Маргарет Олифант
The House on the Moor. Volume 1
CHAPTER XVII
COLONEL SUTHERLAND did not find much leisure that night. He had scarcely returned from his walk, a little indignant and vexed at the conduct of Kennedy, but less than ever inclined to believe him, when young Musgrave made his appearance. The Colonel was seated by the fire with his spectacles on, and the latest newspaper to be had in these regions laid on the table beside him – but he had not begun to read, having thoughts enough to keep him occupied. The room, with its dark walls and low roof and the indistinct prints hung round it, was left in comparative darkness by the little light of the two candles on the table. The Colonel himself had his back to the light, and, with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, rubbed his hands slowly together, and pondered in his heart. He had almost forgotten the young stranger in the closer and nearer interests which moved himself; and what with his thoughts and his deafness, and his position with his back to the door, did not perceive the entrance of Roger, who stood undecided and shy when the door had closed upon him, half inclined in sudden discouragement to turn back again, and feeling for almost the first time, with a sudden painful start of consciousness, that he had no claim upon the friendship of this old man, whose kind interest in him this morning had cheered his forlorn young heart, but whom, after all, he had seen for the first time this day. A mind which is elevated by any one of the great primitive emotions, ceases for the moment to feel those secondary impressions of surprise and singularity with which in ordinary times we regard any departure from the ordinary laws of life. Had he been happy, Roger would have wondered, perhaps would have smiled, at the interest which this stranger expressed in him; but it had not even astonished his pre-occupied mind until now: now, as he stood behind the Colonel in the dim apartment, and saw him sitting thoughtful by the fire, unconscious of the presence of any visitor, the young man’s impulse was to steal softly out again, and make no claim upon a sympathy which he had no right to. Yet his heart yearned for the kind look, the paternal voice which had roused him this morning out of the quick despair of youth. He approached slowly towards the table: when he reached it the Colonel turned round with an exclamation of surprised but cordial welcome, and pointed him to the chair opposite his own, which had been placed in readiness for his young guest. This little token that he was expected cheered the young man involuntarily; it was another of those trivial things which, as Colonel Sutherland said, make up so much of the happiness of life.
When he saw Roger opposite to him, with his eager, ingenuous face, and a world of undisguised youthful anxieties and disquietude shining in his candid eyes, the old man fell into a momentary pause of silence and embarrassment. It seemed impossible to impute any want of truthfulness to those honest looks, or even to cast upon them the momentary stain of a suspicion. And the same young eyes were quick to perceive even this pause, and remarked immediately that the Colonel was embarrassed, and did not know how to begin what he had to say. Grief in its immediate presence does not bring patience – the pride of the young man took alarm instantly – he half rose, with hasty words barring any apology, and a declaration of proud humility, that he had no right to trouble Colonel Sutherland, or to intrude upon his privacy, rising to his lips. Before he had spoken, the Colonel perceived what he meant, and stopped him. “Wait a little – hear what I am going to say – sit down,” said the old soldier, laying his hand upon Musgrave’s arm; “I cannot have you quarrel with me so soon – sit down, and let us talk it out.”
“Nay, sir, there can be no occasion,” cried Musgrave, in his disappointment and offence, his voice faltering a little; “I have but to thank you for your kindness this morning, and beg your pardon for intruding on you now.”
“That cannot be,” said Colonel Sutherland, with a momentary smile, “because you come by my own appointment; and, besides, I am very glad to see you, and you are a very foolish youth to be so impatient. Sit down quietly – have patience a little, and listen to me.”
Roger obeyed, with some haste and reluctance. He was almost overcome by wounded pride and feeling, and yet he had nothing whatever to ground his mortification upon, but the Colonel’s pause of embarrassment and confused preliminary tone.
“You thought I hesitated, and did not speak frankly enough,” said the Colonel. “Perhaps it is true, for I had something on my mind. But now I mean to speak very frankly. My young friend, I believe I can be of but little service to you, but I can give you my best advice and such encouragement as an old man owes to a young one; while, on the other hand, you must be frank with me. After you left me this morning, I was told you had still parents alive. Is that true?”
“Did you think I had deceived you?” cried Musgrave, quickly.
Mortification and shame and sudden resentment flushed his face. “But you don’t know me, to be sure!” he exclaimed, with a passionate tone of pain; “and yet, though I don’t know you, I care for your opinion. I have not come to ask anything from you, Colonel Sutherland – I have already made up my mind what to do; but, at best, you must know that I have not deceived you. I have a mother, and yet I have not a mother – that is the only entire bond of nature remaining to me. She made a second marriage, and gave me up to my godfather so long ago, that I scarcely remember the time – her husband made my only visit to her so disagreeable, that I have never repeated it, and I believe never shall. She has a family of whom I know nothing, and has forgotten and forsaken me. I appeal to you, then, whether I was not right in saying that I had no friends?”
“I felt sure it would turn out something of the kind,” said the Colonel, heartily. “What, my boy, are you affronted with me? Come, that is foolish – sit down and forgive me. Perhaps you think a stranger like myself has no right to ask such explanations; but I am old, and you are young – that is, after all, the most primitive principle of authority. I assure you, though you may not be quite pleased with me at this moment, I am a much safer counsellor than the sergeant – the old rogue! Draw your chair to the table, take a glass of wine, and let me hear what you are going to be about. I heard of an old exploit of yours from my niece, Susan Scarsdale, to-day.”
“From whom?” asked Musgrave, with a little surprise.
“From my niece – you don’t know her, I daresay,” said the Colonel, whose object was to put his visitor at ease; “but some one told her your name, she says. An adventure of yours with a gipsy – do you recollect it – on some of the roads near Lanwoth Moor?”
“Oh! – the young lady from – ” Musgrave paused only in time to prevent himself saying “the haunted house,” which was a name very commonly appropriated to Marchmain. The young man blushed a little, partly from the mistake, partly from a very distinct recollection of the flattering applause with which Susan clapped her hands at his achievement. He might not have noticed her at all but for that sign of approbation; but it is pleasant to be approved, especially in a rash and unorthodox proceeding; and it is true that Roger had taken several occasions to pass Marchmain after that occurrence, with a lingering inclination to improve his acquaintance with that face; he never had any success in his endeavour, but still, under the eyes of Susan’s uncle he blushed in spite of himself. “I recollect it very well,” he said.
The Colonel saw his colour rise, and had not the slightest inclination to pursue the subject.
“Yes, it was very natural, whether it was wise or not,” said the Colonel, with a smile, words which might refer equally well either to the encounter with the mugger, or the curiosity about Susan, and which his young companion unconsciously applied to the last. “I remember what I should have done myself at your age; but you say you have made up your mind. Will you let me ask how? for I think you might take more leisure to do that at your age.”
“The steed would starve in the meantime,” said Musgrave, with a little unnecessary vehemence. “Yes, I have made up my mind – but only as I had done before seeing you, sir, this morning. You spoke very wisely, very kindly. A man who had money, or friends, or skill, or anything in the world to fall back upon ought to have listened to you. I feel grieved that you should think, after so much kindness on your part, that I have not considered your advice. I did consider it, Colonel, believe me, but I have no alternative – I know nothing that I can be but a soldier. Don’t say anything to me, it will only increase my disgust at myself to be fit for nothing else; and then, sir,” said the young man, attempting to smile, “there is no necessity for thinking of the barracks and the sixpence a-day. I will take this other side of the question: young fellows like me, they say in novels, never did better long ago. I’ll be a defender of my country, a servant of the Queen; a general is no more.”
“My poor boy!” said the Colonel, whom this “other side of the question” had a pathetic effect upon, “you don’t know the life of a common soldier; and do you mean to tell me that in our days, with all our progress and civilization, a young man with your advantages is fit for nothing but this?”
“I might be a gamekeeper,” said the youth, with a slight tremble of his lip, “or I might be an emigrant – the last I should certainly choose if I had anything to set out upon; but I don’t care to run the risk of blacking shoes or portering at the other side of the world, as the newspapers say the penniless emigrants are reduced to often enough. No, Colonel, I should not sit here, opposite you, a poor fellow, who will never have the right to meet you on equal terms again; but I must ’list, I have no alternative – I can only be what Providence and my education have qualified me for. If I am nothing else, I can be honest, at least. This is the only thing I am good for, and can reach to, therefore I have given up grumbling about it. And if,” said Roger, with the fire blazing out of his eyes for a moment, one glance of youthful hope through the darkness, “if chance or war should ever put it in a man’s power to rise, then look for me again!”
“My brave fellow! – my excellent lad!” cried the Colonel, “that is the spirit for a soldier! A regiment of ye would subjugate the world! Give me your hand, and keep your seat, boy! If you had ’listed already, does that make you less a gentleman? But is there no help for it, think you? Must you carry this soul to the ranks? By my word, I grudge it sorely! – and that is much for an old soldier to say. Have you no friends – I don’t mean relatives – people that have known you in better days, that would help in this pinch? In my young days the very neighbours would have been moved to interfere, whether you would or not. Yes, I believe you’re proud; the noble spirit comes very seldom without its attending demon. But look here, man – a heart that would be quick to offer help should not be above receiving it. I am but a poor man myself, or I warrant well you should not escape me, however loth your grandeur might be. Here’s the question; I speak to you boldly, as your friend, offence or no offence. Had your godfather never a dear friend that would stand by his heir? Tut! don’t interrupt me – if you are heir to little money, all the more reason you should be heir to the love. Is there never a man in this country that for the kindness he bears your late friend, or for affection to you, would hold you his hand to mount you fair in your saddle, ere you set out on the world? Answer me plainly and truly, young man – is there no such person in country or town, within twenty miles of the place where you have lived all your days?”
Musgrave had changed colour several times during this address, and evidently hesitated much to answer. After close questioning, the Colonel at last drew from him that one such friend did exist, but not within twenty miles, in the person of a county baronet, a very dear friend of his late godfather, who had, however, been absent from the district for more than a year, and of whom, during that time, Roger had heard nothing. He could not tell where he was to be found, and it was with extreme reluctance that he confessed even his name, which was one unknown to Colonel Sutherland. Having gone so far, the young man set himself with all his might to combat the Colonel’s idea of asking help from anybody. He would not – could not – accept a service which he had no prospect of ever being able to repay. He was determined not to enter the world weighed down by a burden of obligation. Was it not better to enter life a common soldier, with only himself to depend upon, he asked vehemently, than to reach a higher level by the help of another, and live with the shadow of assistance and patronage upon all his life?
“Would you choose to go through your life without assistance?” said Colonel Sutherland, calmly, making a note in his pocketbook, and going on with the conversation without looking up – “would you reject kindness and friendship, and the hand of your neighbour? Have a care, young man – the next step to receiving no help is giving none. Would you live without the charities of life, you foolish boy? And what’s to hinder you entering life with a feeling of obligation? I would like to know a nobler and a kindlier sentiment than honest manful gratitude. Can you tell me a better? And how do you know you will never be able to repay it? Do you debar yourself from ever helping another, when you accept help yourself? Go away with your nonsense. I trust I am not the man to advise any youngster against his honour. What do you say – a man is the best judge for himself? No such thing, boy. Not when the man is twenty. I will tell you what to do in the meantime – keep quiet for a week or two, and leave the affair in my hands.”
“But you do not know me. I may be deceiving you – telling you lies – working on your goodnature, for my own advantage,” exclaimed Musgrave, with a voice which, between vexation and gratitude, and the new hopes which, in spite of himself, began to gain ground upon him, was almost inaudible.
“Eh? – I’m rather hard of hearing. I did not quite catch what you said,” said Colonel Sutherland, bending towards him his deaf ear, with that look of anxious, solicitous kindness and earnest attention which nobody could resist.
The effect upon poor Roger was almost laughable in its pathos. He turned red – he turned pale – he could hardly keep the tears out of his boyish eyes; and, with a voice broken with emotion, shouted out his words so loud and harsh, that the Colonel started back in alarm and surprise.
“You don’t know me – I may be deceiving you!” cried the young man, with a hurried and abrupt conclusion, singularly like a sob; and so hid his face in his hands, unable to contain himself, disturbed out of all the self-possession which thinly veiled the quick susceptibilities of grief.
The Colonel patted him gently on the arm with his kind hand.
“That is true,” he said, with the simple wisdom of his pure heart, “very true – you might be deceiving me – but you are not.”
CHAPTER XVIII
IT is possible that Colonel Sutherland might have perhaps experienced a little annoyance at himself next day, for having so completely taken up and taken charge of the fortunes of his new protegé. That, however, did not give him half so much thought and perplexity as the other question which this morning presented itself to him more immediately, and demanded a settlement – How to meet, and what to decide upon for Horace. This was a very different matter from the simple help which he could offer frankly to the straightforward Musgrave; and all his doubts of the previous night returned to him with fresh force, as he considered the subject once more. He had not still an idea upon the matter. His own thoughts as to the choice of occupations for a young man ran in rather a circumscribed channel. The first thing which occurred to him involuntarily was, of course, his own profession; and India naturally associated itself to the old Indian officer with all hopes of advancement – but there was something in Mr. Scarsdale’s secret, whatever it might be, which made Colonel Sutherland shake his head. “No, that would never do,” he said to himself; “he must be on the spot whatever happens.”
After that the Colonel thought of the learned professions of Medicine, and the Church, which his acquaintance with Edinburgh kept foremost in his mind – and shook his head over these also, concluding his nephew to be too old to begin an elaborate course of study. Lagging a long way after these, a faint and vague idea of “business” loomed through mists upon the Colonel’s mind; he was very well aware of all that it is common to say of British commerce and enterprise – the vast concerns of our trade, and the princely wealth of our merchants; but, notwithstanding, knew as little about these great realities as it is possible for a man brought up in a society innocent of trade, and occupied all his life with the duties of an exclusive profession, to know. He had not the slightest idea what it would be proper to do to introduce a young man into “business.” He had no influence to rely upon, nor friend to turn to for enlightenment upon the matter. He began to turn over in his mind the long roll of his allies and acquaintance – to think who he could best apply to; when suddenly finding himself pass in that review name after name of Scotch lawyers, in all their different grades, from the “writer” to the advocate, a brilliant idea burst upon him – the law! – it was evidently of all others the profession which Horace Scarsdale was best fitted for. How strange that he should not have thought of it before!
Somewhat reassured by this idea, the Colonel sat down to breakfast with increased comfort. It was again a drizzly, uncomfortable day – by no means the kind of day which one would choose to spend away from the resources and solaces of home, in the dreary little parlour of a country inn, with the Fool of Quality on the table, and defunct winners of the Oaks and Derby upon the walls. The Colonel stirred the fire, and returned to his pink rasher of country bacon with a sigh. He thought of his cosy sitting-room, warmly-curtained and carpeted, where all the draughts were carefully extinguished with mats, and list, and sand-bags, and from the windows of which he could see the noble Forth and the Fife coast, always bright, attractive, and full of beauty to his eyes. He thought of his books, companions of his life, and of the Times, which was one of his very few personal indulgences, and which at that very moment, all fragrant from the press in its post envelope, would be lying on his table; and the Colonel, munching his bacon with teeth which were not so perfect as they used to be, shrugged his shoulders as he glanced out of the low parlour-window upon the wet houses opposite, and the dim drizzle of rain. If it must be confessed, he thought of his proposed walk to Marchmain, through five miles of that dreary, damp, and dismal road, with a shiver, and terrible imaginations of rheumatism; yet this room and the Fool of Quality were not much more entertaining. And he could not bear the idea of disappointing Susan, who, the old man was pleased to think, would be watching for and expecting him. Then he pleased himself with the thought of carrying Susan home with him, and making her mistress and housekeeper of the house of his old age. He was glad to escape from his perplexities about Horace by thinking of Susan. There was no vexation nor doubt in the remembrance of the candid, honest, affectionate girl, who answered so warmly to his fatherly affections. Would her father give her up, even for a time, to her uncle? Colonel Sutherland, remembering his interview with Mr. Scarsdale, did not think it was likely; but he was young enough at heart, in spite of probabilities, to take pleasure in the thought.
He had just finished breakfast, and the room was beginning to brighten under the influence of a good fire, between which and the Fool of Quality the Colonel felt more drowsy than he thought it creditable to be in the morning, when Horace made his appearance. The young man came in with drops of rain shining all over his rough coat, and with muddy boots, which he had taken no pains to clean before entering, and which offended the Colonel’s professional and natural fastidiousness. The rain-drops flew over into his uncle’s face as Horace threw off his coat. The Colonel looked on with a mortified displeasure, wondering over him; – he could not understand how it happened that so near a relation of his own should have so little natural grace of manner or perception of propriety. Accordingly, he looked very grave as he shook hands with Horace. He could not enter immediately on the more important subject between them; he could not help criticizing these lesser matters, and thinking how he could manage to suggest an improvement without wounding his nephew; for the Colonel, like other people, had his weaknesses, and in his opinion a disregard of the ordinary proprieties showed a dulness of heart.
As for Horace, he on his part showed no particular anxiety about the question of the day – he was more inclined a great deal to draw his uncle into conversation on general subjects connected with his past life, his former visits to England, and the intercourse he formerly had with his sister and her husband. To this conversation Horace himself contributed a little description of their dinner-table on the previous evening, which was indeed a very dismal picture, and could scarcely be exaggerated. The Colonel shook his head over the story with pain and distress, grieved for the facts, and still more grieved to know that they rather gained than lost in bitterness by his nephew’s recital. This stimulated him to introduce the real subject-matter of the present conference.
“It is natural enough, under all the circumstances, and I daresay advisable as well,” said the Colonel, “that you should wish to get away as soon as possible. Then as to what you are going to do, Horace, I come to the question under great difficulties. In the first place, when you leave me to choose for you, it almost appears as if I were the person sending you away, and not your own desire; and I have no object in sending you away, you must be aware.”
“What does it matter, uncle, how it appears, when we know exactly how it is?” said Horace, with apparent impatience and real craftiness.
“That is very true, and the most sensible thing I have heard you say,” said the unsuspecting Colonel. “Well then, Horace, my boy, there’s business. I don’t know very well how to set about it, but no doubt we could inquire; and I believe, for a man who desires to get on, there is nothing equal to that.”
“If a man has money to begin with, sir,” said Horace. “No, uncle, I detest buying and selling —that will not do for me.”
“Then you detest what many a better man than either you or I has practised, Horace,” said the Colonel, a little affronted. “And there is my own profession. I have some little influence to serve a friend; but to be a soldier – a real soldier – I don’t mean a man of parades and barracks, for at present you are not rich enough for that – requires a strong natural inclination. No – I see your answer – that will not do either; and indeed I think you’re right. Then – I speak to you frankly, Horace – I would not advise you, for instance, to think of the Church.”
“Because I am not good enough,” said Horace, feeling his pride wounded by the suggestion, yet laughing with a contempt of the goodness which could conform itself to that level; “and also, uncle, because I have no education and no influence – that of course is impossible.”
Colonel Sutherland could not help making an involuntary comparison between Roger Musgrave’s humble declaration of want of wit and want of teaching, and this confession, which sounded the same in words. But Horace made his avowal with all the egotistic confidence of a young man who knew nothing of the world; and having never met his equals, in his heart thought education a very trivial circumstance, and believed his talent to be such as should triumph over all disadvantages. The Colonel gave a little suppressed sigh in his heart, and said to himself that nothing would show the boy his mistake – nothing but life.
“Well then, Horace,” he cried, with sudden animation, remembering his own brilliant idea, “what do you think of the Law? So far as I can see, that is exactly the thing which is best suited to your genius – eh? My wonder is that it should never have occurred to yourself. What do you think of that, my boy? – the very thing for you, is it not?”
“The Law?” said Horace – “do you mean to make me an attorney, uncle?”
“I mean that you should make yourself anything that you may prove yourself to have a talent for,” said the Colonel. “What, boy! you must have some idea as to what you’re good for – attorney, solicitor, advocate – I am not particular for my part, but let it be something. It’s an honourable profession when it’s exercised with honour: in my opinion, it’s the thing most suitable to your manner of mind. Eh? – don’t you think so now yourself?”
Horace leaned over the table with his elbows on it, and his chin supported in his palms. It flashed upon him as he gazed into the air, and thought with little goodwill over this project, that the practitioners of the Law were men who knew everybody’s secrets; that the power of the profession lay in its craft, and the skill with which it laid things together; that to lawyers, of all the different grades, belonged especially the task of finding out, and of concealing everything which it was for the interests of the rest of the world to discover or to hide. This idea sent a little animation into his face; he began to feel that this might really be congenial to the habits of his mind, as his uncle said; and, at all events, he might thus be in the way of discovering those secrets which affected his own life.
“The Law, like every other profession, requires study and time,” said Horace, with, at last, a sincere sigh; “and I have no chance of being able to wait or to learn, uncle. No! it is impossible – my father will do nothing for me. If I could be a clerk, or something, and pick up what information I might,” he continued, warming to the idea, as it seemed more and more impracticable; “but, as for study, what can I do?”
“My dear boy,” said the Colonel, warmly, “if you really feel that you can go into this with all your mind, I will not hesitate to speak to your father. I believe he has not been kind to you – but no father in the world will sacrifice the future of his son for the sake of a trifling sum of money, or a little trouble. No, Horace, you do your father injustice. If you really can go into this – if you feel yourself ready to give your whole might to it, and make thus a deliberate choice of your profession, I feel sure he will not deny you the means. No, my boy – you are wrong; trust to me; I will see him myself.”
“I shall be very glad, uncle, if you will make the experiment,” said Horace; “but I know him better – he will do nothing for me. No! – he’d rather see me an errand-boy or a street-sweeper, than help me to the profession of a gentleman. I have known it for years; but still, if you will take the trouble, and undergo the pain of asking him, of course I can only be thankful. Try, uncle – I will not be disappointed if you fail, and you will be satisfied. I can only say try.”
“Yes; but my condition of trying is that you are resolved to go into this, and think it a thing in which you can succeed,” said the Colonel, fixing his eyes anxiously on his nephew’s face.
Horace did not look at him in return; but there was an animation and eagerness unusual to it in his face – he was following out in imagination, not a young man’s vague, ambitious dreams, but a chain of elaborate researches after the one secret which he could not discover, and which haunted him night and day. “I do!” he exclaimed, with an emphasis of sincerity and earnestness which delighted the Colonel, who seized him by the hand, and promised, over and over again, to leave no exertion untried which could obtain him his wish. Horace responded to this with the best appearance of gratitude and cordiality which he could manage to show, but with, in reality, a great indifference. He had no hope whatever from his uncle’s mediation, and was forming other and secret plans in his own mind for his own object, which was not the same as Colonel Sutherland’s; for he did not dream of success in the profession which he was about to choose, or of “scope for his talents,” or any of those natural ambitions which occurred to the old soldier – but had entirely concentrated his underground and cavernous thoughts upon this new and unthought of mode, of carrying his personal inquiries out.
Having settled this matter to his great satisfaction, Colonel Sutherland walked to the window and contemplated the weather: it had ceased to rain, but the chill, damp, penetrating atmosphere was as ungenial as ever; the roads were wretched, and he shuddered involuntarily to think of that bare and miserable moor. However, the Colonel had already been three days at Tillington; and did not admire his quarters sufficiently to remain longer than he could help. Then this interview with his brother-in-law, being eminently disagreeable, would be well over. He hesitated, looked wistfully at his good fire, and with melancholy eyes at the dark sky without; but, at last, taking courage, buttoned on his great-coat, threw his cloak round him, took his stick in his hand, and thus defended from cold and violence, took his way once more, Horace by his side, to Marchmain.
