Маргарет Олифант
The House on the Moor. Volume 1
CHAPTER XIX
THE walk was not more agreeable than Colonel Sutherland foresaw it would be – the return the old soldier actually failed of courage for. He directed the gig to be sent for him, and so trudged upon his way without the dreadful thought of retracing all his steps in an hour or two. When they reached Marchmain there was no welcome vision of Susan at the window to solace her uncle’s fatigue. When Peggy admitted them it was with an exclamation of surprise and half-indignation. “To think of walking such roads, five miles on a day like this!” she cried, as she bustled into the dining-room after them to refresh the smouldering, half-dead fire. Peggy was by no means rejoiced that day to see Colonel Sutherland. To the shame of her housewifery she remembered that she had nothing in her larder which could be cooked readily for the visitor’s luncheon; and Peggy, like most other women of her years, country-bred, was overpowered by shame at the idea of having “nothing to offer” to the chance guest. Susan had gone upstairs, up to a garret room, the highest of the house, to fetch Peggy some apples which were stowed there; and as she was too high up to be able to hear the arrival of her uncle, Horace went to seek her. Peggy gazed after him, pausing in her cares for the fire, with a singular vexation.
“If that lad would but tell the truth – and all the truth,” said Peggy; “but he wunnot, Cornel – it’s somegate in his blood. I warrant he never told you a word how Miss Susan begged and prayed him to say you were never to think to come; that you would catch cold and wet, and do yoursel’ an injury, as it was just like her to say, the thoughtful thing. Na, says I to myself, as I saw him march away with his shut-up face, the Cornel’ll come or no come as his ain will bids, but Mr. Horace has no mind to stop him; yet if ye’ll believe me, he never said a word, but let Miss Susan believe he would tell her messages every one.”
“Never mind,” said Colonel Sutherland – who, however, did mind a good deal, as people generally do who use that expression – and who could not help thinking that Susan’s messages, had he ever received them, would have turned the scale and kept him under cover that miserable day. “Never mind, Peggy; I ought to take it as a compliment that Horace likes my society so much. I wish I could carry my niece home with me, poor child – eh? do you think her father would be likely to consent?”
“Eh, Mr. Edward, run not the risk of asking!” cried Peggy; “I’m no the person to speak an evil word of him, no me – but he’s unhappy himself, as how do you think he can be other? – and he will not have happiness come near his house. Eh, Cornel, honey, if ye could but beguile him to open his heart! I knowed him a boy, and I knowed him a young man, and I knowed him in the mistress’s time, but, sir, though he had his faults, and I would not deny them, all the days of his life, you would not reckonise him now; and all along o’ that weary ould man!”
“Hush, Peggy! we must not blame those that are gone,” said the gentle Colonel; “they are in other hands than ours; but it has been a melancholy business altogether. Horace, do you know, wishes to leave home and begin the world for himself.”
“And the sooner the better, Cornel!” cried Peggy; “the lad will be clean ruined, root and branch, if he bides here. I would give all the pennies I’ve gathered all my life to see him safe out of that door, though he’s a strange lad, is Mr. Horace. Hoosht, they’re coming – listen, Cornel,” said Peggy, stretching up to the Colonel’s ear, that she might whisper this last communication – “Don’t you be afeard about Miss Susan. I’ve that confidence in the Lord, I believe the poor chyild will fall to your hands, Mr. Edward, when the time comes; but, Lord bless you, Cornel, she’s no more like her brother nor the tares is like the corn. Her heart’s as sweet as a rose – nothing in this world can kill the good that’s in that unfortinate infant, but Death itself. Hoosht, here they are coming! – she’s just the delight of an ould woman’s eyes – ay, there she is!”
The Colonel heard this speech very imperfectly, understanding just enough of it to know that Susan was commended, and nodding his kind head in pleased acquiescence; but when Peggy ended her oration by crying “There she is!” Uncle Edward turned round to greet his niece, who came running up to him out of breath. Susan was sorry, shocked, surprised, and delighted – but underneath all her flutter the Colonel, whose vision was quick when those whom he loved were concerned, saw at a glance that her eyes were red, and that even her joy in seeing him was made half-hysterical by some other sentiment lying under it, which she did not wish him to see. This contradiction of feeling, new and unusual to her, made Susan unlike herself. Her manner was hasty and agitated – she laughed as if to keep herself from crying. Colonel Sutherland looked at her with silent distress and sympathy. What new development of trouble had appeared now?
“Why did you come?” cried Susan. “I wanted Horace to carry a note, and he would not; but he promised to tell you what I said. And your rheumatism, uncle – I am so distressed to think you should have come all this way for me.”
“But suppose I did not come all this way for you?” said Colonel Sutherland. “Don’t you think my visit is too important to be all for a little girl? No, my love, I should have come for you whether or not – but to-day, I mean, if possible, to see your father.”
Peggy had left the room, and Horace had not yet entered it: the two were alone together.
“To see papa!” cried Susan, with a look of dismay, clinging suddenly to her uncle’s arm, and looking up in his face. “Oh, uncle, not to-day!”
“And why not to-day, my dear child?” said the Colonel, tenderly; “what has happened to-day? You have been crying, Susan. Can you tell why that was?”
With his kind eyes searching into her face, and his tender arm supporting her, Susan could not keep up her feint of good spirits; she faltered, cast down her eyes, tried to speak, and then fell unawares into a passion of youthful tears – hot, angry, indignant, rebellious tears – the first overflow of personal mortification, injury, and wounded feeling – tears too warm and too plentiful to blight or kill. The Colonel soothed her and bent over her with alarm and anxiety – he was almost too much interested to be a good judge of the depth of her suffering, and for the first moment thought it much more serious than it was.
“Papa called me into the study to-day; he said that you – I mean he said that I was careless of him, and did not do what I ought,” said Susan, who had evidently changed her mind, and substituted these words for some others injurious to her uncle. “He said I loved you better in three days than I had loved him for all my life. Oh, uncle, can I help it? – is it my fault? – for nobody until now ever loved me!”
“Hush, my dear child! – is that all?” said Colonel Sutherland. “Come, come, do not cry – I daresay you were thinking of something else at breakfast, and forgot what you were about – perhaps Letty. He will soon forgive you, my love. Sometimes I have a row with my Ned when he is at home. Don’t cry, my dear child.”
“Ah, uncle, but you don’t understand it,” cried poor Susan, rather disappointed to have her sorrow undervalued; “he wanted me not – not” – and here with a great burst the truth came out – “not to keep your presents – nor to see you – nor to write to you – nor anything: he said he would not permit it; he said I belonged to him, and so I think he believes. I do, uncle,” cried Susan, with fire and indignation, “like a table or a chair!”
“Hush, my child! I wonder why he objects to me, Susan,” said the Colonel, with a little grieved astonishment. “And what did you say?”
“I said I would not, uncle – I could not help it!” cried Susan, with another burst of tears. “I never disobeyed him in my life before; but I was very obstinate and stubborn. I know I was. I said I would not do what he told me. I can’t! I will not! I will stay in Marchmain, and never seek to go away. I will do everything else he tells me. I will work like Peggy, if he pleases; but I will write to you, uncle, and see you whenever I can, and love you always. Oh! uncle, uncle, do not you be angry with me too!”
“I!” said Uncle Edward, his voice faltering, “my poor dear, child! – I! – if I only could carry you home with me, Susan! It is hard to think I have given you more, instead of less to suffer. Ah, Susan, if I could but take you home with me!”
Susan dried her eyes, comforted by the words. “I must not hope for that, uncle,” she said, with more composure; “and indeed I could not leave papa, either. He is very unhappy, I am sure. If I only knew what to do for him! And I don’t want him to think me stubborn and undutiful. He is angry, and disturbed, and strange this morning. I never saw him so before. Do not speak to him to-day.”
“Would it be better to-morrow?” said Colonel Sutherland. “No, Susan, especially after what you told me. I must not stay here longer than I can help, and I must see your father before I go; it is about Horace, my love. I have promised to speak of his wishes. I did not know,” cried Colonel Sutherland, with a little mortification, “that I should hurt his cause by pleading it; but I ought to see him at anyrate. No, I cannot submit to this without any appeal. I have lived in his house, and eaten his bread, and had never a moment’s dispute with him. It is impossible; there must be some mistake.”
And Colonel Sutherland went to the window, and stood looking out, with his eyebrows puckered, and his hands behind him; while Susan, drying her eyes again, went to stir the neglected fire. Everything was cold, meagre, uncomfortable, and the poor girl’s restless curiosity, eager to prove her devotion to himself, yet glancing now and then with terror at the door, as if she feared her father’s appearance, and a scene of strife, was not lost upon the Colonel. He stood for some time in silence, considering the whole matter, vexed, and mortified, and indignant, yet feeling more of honest pain for the position of the household, and for unfortunate recluse himself, than offence in his own person. Then, without saying anything to Susan, the old soldier marched silently towards the study-door. It was necessary now, to say what had to be said, at once.
CHAPTER XX
MR. SCARSDALE was alone in the study, where he passed his recluse life. The fire burned low in the grate, the red curtains hung half over the window, the atmosphere was close and stifling. He sat in his usual seat, with the invariable book before him. But though it was hardly possible for him to be more pale, there was something in the colour of his face, in the rigidity of his attitude, which betrayed a smothered passion and excitement exceeding his wont. When Colonel Sutherland knocked at the door, he got up with a kind of convulsive haste, stepped towards it at one hasty stride, and opened it. He thought it might be Susan, returned to make her submission. When he saw his brother-in-law, Mr. Scarsdale gazed at him with undisguised amazement and a sullen rage. He stood facing the Colonel, holding the door, but without inviting or even permitting him to enter. “I have something important to say to you,” said the old soldier – “permit me to come in. I shall not detain you.” Then the recluse stepped back suddenly, opening the door wide, but without uttering a word. Colonel Sutherland went in, and the door was closed upon him; they stood opposite each other, looking in each other’s faces. The Colonel, with a grieved surprise and appeal in his look, the other with his head bent, and nothing but sullen, smothered passion in his face. Two men more unlike never stood together in this world. For the first moment not a word passed between them, but their looks, full of human motion and painful life, made the strangest contrast in the silence, with the motionless, dreary quiet of this stifling room.
After this pause, natural wonder and impatience seized the Colonel; he could not resist the impulse of trying to right himself – to right his brother-in-law – to recover if possible a natural position. “Robert!” he exclaimed, suddenly, with unpremeditated warmth and emotion, “why is this? – what have I done to you? – is there any reason why you cannot receive me as of old?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Scarsdale, with a formal inclination of his head. “My life and all my habits differ very widely from yours. I have long made a rule against admitting strangers into my house. My circumstances are peculiar, as you are aware – perhaps my dispositions are peculiar too.”
“But, for heaven’s sake!” cried the Colonel, who found this repulse not so decisive as he had feared – “why shut out me?”
Once more the solitary man bowed, with a sarcastic respect. “Again, I beg your pardon; but it does not follow,” said Mr. Scarsdale, with a smile, which would have been insulting, but that it trembled with unreasonable passion, “that a man’s own favourable opinion of himself is shared by all the world.”
The Colonel looked at him with a hasty, astonished glance, a look of compassion and surprise, which wounded the pride of his companion to the quick.
“Well, then,” cried the master of Marchmain, “I decline to receive you – your society is disagreeable to me. Is not that enough?”
“That is perfectly enough,” said Colonel Sutherland; “now, I have only my commission to discharge, and I am grieved I should have made so unfavourable a beginning. I come to you on behalf of your son.”
“Of my son! – oh! and of my daughter also, I presume! You would wish me to bring her ‘out,’ and give parties for her – perhaps you would like her to have a season in London?” said Scarsdale, with his trembling lip, and the forced smile of his passion – “is there anything else I can do for you? – for, as it happens, I choose to take Susan into my own hands.”
“I say nothing of Susan,” said the Colonel, gravely; “if you choose to debar the poor child from all the pleasures of her youth, it is not for me to interfere. She is in God’s hands, who will guide her better than either you or I. I come to you from your son. Horace is a man grown, very nearly of an independent age, clever, ambitious, and at that time of life when youths would fain see the world and act for themselves; do you think it right to keep him here without occupation or training, in the most precious years of his life? I come to you with a humble entreaty from the young man, that you will give him your permission and help to set forth upon the world for himself.”
“That is admirable!” said Mr. Scarsdale – “my permission and help? This is the first time I have heard of the faintest desire on his part; – nay, I do not believe that he does desire it – you have made it up among you; and no doubt you have settled the manner as well as the fact. What profession, pray, does my clever son mean to devote himself to?”
“He wishes to study law,” said the Colonel, laconically.
“Law? – to read for the bar, I presume?” said the father; “to have chambers in the Temple, and the pleasures of his youth. It is vastly well, Colonel Sutherland – I admire your project greatly – he has my permission by all means; as for my help, I do not need to inform you what kind of claim this young man has upon me. Is it likely I should take my straitened means, from my own comfort and my daughter’s, to support him in luxury and idleness? – is it probable, do you think, that I will make a sacrifice for him? Can you look me honestly in the face and ask it of me?”
“I trust so,” said the Colonel, with a little sadness. “Scarsdale, we are both fathers – we ought to be able to understand each other; is it necessary to weigh the nature of claims, the probabilities of temper, when one appeals to a father for the future life of his son?”
“My son’s future life,” said Mr. Scarsdale, vindictively, “is quite independent of me. Had there been any nature left in our mutual position things might have been different. No! my son has no need to betake himself to a profession – he is quite above the necessity. Should I accelerate the time when he shall come to his fortune? Should I beg your prayers – for I remember you are pious – that he may enter speedily upon his inheritance? I thank you. I do not profess to be quite so disinterested. No, let him wait! – let him take his share of the evils of mankind. Must I deny myself to smooth his path for him, and give him roses for my thorns? It would be the conduct of a fool. No, I repeat he has no need for a profession – let him wait! I support him – is it not enough?”
“Too much!” cried Colonel Sutherland; “you must perceive that it would be ten times better for him to support himself, to labour for himself, instead of embittering his life in this forced idleness here. Why should he be a burden on you at all, at his years? Though he does not ultimately require a profession, to have one would be his salvation now. You are a hale and healthy man, in spite of all you do to yourself – you have twenty years to live before you attain the limited age of man. Can you think of this unfortunate boy living here as he lives now, in utter ignorance of the fortune which waits him, till he is forty? Think of it, I implore you! It has lasted long enough – too long, Scarsdale. Think, if you have human bowels, human mercy in you, of the extraordinary fate to which you destine your only son. Suppose him growing into maturity, into full manhood, to years in which you had the world at your feet and children at your knees; yet kept in darkness, kept in bitterness, idle, solitary, able to think of nothing but of the injury that has been done to him; until, all at once, you are struck down in extreme desolate old age – and wealth, which is no longer anything to him, wealth which will disgust him, falls into his hands. What! you turn away – you will not have that event even mentioned? What are you thinking of? Is a miserable heap of money of more importance to you than the welfare of your son?”
“Upon my word,” said Mr. Scarsdale, turning away with a violent colour on his face, and an exclamation of disgust, “I see no reason in the world why I should study the welfare, as you call it, of my son.”
“You do not – and you can say so?” cried the Colonel, in loud and stern astonishment.
“I do not, and I can say so, and without raising my voice,” said the other, with a sneer. “My son, I beg to tell you once again, is provided for. I give him food and clothing – he has nothing else to hope or to expect from me.”
“This is all then that you have to say?” said Colonel Sutherland; “you will not assist him to make his life honourable and useful? Will you explain to him why you decline doing so? – will you tell him that his future is so secured, that a profession is unnecessary to him? Do the boy some justice – let there be a natural explanation between you. You cannot expect him to go on in this way for years. Could you wish it? I beseech you, either tell him how matters stand, or help him to carry out his most lawful and virtuous wish! Will you do one or the other? I beseech you, tell me!”
“I tell you no!” said Mr. Scarsdale. “Let the dog wait! I will neither put myself in his power, nor help him to the best means of spying out my secret. No! Have I spoken distinctly? – he shall have neither confidence nor assistance from me!”
“Is it possible?” cried the Colonel, driven to an extremity of mingled wonder, indignation, and pity; “for the sake of your own exasperated feelings, can you make up your mind to revenge yourself, by ruining this unhappy lad, your only son, for ever?”
“I beg your pardon – this unhappy lad is very well off,” said his extraordinary father; “so well off, that I certainly do not find myself called upon to do any more for him – although,” said Mr. Scarsdale, with a glance of bitterness upon the kind, anxious face which bent towards him, “I am aware that to help a man who does not require help is understood to be the way of the world.”
The Colonel’s weather-beaten face flushed high with angry colour; he was surprised and grieved and wounded to his heart, but he had still and always this advantage over his adversary, that the unkindest insinuation which Scarsdale could make made his brother-in-law only the more sorry for him, and wrought more grief than passion in his mind. After the first moment he looked wistfully into the face of his former friend, with a compassionate and troubled amazement, which, little though the Colonel intended it, roused his companion to fury. “How you must be changed!” he said, sadly, “to be able to say such words to me;” and Colonel Sutherland sighed as he spoke, with the hopeless patience of a man who sees no means of bringing good out of evil. The sigh, the tone, and the look wound up the recluse into the utmost rage; he made a wild imperative gesture and exclamation – for his voice was choked with fury – and opened the door violently. It was thus that Colonel Sutherland’s appeal and hopes for Horace concluded; he left the study without another word.
