Маргарет Олифант
The House on the Moor. Volume 1
CHAPTER XXI
“Yes, Susan, I am going away presently, and I fear I shall not see you again either,” said Colonel Sutherland, with a cheerfulness which he was far from feeling – “that is, not this time, my love; but there is plenty of time, if it be the Lord’s will, Susan. You are very young, and I am not very old. We are tough, we old Indians; we wear a long time, and we shall meet, my dear child, I don’t doubt, many happy days.”
Susan looked up to him with inquiring eyes – with eyes, indeed, so full of inquiry that he thought she must have spoken, and put his hand to his ear. “No, uncle, I did not say anything,” cried Susan, touched by that gesture almost out of her self-possession. The poor girl turned away her head and rubbed her eyes with her trembling fingers, to send back the tears. When might eyes so tender shine in that forlorn solitude again? It was impossible to look at the old man, with his solicitous kindness, his anxious look of attention, and even the infirmity which threw a tenderness and humility so individual and characteristic upon his whole bearing, in the thought of, perhaps, never seeing him again, without emotion. It was to Susan as if the sunshine was departing. He might go away, she might never see him again, but nothing could obliterate the effect of that three days visit; nothing in the world could make Susan what she was when this week began. She did not know how it was, but the fact was indisputable; her undisturbed and unsusceptible content was over for ever. Was it good for Susan? She did not ask the question, but rubbed back the tears, and stood close to her uncle, intent upon hearing the last words which he might have to say, and vowing to herself that she would not grieve him by crying – not if she should faint or die the moment he was gone.
Such resolutions are hard to keep. When the Colonel laid his kind hand upon her head, Susan trembled over her whole frame. Her unshed tears – the youthful guilty anger provoked by her father, which still palpitated in her heart – which the poor child could not overcome, yet felt to be wrong; and the unusual agitation of this crowd of diverse feelings, very nearly overcome her. Her cheeks grew crimson, her lips and her eyelids trembled, yet she controlled herself. And Uncle Edward was still making light of the injury to himself – still accepting his repulse as something natural and spontaneous; it moved her to an indignation wild, impetuous, and unlike her character; but there was no blame on the Colonel’s lips.
“Some time or other you will come to my little house, and see the country where your mother was born,” said Uncle Edward; “we shall not know what to make of you when we get you there – you will be queen and princess, and do what you please with us. Yes, I hope after a time your father will consent to it, my love. He is rather angry just now, but time will soften that down. And remember, Susan, you must make the best and not the worst of everything. Horace does that last, you know, and ‘one wise body’s enough in a house,’ as we say in Scotland; you must be the foolish one, my little Susan, and always hope; everything will turn out well, under the blessing of God.”
“I hope so, uncle,” said Susan, with an involuntary sob.
“Perhaps, my dear child, I ought to say you must obey your father, and not write to me,” said Uncle Edward – “but I am not quite virtuous enough for that; only always do it honestly, Susan – never conceal it from him – and stop if it should make you unhappy, or you find it out to be wrong in your own conscience. However, I shall write to you in any case. My boy Ned will want to come and see you, I fear, before he leaves the country. You must always remember that you are of great importance to us, Susan, though we have not the first claim on you. You are the only woman in the family; you represent all those who are gone, to me, my little girl. Hush! do not cry – you must be very strong and courageous, for all our sakes.”
“I am not crying!” cried Susan, with a gasp of fervent resolution, though she could scarcely articulate the words.
“That is right, my darling,” said the Colonel. “Now, don’t let us think any more about it, Susan. We shall hear from each other constantly, and some time or other I’ll show you Inveresk, and Edinburgh, and your mother’s country; and in the meantime, you will be cheerful and brave like yourself. Now tell Peggy to bring me some bread and cheese, my love – I am going to be grand to-day; my carriage is coming for me presently. Where is Horace? I must see him before I go – call him here, Susan, and order me my bread and cheese.”
Susan was very glad, as her uncle suspected, to run out of the room for a moment, and deliver herself of the sob with which she was choking. When she was gone, Colonel Sutherland looked sadly round him upon the dreary apartment, to which the agitation of this day had given a more than usually neglected and miserable appearance. He shook his head as he glanced round upon those meagre walls, and out to that bare moor, which was the only refuge for the eye. He thought it a terrible prison for a girl of seventeen, unsweetened by any love or society. He thought that even the departure of Horace, though he was not much of a companion to his sister, would aggravate her solitude; and involuntarily the old man thought of his own bright apartments at Inveresk, and wondered, with a natural sigh, over the strange problems of Providence. Had Susan been a child of his own, saved to him from among the many dead, what a different lot had been hers! – but here was this flower blossoming in the desert, where no one cared for its presence – and his hearth was solitary. He did not repine or complain – ingratitude had no place in his tender Christian soul, but he sighed and wondered at the bottom of his heart.
In a few minutes Horace joined him. Horace did not care to form the third of a party which included his uncle and his sister. Their friendship annoyed him, he could not tell how; it was an offence to Horace that they seemed to understand one another so entirely; far superior as he thought himself, he was conscious that neither the one nor the other was intelligible to him. He came, however, with a little excitement on hearing that the Colonel had been with his father, expecting little, yet curious, as he always was about everything, done and said, by his perennial and lifelong antagonist. When he entered the room Colonel Sutherland held out his hand to him with an affectionate sympathy, which he accepted with astonishment, and not without a passing sneer in his mind at the idea of being consoled, either for such a supposititious disappointment, or in such a manner. It was with a feeling very different from a young man’s anxiety to know his fate, or expectation of a decision which should influence his life, that he waited to hear what his uncle had to say.
“I am sorry to tell you, Horace, you have judged more correctly than I did,” said the Colonel, with hesitation; “I find, to my great disappointment, that your father is not disposed to assist you, my dear boy. I don’t know what to say about it – it appears that he has taken some erroneous idea into his mind about myself. I’m afraid the advocate hurt the cause, Horace. If some one else spoke to him, perhaps – ; but however that might be, to my great concern and astonishment, he has quite refused me!”
“Don’t trouble yourself about it, uncle; I knew how it would be,” said Horace, his eyes lighting up with the unnatural contention which had pervaded his life. “It was not the advocate, but the cause which was hopeless. What did he say?”
“He said – some things which had much better remained unsaid. He was affronted with me,” said Colonel Sutherland; “but he gives his permission, Horace – not assistance, remember, but still permission – that is always something; he seems to have no objection that you should follow your own course, and do what you can for yourself.”
“That is very kind of him,” said Horace, with a smile; “but I rather think I never should have asked his leave, but for your hopes of help from him, which I never shared. I suppose he was amazed at the idea that I should expect anything from him. I daresay he appealed to you why he should take his own narrow means to support an idle vagabond like me. Ah! he did! – I could have sworn he would!”
“Nay, Horace,” said the Colonel, who had been struck unawares by the correctness of his nephew’s guess; “what is the use of imagining unkind words, which most likely were neither spoken nor intended? The fact is simple – your father does not think a profession is essential to you; he thinks that – that you will most probably have enough without. In short, he does not feel called upon to assist you; but at the same time, remember, Horace, he puts no obstacle in the way. All is not lost yet, my boy: I must try whether I can do anything. I am not rich, I have little to spare, but I have friends, and there are some people who might be interested in you. Wait a little, Horace – leave it to me, and we will see what can be done. I would not be discouraged; there are more ways than one of doing everything in this world.”
“You may trust to me, uncle, that I certainly will not give up my own intention because my father declines to assist it – everything is safe enough so far,” said Horace; “as for anything great, you know, study and that sort of thing, I give that up as impossible – I did so from the first. I will never be a great lawyer, uncle; but I daresay I’ll learn enough for my own ends.”
“Your own ends! – I don’t understand you, Horace,” cried the Colonel, somewhat alarmed at the expression of his nephew’s face, and for perhaps the first time in his life suspecting something of double meaning in the words he heard.
“Have I not to work for my own living? – to support myself, uncle?” cried Horace, turning round upon him with a bitter emphasis.
“Very well, my lad, what then?” said Colonel Sutherland, with dignity – “is there anything very terrible in that? The best men in the world have had to work for their living. I am sorry for you that you cannot get the freedom of using your powers, and proper advantages for their cultivation; but I assure you, Horace, I am not sorry for you on the ground that you must support yourself.”
“To be sure not,” said Horace, with a little secret mortification; “but it is therefore I say that I will learn law enough for my own ends.”
Once more the Colonel looked at him doubtfully, pondering the peculiar and unnecessary emphasis with which the young man pronounced these words. Colonel Sutherland perceived, in spite of his unsuspicious nature, that there was a gleam in the eye, and a sudden animation in the manner of Horace, which referred to something different from the calm means of sustenance, or the knowledge sufficient to secure it. Something vindictive and eager was in his look. The Colonel probably thought it better not to inquire too closely into it, for he turned away from Horace with a sigh.
Perhaps it was a relief to them all when the gig arrived at last, and Colonel Sutherland bade farewell to Marchmain. The old man was troubled because he trusted his niece, and knew that she would not deceive his expectations; and he was troubled because he could not trust his nephew, and did not feel at all warranted in undertaking for him. While Horace, for his part, brooded with renewed anger, though he professed to expect it, over his father’s refusal of assistance, and was tired of amusing Colonel Sutherland by a show of good humour, all the more when his uncle seemed unlikely to be of much service to him; and the difficulty with which Susan kept her composure, and the unusual tumult of personal feeling in which the poor child felt herself, made the continued effort almost too much for her. The gig arrived at last. The Colonel said his last good-bye, and drove away from the inhospitable door which he had seen for the first time three days ago, leaving Susan, Horace, and Peggy outside, watching his departure, and waving farewells to him; and leaving, besides that external demonstration, a revolution in the house, and, for good or for evil, the germs, to these two young people, of a new world.
CHAPTER XXII
THE Colonel drove away, out of sight of Marchmain and its moor, with thoughts many and troubled. This visit, which he had undertaken with so much simplicity of intention, had already thrown a disturbing influence into his life; he went away, bearing on his own very heart and conscience the burden of an unmanageable boy, and a girl neglected and suffering. An unmanageable boy! The Colonel summed up his non-comprehension of the character of Horace in these uncomplimentary words, and it was his first experience of the kind. He had never learned to doubt the honest common-places about youthful openness and candour which good hearts, like his own, receive and repeat so authoritatively. He could have laid down rules to any one, with a little mild dogmatism, and a world of kindness, for the management of “the young;” and would have told you, with affectionate complaisance, and not without an idea that judicious training had much to do with it, that his Addiscombe cadet had never given him a moment’s anxiety. That was very true of honest Ned, to whom nature had given, not her fairy wealth of genius, but something safer; her gift of competency, if one may use the expression – a sincere, straightforward, sagacious soul – a judgment wise without knowing it, and true by instinct, to which craft or concealment were things impossible. Colonel Sutherland, “with his experience,” as he said, did not believe in the youthful mystics, the Manfreds and Werters. He smiled in his kindly superiority and said, “Youth at bottom was very consistent in its inconsistencies, and very manageable if you took pains enough, and knew the right way.” The Colonel was a little mortified, accordingly, to be obliged to conclude that he knew very little of Horace, and that his nephew baffled him. It put him out in his calculations – it spread a certain doubt over the whole fair face of nature, and left an ache in the old man’s unsuspicious heart. He could not persuade himself to condemn, and therefore troubled his mind with the idea that he could not possibly understand.
It was early evening when the little vehicle reached the top of the slope from which the road descended to the village; and the twinkling lights in the shallow vale beneath, the hum of sound, the twilight calm through which the Colonel, whose eyes were equal to any practicable distance, though “small print” somewhat troubled them, recognized the different points of his morning and evening walks – filled the old man with a strange sensation of familiarity and friendship. Already, though he had been here so short a time, he knew the place, remembered the hedge-rows and the trees, could tell where was the best point of view, was able to distinguish from a distance the principal houses in the village, and could even recollect where the green primrose leaves lay warmest, and were likely to be first unrolled and spread into the light by the spring sun. Somehow, unawares to himself, the kind old man, with his warm natural sympathy, had established a certain connection with this unknown place. Here was Kennedy, his old companion-in-arms; here was young Musgrave, whom the Colonel seemed to have somehow adopted, in spite of himself, as the type of what Horace should have been, and in whom he had interested himself with an inexplainable rapidity and rashness which appeared very odd when he thought of it, though it was extremely natural. He recollected now that this second protegé must be looked after and seen this evening. The Colonel had become quite a man of affairs since he came to Tillington. All this time, occupied as he was by his own thoughts, the drive had been a very silent one – so much so, that honest John Gilsland, who had driven the gig himself in hopes of an opportunity of displaying his wisdom to “the Cornel,” had been much disappointed of his expectations. John was supposed to play second fiddle in his own house; the “missis” had not so much respect for his talents and sagacity as became a wife, and the good man proportionately esteemed the chances of letting loose his opinions out of doors; and was especially anxious that “the Cornel” should not leave Tillington without being aware of his host’s superiority. The honest fellow had been maundering on for some time about the houses which they passed before some chance words caught the Colonel’s attention. He turned round rather sharply with the sudden “Eh!” of a mind pre-occupied. John Gilsland started so much, that he startled the mare, who tossed her head and winced, and showed inclinations “to mak’ a boult of it,” as her master said. This occurred, as it happened, near the spot where the Colonel had discovered Kennedy and his hare on the previous night. He raised himself with a little alarm, and peered into the darkness over the bushes, doubting that some concealed movement of the old poacher must have been the occasion of the mare’s start. However, there was nothing to be seen behind the hedge, and John Gilsland recommenced his monologue, to which the Colonel now gave his ear, with a flattering attention which won his landlord’s heart.
“As far as you can see – not that that’s so far as might be wushed at this hour o’ the nicht,” said John, “was th’ ould Mr. Musgrave’s land, Cornel. Yon’er’s the house, sir, amidst of a bit of wood – guid tim’er and ould, and a credit to the place. D’ye see the pair bit dribble o’ smoke, Cornel? – th’ ould chimneys puffed i’ another fashion when the Squire was to the fore. There wasn’t six days i’ the twelve-month but there was coompany at the Grange, and a sight of fine folks wance or twicest in the year, like in September and the shooting saison. But ye cannot both eat your cake and have your cake, Cornel. There’s this coom of it, that the siller’s a’ puffed away; and the young heir, poor lad, he’s left destitute; and the more’s the pity, for a more affable gentleman than Mr. Roger never carried a gun. That’s him that coom to see yourself, sir, the last nicht – ye would be a friend o’ his family, it’s like? – for he’s no of this parish born.”
“Was the young man related to the Squire? – his godfather, I know – but they seem to be of the same name,” said the Colonel; “he is a fine young fellow – he will have many friends, I presume, in the families hereabout.”
“Ye see, Cornel,” said John Gilsland, dropping the reins upon the mare’s neck, and suffering her to fall into almost a walking pace, as he saw himself at last appreciated, “it makes an uncommon difference when a man gets shot of his siller. There was a time when Mr. Roger was foremost favourite mony’s the place; but wan house ye see, there’s a parcel o’ young ladies, and what if wan o’ them took a fancy to him? They’re tender-hearted, them girls – they’re just as like as no to fa’ in love with a man, for the reason that’s he’s misfortinate. I’ve seen a young lad myself that lost a’ he had, and was prosecooted by the women for ne’er anither reason that I could see. Then anither place you see there’s a regiment o’ sons, and my leddy wants a’ the influence she can wun, fair means or foul, for her owen prodgedy; and another place, they’ve little enough themsels, and cannot afford to keep friends with wan that has not a penny – and that’s how it stands, Cornel, on the whole. If he had th’ ould Squire’s estate, he’d ha’ loads o’ friends.”
“Poor fellow!” said the Colonel, shrugging his shoulders, half with compassion, half with disgust – he was not very well acquainted with this phase of human nature. Nobody had ever suspected him of being rich, and he remembered, with a half smile, quickly followed by a sigh, the gleeful opposition to established authority, with which young Edward Sutherland, ensign or lieutenant, returned to the charge, when repulsed by a prudent mamma from the vicinity of her daughters. But he soon reverted with ready sympathy to the woes of the disinherited. “This Squire must have been a very imprudent man,” he said, “or a very heartless one. Had he no regrets to leave the young man penniless?”
“Hoosht, Cornel! – Mr. Roger, sir, he’s wild if a man dare whisper a word. He’s broke with his acquaintance that he had, and the common sort o’ folks, sir, that were sorry for him, and ready to make friends if he wushed – he’s quarrelled with half the county, Cornel, because this wan and the tither said their mind o’ th’ Squire. He wull not have a reproach of him, not a word. He took even mysel’ down as fast, I thought the nose was off my face, for saying, in an innocent way, that th’ Squire was very free with his money when he had it, and so was seen on him. I would not say, but it’s all the better of him, to stand up for wan as cannot stand up for himself no more. And I ne’er knew a man as was deceived in Mr. Roger, Cornel – he’s hasty, but he’s true. He’ll gang in o’ the auld wives’ cots, and give the children pennies, but never put an affront on a lass, or refused satisfaction to a man, as far as ever I heard, all his born days.”
“I am glad to know it,” said the Colonel, with a little shiver, – “but we are surely making very slow progress. What’s happened to the mare? She surely forgets that this is the road to her own stable. Eh? – a beast of her good sense seldom does that.”
“She’s fresh, sir, fresh – she minds no more for her own stable nor I do, Cornel. She’s good for twenty mile and more, if there was the occasion,” said John, caressing the animal with the end of his whip, but prudently increasing her pace.
“And, by-the-bye, I have a question to ask you – Sir John Armitage? What sort of a place has he? – is it near? – is he rich? – and where do you think he is to be found?” said the Cornel rapidly, as they approached near Tillington.
Once more the mare, much against her will, slackened her pace. “Ye see, Sir John Armitage, Cornel,” said John, raising his hand in explanatory action, “he’s wan of the great squires o’ th’ county. He wasn’t born tull’t, as ye may say. He was an army gentleman, sir, such like as yourself, and th’ ould Sir John was as far off as his second cousin, a dissolute man, without neither chick nor child. This wan, he’s grey and onmarried likewise – the title will gang, as it came, slantlike, to a nevvy or a cousin. It’s the park, Cornel, a grand mansion as is his sait – but a desolate place, and him no more enjoyment in’t nor me. Sir? The mare? Oh ay, she’s jogging on.”
“It’s rather cold for this pace, it appears to me,” said the Colonel, whose face, so much of it as was visible out of the cloak, was blue with cold. “Hey? Halt then! Do you mean to upset us? What’s the matter with the beast now?”
“Na, Cornel, she’s gane fast and she’s gane slow, and nouther pleases – it’s none of her blame, puir brute,” said John, with affected humility. “I give her a taste o’ the whip, and ye say I’ll upset ye. Me! I’m the safest driver in ten mile; and as for my mare – there she is – she kens her gate hoam.”
Where accordingly they arrived in a few minutes, and where the Colonel got down frozen, and limped into the little parlour, where the blazing fire comforted his eyes. But having been frozen stiff in the first part of the road, and then jolted almost to pieces in the concluding gallop, it was some time before his numb fingers had vigour enough to unloose his cloak, and his lips to speak. The landlady brought in wine, pushed it aside with a mild feminine imprecation upon the “cauld stuff,” and came back presently with a steaming goblet of brandy and water. The Colonel was the most temperate of men, and had not had his dinner; but the siren seduced him – and the first words he uttered, when the frost in his throat began to melt, was an inquiry, which startled Mrs. Gilsland out of her propriety, for an “Army List,” if such a thing was to be had.
“An ‘Army List!’ – eyeh, Cornel, what’s that?” said the good woman in dismay.
“Are there any old officers about Tillington, Mrs. Gilsland? An ‘Army List’ is simply a list of the army,” said the urbane Colonel. “Do you think you can manage to borrow one for half-an-hour from anybody in the village – eh? Consult with your husband, it is of importance to me.”
“Him, Cornel? What does he know?” said the landlady. “Officers, na – unless it was th’ Ould Hundred, begging your pardon, Cornel, for he’s nothing but a sergeant; but that’s the byname he goes by in my house.”
“The Old Hundred? I’m an Old Hundred man myself,” said the Colonel, laughing. “Kennedy, is it? No, he will not do, the old humbug – I suspect he tells the lads a parcel of lies about the regiment, and brings discredit on as fine a body of men as there is in the service. Eh? – is the sergeant a great man among ye here?”
“Oh, Cornel!” cried Mrs. Gilsland, “I’ll go down to you on my bended knees if you’ll say to my Sam, sir, what you say to me. He’s wild for the sodgerin’, is that lad! and th’ Ould Hunderd he lays it on till him as if it was Paradise! – and an only son, Cornel, and a great help in the business, and if he ’lists, and go to the bad, what will I do?”
“But if he ’lists, he need not go to the bad,” said the Colonel. “I’ll speak to him if you like; but in the meantime, my ‘Army List’? Is there nobody in Tillington who has a son an officer? Nobody who – ”
“Bless my soul, what am I thinking on? To be sure, there’s the Rectory!” cried the landlady, rushing out of the room in the fervour of her discovery. And the Cornel heard her immediately commission her son, who seemed to be at a distance, at the top of her voice, to run this moment to the Rectory, and ask if there was such a thing about the house as a list of all the regiments and officers, for a gentleman that was an officer himself, and a Cornel, and that was staying at the “Tillington Arms.” “And thou’ll take it in thyself, Sam,” shouted the good woman, “with thy best manners, and never tarry on the road. The Cornel wants to speak to thee himself. Now, mind what I say! – he’s something to tell ’ee lad, will put ’ee out o’ conceit with th’ Ould Hunderd – run, as if thou hadst wings to thy heels!”
The Colonel, sitting by his fire, gradually thawing, laughed to himself, and shrugged his shoulders as he heard this adjuration. Was he to be elected impromptu adviser of all the adventurous youth of Tillington? He sat in his chair, by the fire, wondering whether the ‘Army List’ could be had – whether Sir John Armitage would turn out to be Armitage of the 59th – and chuckling quietly over the Sergeant’s nickname, until, in the warmth and the silence, the old soldier nodded over cheerily into a half-hour’s sleep.
