Then Annas had been satisfied, for of course she was one of the difficulties which had to be smoothed away.
“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’ Cumberland,—ma certie, but Cumberland’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 God!”
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.