In this stupefied condition of mind, stunned by the change which seemed
about to happen, yet moved now and then by a strange intolerance and
passionate inclination to resist and protest, Peggy found her young
mistress when she came to spread the table for that hateful dinner, the
thought of which made Susan's heart ache. The poor girl still sat
listlessly by the table on which her letters, the treasures of her
affectionate disposition, were still carelessly scattered, and where the
pretty box stood open and empty, as Mr. Scarsdale had thrust it away
from him. Susan was by no means above a fit of crying, and had her
disappointments and vexations like another, little as there seemed to
wish or hope for within her limited firmament; but this listless
attitude of despair was new to Peggy, who was somehow frightened to see
it. What had happened? Had she expected a letter, and falling into a fit
of passion not to receive any, had she thrown out recklessly on the
table that cherished correspondence, the comfort of her life? But fits
of passion were very unlike Susan. Peggy had come upstairs early, that
she might have some private, confidential talk, and inform her of her
brother's hurried visit; but she paused in anxiety and compassion before
entering upon that subject. "Hinny, what ails you?" asked Peggy, with
the kindly, local term of caressing, laying her hand softly on Susan's
shoulder. The girl started, gazed in her face, and then suddenly
recollecting this one, long, faithful friend, whom she must lose, hid
her face upon Peggy's shoulder, and burst again into passionate tears.
"What is it then, hinny?--aye trouble, and nought but trouble. Bless us
all, has the master been upon ye again? And what did ye know, poor
innocent?" cried Peggy, caressing the young head that leaned upon her;
"has he found it out, for all the watch I made? Hauld up your head, and
let me hear--it was none of your blame."
"Found out what?" cried Susan, grasping her suddenly by the hand.
"No great comfort if a person mun speak the truth--just that Mr. Horry
was here when you were out. Yes, Miss Susan," said Peggy, "I ought to
have told ye sooner, but what good? He came for no end as I could see,
and departed the same. Aye the owld man--a bitter thought in his heart,
and an ill word in his mouth. Eh, the Lord forgive us! To think _we_
should have the bringing up of childer!--that can make sure of nothing
to give them but our own shortcomin's! He said he was leaving Kenlisle,
but no another word, and was out of the house before I could come down
to ask him wherefore he was goin', and where."
"Horace!" cried Susan, who had followed this speech breathlessly, with
an interest almost too eager for intelligence, and whose face had
reddened with a painful insight, as it came to an end. "Horace! Has
Horace been here?"
She clasped her hands together with such an anxious entreaty not to be
answered, that Peggy paused involuntarily. "Peggy," said Susan, under
her breath, "don't tell papa--for pity's sake, don't tell papa! He will
do nothing worse to me than he has threatened. I am only a girl--he
would not strike me nor fight me. But Horace! Peggy, for mercy's sake,
if you love me or any of us, let him believe that I did it. Let him
never know that Horace has been here."
"There's something happened! Let me hear what it is," said Peggy, almost
as anxiously, "and then I'll know what is behoving and needful. Eh, Miss
Susan, you're ignorant and innocent yoursel', you moughtn't understand
him. Let _me_ hear what he said."
"He said nothing," said Susan, shaking her head mournfully, with a
sadness very unlike Peggy's expectation, "but that I had stolen away a
letter from his room while he was out. Oh, Peggy, I am so very, very
thankful that I had not seen you, and did not know Horace had been
here! And he said if I did not give it back to him to-morrow, he would
turn me away. Turn me away, Peggy, out of doors upon the moor, to go
anywhere, or do anything I pleased! I, who never was farther than
Tillington except once with Uncle Edward! I, who know nobody, and have
no money, and no friends! To send me away from Marchmain, and from--from
_you_, who care for me. Oh, Peggy, what shall I do?"
Peggy stood irresolute for a moment, wringing her hands. "The Lord help
us all! If the devil has a man bound hand and foot, what can _I_ do?"
cried the faithful servant. "God preserve us! That's what it's come to.
Eh, mistress, mistress! Did I think what I would have to put up with
when I gave you my word? Let me go, Miss Susan. I've know'd him thirty
year, and he's know'd me. I'll speak to him mysel'."
But Susan hung round her with a clasp which would not be loosed,
entreating, with a voice scarcely audible, which, notwithstanding, went
to poor Peggy's heart. "He will think _you_ know--you will tell him--he
will find it out!" cried Susan; "and, Peggy, they will kill each other.
Peggy, Peggy! think! father and son! Let him believe it was me; he will
not kill _me_, and I am ready to go away."
"Poor lamb!" said Peggy, smoothing down the pretty fair braids of hair
on Susan's young head, which had once more drooped forward on her own
compassionate shoulder. "But it's no' her; I'm no thinking of her, bless
her! It's him. God forgive him! He had but one chance, as any mortal
could see. He had his childer, his daughter--an innocent that had no
share in't, and was wronged as well as himsel'. And now the Lord help
us! he'll bereave himsel', and send his one hope away. I'm no' thinking
of you, hinny," said Peggy, tenderly, while a few slow tears began to
fall, gleaming and large, on Susan's hair--"nor of me--one heart-break,
more or less, is little matter to an owld woman; and if I wasna like to
sink with fret and trouble, I would see it was best for you; but, oh,
weary on the man himsel'! What's to become of him? There's no more
houp, as I can see, no more!"
Susan, sobbing upon Peggy's breast, naturally felt, in the youthful
petulance of that sudden calamity, that it was herself who ought to be
sorrowed for, and not her father. She raised herself a little, wiping
her eyes, with a flush of momentary independence and involuntary
self-assertion. For once in her life the forlorn pride and excess of
unappreciated suffering, so dear to very young people, came in a flood
of desolate luxury to Susan's heart. She thought of herself, lonely and
friendless upon the moor, cast out from her home, and ignorant where to
turn, with nobody in the world so much as thinking of her, or sparing a
tear for her sorrow. Peggy mourning for Mr. Scarsdale--for her father,
he who dwelt secure and supreme at home, and cast out his woman-child
upon the world. Horace, for whose sin she was to suffer, gone away
without caring to see her, without even saying where he had gone; and
Susan in her youth and desolation all alone and friendless! The picture
was sad enough in reality; and Susan lifted her head with momentary
pride from Peggy's breast, tears of self-lamentation flowing out of her
eyes, and proud mortification and loneliness in her heart; not even
Peggy felt for _her_.
"And I--what am _I_ to do?" she said, half to herself, turning her
wistful weeping eyes upon that moor which was the world to her at this
moment, and no bad emblem of the world at any time to the friendless and
solitary. It was true that Susan's heart had palpitated with one sudden
flush of joy at the thought, beyond that moor and yon horizon, of
reaching Uncle Edward, and the home of her dreams; but Uncle Edward was
far off, and she had no means of reaching him. What was she to
do?--wander on day and night, like a lady of romance, seeking her love,
with nothing on her lips but "Uncle Edward" and "Milnehill"?--or lose
herself and die upon those wistful far extending roads, out of reach of
love or human charity? Anything sad enough would have pleased Susan's
imagination at the present moment. She could see no brighter side to the
picture. Nobody in the world cared for or sympathized with her strange
dismal circumstances, and the only home she had ever known in the world
was about to close its remorseless doors upon her. Darkness fell upon
the moor, and the spring breezes blew chilly over it, but from that
darkness and those breezes she might have no roof to shelter her after
to-night.
From these fancies she was strangely enough interrupted. Peggy, absorbed
in her own thoughts, and almost forgetting the young victim of this
day's misfortunes, had not disturbed her hitherto. Peggy's own mind was
wandering back through a painful blank of years and hopeless human
perversity; but the sure touch of habit recalled her to herself more
certainly than Susan's silent tears, or the melancholy thought of losing
Susan, which, though she said little about it, lay heavy at her heart.
The growing darkness startled her suddenly--"Gude preserve me!--and he
must have his dinner, whether or no," said Peggy, darting forward to
gather up the letters and restore them to their box. Not a moment too
soon, for Mr. Scarsdale's study-door creaked immediately afterwards,
and his step was audible going upstairs to dress. Susan took the box out
of Peggy's hands with youthful petulance, and left the room, carrying it
solemnly, and proudly restraining her tears. Nobody should be offended
again with the sight of Uncle Edward's present. Nobody should find
herself in the way after this melancholy night; and the dinner, that
dismal ceremonial--the dinner which Peggy could not forget, though
Susan's heart was breaking--she had that trial, too, to get through and
overcome. To meet her father's eye and sit in his presence all the
miserable evening; to eat or pretend to eat for the last time at his
table; and to do this all alone and unsupported, the poor desolate child
feeling a certain guilt in her heart which she had not known when he
spoke to her first--the secret consciousness, not to be revealed for her
life, that if she had not taken the letter she knew who had done so; and
that secretly, like a robber, Horace had been here.