Out in the Forty-Five Part 55

"Ah, if that were all, Aunt!" said I. "But how can you leave it there?

It seems to me not a matter for opinion, but a question of right. We have to take sides; and we may choose the wrong one."

"I don't see that a woman need take any side unless she likes," quoth my Aunt Kezia. "I can bake as tasty a pie, and put on as neat a patch, whether I talk of Prince Charles or the Young Pretender. And patches and pies are my business: the Prince isn't. I reckon the Lord will manage to see that every one gets his rights, without Kezia Courtenay running up to help Him."

"But somebody has it to do, Aunt."

"Let them do it, then. I'm glad I'm not somebody."

"But, Aunt Kezia, don't you want people to have their rights?"

"Depends on what their rights are, child. Some of us would be very sadly off if we got them. I should not like my rights, I know."

"Ah, you mean your deserts, Aunt," said Hatty. "But rights are not just the same thing, are they?"

"Let us look it in the face, girls, if you wish," saith my Aunt Kezia.

"I hate seeing folks by side-face. If you want to see anybody, or understand anything, look right in its face. What are rights? They are not always deserts,--you are right there, Hatty,--for none of us hath any rights as regards G.o.d. Rights concern ourselves and our fellow-men.

I take it, every man hath a right to what he earns, and to what is given him,--whether G.o.d or man gave it to him,--so long as he that gave had the right over what he gave. Now, as to this question, it seems to me all lies in a nut-sh.e.l.l. If King James be truly the son of the old King (which I cannot doubt), then G.o.d gave him the crown of England, of which no man can possibly have any right to deprive him. Only G.o.d can do that. Then comes the next question, Has G.o.d done that? Time must answer. Without a revelation from Heaven, we cannot find it out any other way."

"But until we do find it out, where are we to stand?"

"Keep to your last orders till you get fresh ones. A servant will make sad blunders who goes contrary to orders, just because he fancies that his master may have changed his mind."

I see that for all practical purposes my Aunt Kezia agrees with Annas.

And indeed what they say sounds but reasonable.

It was the second of April when we left London. It had been arranged that we should travel by the flying machine [Note. Stage-coaches originally bore this hyperbolical name.] which runs from London to Gloucester, setting forth from the Saracen's Head on Snow Hill. The last evening before we set out, my Aunt Kezia, Hatty, and I, spent at Mr Raymond's with Annas. His mother is a very pleasant old silver-haired gentlewoman, with a soft, low voice and gentle manner that reminded me of Lady Monksburn.

I felt it very hard work to say farewell to Annas. What might not have happened before we met again? Ephraim was there for the last hour or so, and was very attentive to her. I do think--And I am rather afraid the Laird, her father, will not like it. But Ephraim is good enough for anybody. And I hope, when he marry Annas, which I think is coming, that he will not quite give over being my friend. He has been more like our brother than anybody else. I should not like to lose him. I have always wished we had a brother.

"No, not good-bye just yet, Cary," said Ephraim, in answer to my farewell. "You will see me again in the morning."

"Oh, are you coming to see us off?"

He nodded; and we only said good-night.

Grandmamma was very kind when we took leave of her. She gave each of us a keepsake--a beautiful garnet necklace to Hatty, and a handsome pearl pin to me.

"And, my dear," said she to Hatty, "I do hope you will try to keep as genteel as you are now. Don't, for mercy's sake, go and get those blowzed red cheeks again. They are so unbecoming a gentlewoman. And garnets, though they are the finest things in the world for a pale, clear complexion, look horrid worn with great red cheeks. Cary, your manners had rather gone back when you came, from what they used to be; but you have improved again now. Mind you keep it up. Don't get warm and enthusiastic over things,--that is your danger, my dear,--especially things of no consequence, and which don't concern you. A young gentlewoman should not be a politician; and to be warm over anything which has to do with religion, as I have many times told you, is exceeding bad taste. You should leave those matters to public men and the clergy. It is their business--not yours. My dears," and out came Grandmamma's snuff-box, "I wish you to understand, once for all, that if one of you ever joins those insufferable creatures, the Methodists, I will cut her off with a s.h.i.+lling! I shall wash my hands of her completely. I would not even call her my grand-daughter again! But I am sure, my dears, you have too much sense. I shall not insult you by supposing such a thing. Make my compliments to your father, and tell him I think you both much improved by your winter in Town. Good-bye, my dears. Mrs Kezia, I wish you a safe and pleasant journey."

"I thank you, Madam, and wish you every blessing," said my Aunt Kezia, with a warm clasp of Grandmamma's hand, which I am sure she would think sadly countrified. "But might I ask you, Madam, to explain something which puzzled me above a bit in what you have just said?"

"Certainly, Mrs Kezia," said Grandmamma, in her most gracious manner.

"Then, Madam, as I suppose the clergy are going to Heaven (and I am sure you would be as sorry to think otherwise as I should), if the way to get there is their business and not yours, where are you going, if you please?"

Grandmamma looked at my Aunt Kezia as if she thought that she must have taken leave of her wits.

"Madam! I--I do not understand--"

My Aunt Kezia did not flinch in the least. She stood quietly looking into Grandmamma's face, with an air of perfect simplicity, and waited for the answer.

"Of course, we--we are all going to Heaven," said Grandmamma, in a hesitating way. "But it is the business of the clergy to see that we do. Excuse me, Madam; I am not accustomed to--to talk about such subjects."

And Grandmamma took two pinches, one after the other.

"Well, you see, I am," coolly said my Aunt Kezia. "Seems to me, Madam, that going to Heaven is every bit as much my business as going to Gloucester; and I have not left that for the clergy to see to, nor do I see why I should the other. Folks don't always remember what you trust them with, and sometimes they can't manage the affair. And I take the liberty to think they'll find that matter rather hard to do, without I see to it as well, and without the Lord sees to it beside. Farewell, Madam; I shall be glad to meet you up there, and I do hope you'll make sure you've got on the right road, for it would be uncommon awkward to find out at last that it was the wrong one. Good-morrow, and G.o.d bless you!"

Not a word came in answer, but I just glanced back through the crack of the door, and saw Grandmamma sitting with the reddest face I ever did see to her, and two big wrinkles in her forehead, taking pinch after pinch in the most reckless manner.

My Aunt Dorothea, who stood in the door, said acidly,--"I think, Madam, it would have been as well to keep such remarks till you were alone with my mother. I do not know how it may be in c.u.mberland, but they are not thought becoming to a gentlewoman here. Believe me, I am indeed sorry to be forced to the discourtesy of saying so; but you were the first offender."

"Ay," said my Aunt Kezia. "Folks that tell the naked truth generally meet with more kicks than halfpence. But I would have spoken out of these girls' hearing, only I got never a chance. And you see I shall have to give in my account some day, and I want it to be as free from blots as I can."

"I suppose you thought you were doing a good work for your own soul!"

said my Aunt Dorothea, sneeringly.

"Eh, no, poor soul!" was my Aunt Kezia's sorrowful reply. "My soul's beyond my saving, but Christ has it safe. And knowing that, Madam, makes one very pitiful to unsaved souls."

"Upon my word, Madam!" cried my Aunt Dorothea. "You take enough upon you! 'Unsaved souls,' indeed! Well, I am thankful I never had the presumption to say that my soul was safe. I have a little more humility than that."

"It would indeed be presumption in some cases," said my Aunt Kezia, solemnly. "But, Madam, if you ask a princess whose daughter she is, it is scarce presuming that she should answer you, 'The King's.' What else can she answer? 'We know that we have eternal life.'"

"An apostle writ that, I suppose," said my Aunt Dorothea, in a hard tone.

"They were not apostles he writ to," said my Aunt Kezia. "And he says he writ on purpose that they might know it."

"Now, ladies, 'tis high time to set forth," called my Uncle Charles's voice from the hall; and I was glad to hear it. I and Hatty ran off at once, but I could not but catch my Aunt Kezia's parting words,--

"G.o.d bless you, Madam, and I thank you for all your kindness. And when I next see you, I hope you will know it."

We drove to Snow Hill in Grandmamma's coach, and took our seats (bespoken some days back) in the flying machine, where our company was two countrywomen with baskets, a youth that looked very pale and cadaverous, and wore his hair uncommon long, a lady in very smart clothes, and a clergyman in his ca.s.sock. My Uncle Charles bade us farewell very kindly, and wished us a safe journey. Mr Raymond was there also, and he bade G.o.d bless us. Somehow, in all the bustle, I had not a right chance to take leave of Ephraim. The coach set forth rather sooner than I expected, while Flora and I were charging Mr Raymond with messages to Annas; and he had only time to step back with a bow and a smile. I looked for Ephraim, but could not even see him. I was so sorry, and I thought of little else until we got to Uxbridge.

At Uxbridge we got out, and went into the inn to dine at the ordinary, which is always spread ready for the coming of the flying machine on a Wednesday. As I sat down beside my Aunt Kezia, a man came and took the chair on the other side of me.

"Tired, Cary?" he said, to my amazement.

"Ephraim!" I cried. "Wherever have you come from?"

"Did you think I had taken up my abode in London?" said he, looking diverted.

"But I thought you went after some business," I said, feeling very much puzzled that he should be going home just now, and leaving poor Annas in all her trouble.

"I did," he answered. "Business gets done some time. It would be a sad thing if it did not. Will you have some of this rabbit pie?"

I accepted the pie, for I did not care what I had.

"Then your business is done?" I said, in some surprise.