ye, and no reckon ye kent better nor him that had the charge o’ ye.”
“Sam, you put that in yourself,” said Angus.
“Atweel, Sir, Mrs Kezia said she hoped they’d be gude lassies, and discreet—that’s as true as my father’s epitaph.”
“Where is Miss Osborne gone, Sam?” asked Flora.
“Gin naebody wants to ken mair than me, Miss Flora, there’ll no be mickle speiring. I’m only sure o’ ane place where she’ll no be gane, I’m thinkin’, and that’s Heaven.”
“You don’t seem to me to have fallen in love with her, Sam,” said Angus, who appeared exceedingly amused.
“Is’t me, Sir? Ma certie, but gin there were naebody in this haill warld but her an’ me, I’d tak’ a lodging for her in the finest street I could find i’ London toun, an’ I’d be aff mysel’ to the Orkneys by the neist ship as left the docks. I wad, sae!”
Angus laughed till he cried, and Flora and I were no much better. He went at once to Monksburn, and came back with tidings that the Laird was very glad of the opportunity to send Annas southwards. And when my Uncle Drummond came in, though his lip trembled and her eyes pleaded earnestly, he said Flora must go too.
And to-night Mr Keith brought news that men were up all over the Highlands, and that the Prince was marching on Perth.
My Uncle Drummond says we must go at once—there is not to be a day’s delay that can be helped. Mr Keith and Angus are both to join the Prince as soon as they can be ready. My Uncle will go with us himself to Hawick, and then Sam will go on with us to Carlisle, where we are to wait one day, while Sam rides over to Brocklebank to fetch and exchange such things as we may need, and if we can hear of any friend of Father’s or my Uncle’s who is going south, we are to join their convoy. The Laird of Monksburn sends one of his men with us; and both he and Sam will be well armed. I am sure I hope there will be no occasion for the arms.
Angus is in a mental fever, and dashes about, here, there, and everywhere, without apparent reason, and also without much consideration. I mean consideration in both senses—reflection, and forbearance. Flora is grave and anxious—I think, a little frightened, both for herself and Angus. Mr Keith takes the affair very seriously; that I can see, though he does not say much. Annas seems (now that the first excitement is over) as calm as a summer eve. We are to start, if possible, on Friday, and sleep at Hawick the first night.
“Hech, Sirs!” was Helen’s comment, when she heard it. “My puir bairns, may the Lord be wi’ ye! It’s ill setting forth of a Friday.”
“Clashes and clavers!” cries Sam, turning on her. “Helen Raeburn, ye’re just daft! Is the Lord no sae strang o’ Friday as ither days? What will fules say neist?”
“Atweel, ye may lauch, Sam, an’ ye will,” answered Helen: “but I tell ye, I ne’er brake my collar-bone of a journey but ance, and that was when I’d set forth of a Friday.”
“And I ne’er brake mine ava, and I’ve set forth monie a time of a Friday,” returned Sam. “Will ye talk sense, woman dear, gin women maun talk?”
I do feel so sorry to leave Abbotscliff. I wish I were not going to London. And I do not quite like to ask myself why. I should not mind going at all, if it were only a change of place. Abbotscliff is very lovely, but there is a great deal in London that I should like to see. If I were to lead the same sort of life as here, and with the same sort of people, I should be quite satisfied to go. But I know it will be very different. Everything will be changed. Not only the people, but the ways of the people. Instead of breezy weather there will be hot crowded rooms, and instead of the Tweed rippling over the pebbles there will be noisy music and empty chatter. And it is not so much that I am afraid it will be what I shall not like. It will at first, I dare say: but I am afraid that in time I shall get to like it, and it will drive all the better things out of my head, and I shall just become one of those empty chatterers. I am sure there is danger of it. And I do not know how to help it. It is pleasant to please people, and to make them laugh, and to have them say how pretty, or how clever you are: and then one gets carried away, and one says things one never meant to say, and the things go and do something which one never meant to do. And I should not like to be another of my Aunt Dorothea!
I do not think there is half the fear for Flora that there is for me. She does not seem to get carried off her mind’s feet, as it were: there is something solid underneath her. And it is not at all certain that Flora will be there. If she be asked to stay, Uncle says, she may please herself, for he knows she can be trusted: but if Grandmamma or my Aunt Dorothea do not ask her, then she goes on with Annas to her friends, who, Annas says, will be quite delighted to see her.
I do so wish that Flora might stay with me!
This afternoon we went over to Monksburn to say farewell.
Flora and Annas had a good deal to settle about our journey, and all the people and things we were leaving behind. They went into the garden, but I asked leave to stay. I did so want a talk with Lady Monksburn on two points. I thought, I hardly know why, that she would understand me.
I sat for a few minutes, watching her bright needles glance in and out among the soft wools: and at last I brought out the less important of my two questions. If she answered that kindly, patiently, and as if she understood, the other was to come after. If not, I would keep it to myself.
“Will you tell me, Madam—is it wrong to pray about anything? I mean, is there anything one ought not to pray about?”
Lady Monksburn looked up, but only for a moment.
“Dear child!” she said, with a gentle smile, “is it wrong to tell your Father of something you want?”
“But may one pray about things that do not belong to church and Sunday and the Bible?” said I.
“Everything belongs to the Bible,” said she. “It is the chart for the voyage of life. You mean, dear heart, is it right to pray about earthly things which have to do with the body? No doubt it is. ‘Give us this day our daily bread.’”
“But does that mean real, common bread?” I asked. “I thought people said it meant food for the soul.”
“People say very foolish things sometimes, my dear. It may include food for the soul, and very likely does. But I think it means food for the body first. ‘Your Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.’ That, surely, was said of meat and drink and clothing.”
I thought a minute. “But I mean more than that,” I said; “things that one wishes for, which are not necessaries for the body, and yet are not things for the soul.”
“Necessaries for the mind?” suggested Lady Monksburn. “My dear, your mind is a part of you as much as your body and spirit. And ‘He careth for you,’ body, soul, and spirit—not the spirit only, and not the spirit and body only.”
“For instance,” I said, “suppose I wanted very much to go somewhere, or not to go somewhere—for reasons which seemed good ones to me—would it be wicked to ask God to arrange it so?”
Lady Monksburn looked up at me with her gentle, motherly eyes.
“Dear child,” she said, “you may ask God for anything in all the world, if only you will bear in mind that He loves you, and is wiser than you. ‘Father, if it be possible,—nevertheless, not My will, but Thine, be done.’ You cannot ask a more impossible thing than that which lay between those words. If the world were to be saved, if God were to be glorified, it was not possible. Did He not know that who asked it with strong crying and tears? Was not the asking done to teach us two things—that He was very man, like ourselves, shrinking from pain and death as much as the very weakest of us can shrink, and also that we may ask anything and everything, if only we desire beyond it that God’s will be done?”
“Thank you,” I said, drawing a long breath. Yes, I might ask my second question.
“Lady Monksburn, what is it to trust the Lord Jesus?”
“Do you want to know what trust is, Cary,—or what He is? My child, I think I can tell you the first, but I can never attempt to paint the glory of the second.”
“I want to know what people mean by trusting Him. How are you to trust somebody whom you do not know?”
“It is hard. I think you must know a little before you can trust. And by the process of trusting you learn to know. Trust and love are very near akin. You must talk with Him, Cary, if you want to know Him.”
“You mean, pray, I suppose?”
“That is talking to Him. It is a poor converse where all the talk is on one side.”
“But what is the other side—reading the Bible?”
“That is part of it.”
“What is the other part of it?”
Lady Monksburn looked up at me again, with a smile which I do not know how to describe. I can only say that it filled me with a sudden yearning for my dead mother. She might have smiled on me like that.
“My darling!” she answered, “there are things which can be described, and there are things which can but be felt. No man can utter the secret of the Lord—only the Lord Himself. Ask Him to whisper it to you. You will care little for the smiles or the frowns of the world when He has done so.”
Is not that just what I want? “But will He tell it to any one?” I said.
“He tells it to those who long for it,” she replied. “His smile may be had by any who will have it. It costs a great deal, sometimes. But it is worth the cost.”
“What does it cost, Madam?”
“It costs what most men think very precious, and yet is really worth nothing at all. It costs the world’s flatteries, which are as a net for the feet; and the world’s pleasures, which are as the crackling of thorns under the pot; and the world’s honours, which are empty air. It often costs these. There are few men who can be trusted with both.”
There was a minute’s silence, and then she said,—
“The Scottish Catechism, my dear, saith that ‘Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him for ever.’ Grander words were never penned out of God’s own Word. And among the most striking words in it are those of David, which may be called the response thereto—‘When I awake up after Thy likeness, I shall be satisfied with it.’”
Then Annas and Flora came in.
But I had got what I wanted.
Bloomsbury Square, London, September 23rd 1745.
While we were travelling, I could not get at my book to write anything; and had I been able, I doubt whether I should have found time. We journeyed from early morning till late at night, really almost as though we were flying from a foe: though of course we should have had nothing to fear, had the royal army overtaken us. It was only the Elector’s troops who would have meddled with us; and they were in Scotland somewhere. There is indeed a rumour flying abroad to-night (saith my Uncle Charles), that the Prince has entered Edinburgh: but we know not if it be true or no. If so, he will surely push on straight for London, since the rebellious troops must have been driven quite away, before he could do that. So my Uncle Charles says; and he saith too, that they are a mere handful of raw German mercenaries, who would never stand a moment against the courage, the discipline, and the sense of right, which must animate the King’s army.
Oh dear! where shall I begin, if I am to write down all about the journey? And if I do not, it will look like a great gap in my tale. Well, my Uncle Drummond took us to Hawick—but stop! I have not left Abbotscliff yet, and here I am coming to Hawick. That won’t do. I must begin again.
Mr Keith and Angus marched on Thursday night, with a handful of volunteers from Tweedside. It was hard work parting. Even I felt it, and of course Angus is much less to me than the others. Mr Keith said farewell to my Uncle and me, and he came last to Flora. She lifted her eyes to him full of tears as she put her hand in his.
“Duncan,” she said, “will you make me a promise?”
“Certainly, Flora, if it be anything that will ease your mind.”
“Indeed it will,” she said, with trembling lips. “Never lose sight of Angus, and try to keep him safe and true.”
“True to the Cause, or true to God?”
“True to both. I cannot separate between right and right.”
I thought there was just one second’s hesitation—no more—before Mr Keith gave his solemn answer.
“I will, so help me God!”
Flora thanked him amidst her sobs. He held her hand a moment longer, and I almost thought that he was going to ask her for something. But suddenly there came a setting of stern purpose into his lips and eyes, and he kissed her hand and let it go, with no more than—“God bless you, dear Flora. Farewell!”
Then Angus came up, and gave us a much warmer (and rougher) good-bye: but I felt there was something behind Mr Keith’s, which he had not spoken, and I wondered what it was.
We left Abbotscliff ourselves at six o’clock next morning. Flora and I were in the chaise; my Uncle Drummond, Sam, and Wedderburn (the Laird’s servant) on horseback. At the gates at Monksburn we took up Annas, and Wedderburn joined us there too. The Laird came to see us off, and nearly wrung my hand off as he said, to Flora and me, “Take care of my bairn. The Lord’s taking them both from their auld father. If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved.”
“The Lord will keep them Himself, dear friend,” said my Uncle Drummond. “Surely you see the need to part with them?”
“Oh ay, I see the need clear enough! And an auld noodle I am, to be lamenting to you, who are suffering the very same loss.” Then he turned to Annas. “God be with thee, my bonnie birdie,” he said: “the auld Grange will be lone without thy song. But thou wilt let us hear a word of thy welfare as oft as thou canst.”
“As often as ever I can, dear Father,” said Annas: and as he turned back, and we drove away, she broke down as I had never imagined Annas would do.
We slept that night at the inn at Hawick. On the Saturday morning, my Uncle Drummond left us, and we went on to Carlisle, which we reached late at night. Here we were to stay with Dr and Mrs Benn, friends of Father’s, who made much of us, and seemed to think themselves quite honoured in having us: and Sam went off at once on a fresh horse to Brocklebank, which he hoped to reach by midnight. They would be looking for him. I charged him with all sorts of messages, which he said grimly that he would deliver if he recollected them when he got there: and I gave him a paper for my Aunt Kezia, with a list of things I would have sent.
On Sunday we went to the Cathedral with our hosts, and spent the day quietly.
But on Monday morning, what was my astonishment, as I was just going into the parlour, to hear a familiar voice say—
“Did you leave your eyes at Abbotscliff, my dear?”
“Aunt Kezia!” I cried.
Yes, there stood my Aunt Kezia, in her hood and scarf, looking as if only an hour had passed since I saw her before. I was glad to see her, and I ventured to say so.
“Why, child, did you think I was going to send my lamb out into the wilderness, with never a farewell?”
“But how early you must have had to rise, Aunt Kezia!”
“Mrs Kezia, this is an unlooked-for pleasure,” said the Doctor, coming forward. “I could never have hoped to see you at this hour.”
“This hour! Why, ’tis but eight o’clock!” cries my Aunt Kezia. “What sort of a lig-a-bed do you think me, Doctor?”
“Madam, I think you the flower of creation!” cries he, bowing over her hand.
“You must have been reading the poets,” saith she, “and not to much good purpose.—Flora, child, you look but white! And is this Miss Annas Keith, your friend? I am glad to see you, my dear. Don’t mind an old woman’s freedom: I call all girls ‘my dear’.”
Annas smiled, and said she was very pleased to feel as though my Aunt Kezia reckoned her among her friends.
“My friends’ friends are mine,” saith my Aunt Kezia. “Well, Cary, I have brought you all the things in your minute, save your purple lutestring scarf, which I could not find. It was not in the bottom shelf, as you set down.”
“Why, where could I have put it?” said I. “I always keep it on that shelf.”
I was sorry to miss it, because it is my best scarf, and I thought I should want it in London, where I suppose everybody goes very fine. However, there was no more to be said—on my side. I found there was on my Aunt Kezia’s.
“Here, hold your hand, child,” saith she. “Your father sends you ten guineas to spend; and here are five more from me, and this pocket-piece from Sophy. You can get a new scarf in London, if you need it, or anything else you like better.”
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Kezia!” I cried. “Why, how rich I shall be!”
“Don’t waste your money, Cary: lay it out wisely, and then we shall be pleased. I will give you a good rule: Never buy anything without sleeping on it. Don’t rush off and get it the first minute it comes into your head. You will see the bottom of your purse in a veek if you do.”
“But it might be gone, Aunt Kezia.”
“Then it is something you can do without.”
“Is Hatty come home, Aunt?” said Flora.
“Not she,” saith my Aunt Kezia. “Miss Hatty’s gone careering off, the deer know where. I dare be bound you’ll fall in with her. She is gone with Charlotte and Emily up to town.”
I was sorry to hear that. I don’t much want to meet Hatty—above all if Grandmamma be there.
Note 1. The great majority of Scottish Jacobites were Episcopalians and “Moderates,” a term equivalent to the English “High and Dry.” There were, however, a very few Presbyterians among them.