Out in the Forty-Five Part 9

"Ambrose Catterall says that young men must always sow their wild oats,"

I said, when she stopped thus.

"That is one of the Devil's maxims," exclaimed Flora, earnestly. "G.o.d calls it sowing to the flesh: and He says the harvest of it is corruption. Some flowers seed themselves: thistles do. Did you ever know roses grow from thistle seed? No: 'whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he reap.' Ah me, for Angus's harvest!"

"Well, I don't see what you can do," said I.

"There is the sting," she replied. "It would be silly to weep if I did.

No, in such cases, I think there is only one thing a woman can do--and that is to cry mightily unto G.o.d to loose the bonds of the oppressor, and let the oppressed go free. I don't know--I may be mistaken--but I hardly think it is of much use for women to talk to such a man. It is not talking that he needs. He knows his own folly, very often, at least as well as you can tell him, and would be glad enough to be loosed from his bonds, if only somebody would come and tear them asunder. He cannot: and you cannot. Only G.o.d can. Some evil spirits can be cast out by nothing but prayer. Cary--" Flora broke off suddenly, and looked up earnestly in my face. "Don't mention this, will you, dear? I should not have said a word to you nor any one if you had not surprised me."

I promised her I would not, unless somebody first spoke to me. She would not come to Sophy's room.

"Tell the girls," she said, "that I want to write home; for I shall do it presently, when I feel a little calmer."

Something struck me as I was turning away. "Flora," I said, "why do you not tell my Aunt Kezia all about it? I am sure she would help you, if any one could."

"Yes, dear, I think she would," said Flora, gently; "but you see no one could. And remember, Cary!" she called me back as I was leaving the chamber, and came to me, and took both my hands; and her great sorrowful eyes, which looked just like brown velvet, gazed into mine like the eyes of a dog which is afraid of a scolding: "remember, Cary, that Angus is not wicked. He is only weak. But how weak he is!"

She broke down with another sob.

"But men should be stronger than women," said I, "not weaker."

"They are, in body and mind," replied Flora: "but s.e.x, I suppose, does not extend to soul. There, some men are far weaker than some women.

Look at Peter. I dare say the maid who kept the door would have been less frightened of the two, if he had taunted her with being one of 'this man's disciples.'"

"Well, I should feel ashamed!" I said.

"I am not sure if women do not feel moral weakness a greater shame than men do," replied Flora. "Men seem to think so much more of want of physical bravery. Many a soldier will not stand an ill-natured laugh, who would want to fight you in a minute if you hinted that he was afraid of being hurt. Things seem to look so different to men from what they do to women; and, I think, to the angels, and to G.o.d."

I did not like to leave her alone in her trouble: but she said she wanted nothing, and was going to write to her father; so I went back to Sophy's room, and gave Flora's message to the girls.

"Dear! I am sure we don't want her," said Hatty: and Charlotte added, "She is more of a spoil-sport than anything else."

So we played at "Hunt the slipper," and "Questions and commands," and "The parson has lost his cloak," and "Blind man's buff": and then when we got tired we sat down--on the beds or anywhere--Hatty took off the mirror and perched herself on the dressing-table, and Charlotte wanted to climb up and sit on the mantel-shelf, but Sophy would not let her-- and then we had a round of "How do you like it?" and then we went to bed.

In the middle of the night I awoke with a start, and heard a great noise, and Sam's voice, and old Will's, and a lot of queer talking, as if something were being carried up-stairs that was hard to pull along; and there were a good many words that I am sure my Aunt Kezia would not let me write, and--well, if He do look at what I am writing, I should not like G.o.d to see them neither. I felt sure that the gentlemen were being carried up to bed--such of them as could not walk--and such as could were being helped along. I rather wonder that gentlemen like to drink so much, and get themselves into such a queer condition. I do not think they would like it if the ladies began to do such things. I could not help wondering if Angus were among them. Flora, who had lain awake for a long while, and had only dropped asleep, as she told me afterwards, about half an hour before, for she heard the clock strike one, slept on at first, and I hoped she would not awake. But as the last lot were being dragged past our door, Flora woke up with a start, and cried,--

"What is that? O Cary, what can be the matter?"

I wanted to make as light of it as I could.

"Oh, go to sleep," I said; "there is nothing wrong."

"But what is that dreadful noise?" she persisted.

"Well, it is only the gentlemen going to bed," said I.

Just then, sounds came through the door, which showed that they were close outside. Somebody--so far as I could guess from what we heard-- was determined to sit down on the stairs, and Sam was trying to prevail upon him to go quietly to bed. All sorts of queer things were mixed up with it--hunting cries, bits of songs, invectives against Hanoverians and Dissenters, and I scarcely know what else.

"Who is that wretched creature?" whispered Flora to me.

I had recognised the voice, and was able to answer.

"It is Mr Bagnall," said I, "the vicar of Dornthwaite."

"A minister!" was Flora's answer, in an indescribable tone.

"Oh, that does not make any difference," I replied, "with the clergy about here. Mr Digby is too old for it now, but I have heard say that when he was a younger man, he used to be as uproarious as anybody."

At last Sam's patience seemed to be exhausted, and he and Will between them lifted the reverend gentleman off his feet, and carried him to bed despite his struggles. At least I supposed so from what I heard. About ten minutes later, Sam and Will pa.s.sed our door on their way back.

"Yon's a bonnie loon to ca' a minister," I heard Sam say as he went past. "But what could ye look for in a Prelatist?"

"He gets up i' t' pu'pit, and tells us our dooty, of a Sunda', but who does hisn of a Monda, think ye?" was old Will's response.

The footsteps pa.s.sed on, and I was just going to relieve my feelings by a good laugh, when I was stopped and astonished by Flora's voice.

"O Cary, how dreadful!"

"Dreadful!" said I, "what is dreadful?"

"That wretched man!" she said in a tone which matched her words.

"He does not think himself a wretched man, by any means," I said. "His living is worth quite two hundred a year, and he has a little private property beside. They say he does not stand at all a bad chance for a deanery. His wife is not a pleasant woman, I believe; she has a temper: but his son is carrying all before him at college, and his daughters are thought to be among the prettiest girls in the county."

"Has he children? Poor things!" sighed Flora.

"Why, Flora, I cannot make you out," said I. "I could understand your being uncomfortable about Angus; but what is Mr Bagnall to you?"

"Cary!" I cannot describe the tone.

"Well?" said I.

"Is the Lord nothing to me?" she said, almost pa.s.sionately; "nor the poor misguided souls committed to that man's charge, for which he will have to give account at the last day?"

"My dear Flora, you do take things so seriously!" I said, trying to laugh; but her tone and words had startled me, for all that.

"It is well to take sin seriously," said she. "Men are serious enough in h.e.l.l; and sin is its antechamber."

"You don't suppose poor Mr Bagnall will be sent there, for a little too much champagne at a hunt-supper?" said I. I did not like it, for I thought of Father. I have heard him singing "Old King Cole" and half a dozen more songs, all mixed up in a heap, after a hunt-supper. "Men always do it there. And I can a.s.sure you Mr Bagnall is thought a first-cla.s.s preacher. People go to hear him even from c.o.c.kermouth."

"That is worse than ever," said Flora, "A man who preaches the truth and serves the Devil--that must be awful!"

"Flora, you do say the queerest things!" said I. "Does your father never do so?"

"My father?" she answered in an astonished, indignant voice. "_My father_! Cary! but,"--with a change in the tone--"you do not know him, of course. Why, Cary, if he knew that Angus had been for once in the midst of such a scene as that, I think it would break my father's heart."

I wondered how Angus had fared, and if he were singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of Scotch songs in some bed-chamber at the other end of the long gallery, but I had not the cruelty to say it to Flora.