Susan could not tell how long the interval was till Peggy came softly
stealing into the room, in her big night-cap, and with a shawl over her
shoulders. Peggy had waited till she heard Mr. Scarsdale sweep upstairs;
she could see him out of her kitchen, where she sat in the dark, silent
and watchful as her own great cat, with her eyes turned towards the
closed door of the dining-room; and as soon as she supposed it safe, she
made haste to the succour of his poor daughter. Susan was sitting in
despair, where she had sat all the evening, pale, stupefied, and
silent--not sufficiently alive to outward circumstances to notice
Peggy's entrance; overpowered by her own personal misfortune scarcely
more than she was shocked in her sense of right, and ashamed to be
obliged to expose her father's cruelty and injustice. A new horror on
this point had seized her; she was not of that disposition which is
pleased to appear in the character of victim or sacrifice; she would
have suffered anything sooner than disclose the grim ghost of her own
house to the public eye; notwithstanding this was what she must do, in
spite of herself. When Horace left his home it was not an unnatural
proceeding, nor was his father to be supposed greatly in the wrong; but
she, a girl, what would any one think of a man who expelled her from his
unfatherly doors? Her heart ached as this new thought fell with
afflicting and sudden distinctness upon it, and she had now no more time
to weep or bemoan herself. This night only was all the interval of
thought or preparation to be permitted her. Already, indeed, in the
chill of that deep darkness the day had begun which was to see her cast
forth and banished; and already her mind sickened and grew feeble to
think that she could not take a step upon the road without revealing to
some one how hardly she had been treated; and that her own very
solitude, helplessness, and necessity were all so many mute accusations
against the father who had no pity on her womanhood or her youth.
Notwithstanding, Susan was recovering command of herself, and felt that
she had no time for trifling; and when she felt Peggy's hand on her
shoulder, and heard the whisper of kindness in her ear, she did not
"give way," as Peggy expected. She looked up with her exhausted face,
almost worn out, yet at the same time reviving, full of what it was
necessary to do.
"I am to go away," she said, slowly, with a quiver of her
lip--"to-morrow--early--that he may never see me again. I am to tell you
where to send my things, and to go away, Peggy, to-morrow."
"Weel, hinny, and it's well for you!" cried Peggy, herself bursting out
into a fit of tears and sobbing. "Oh, Miss Susan, what am I that I
should complain and grumble?--but it's all that heartbreaking face, my
darling lamb! What should I lament for? Nothing in this world but
selfishness, and because I'm an old fool. The Lord forgive us!--it's a
deal better for you!"
"Oh! hush, Peggy--don't speak!" said Susan--"and don't cry--I can't bear
it! There is very, very little time now to think of anything; and you
must tell me--there is nobody else in the world to tell me--what I am to
do."
"Nobody else in the world? Oh, hinny-sweet!" cried poor Peggy. "There's
a whole worldfull of love and kindness for you and the likes of you.
There's your uncle--bless him!--that would keep the very wind off your
cheek; and many a wan ye never saw nor heard tell o', will be striving
which to be kindest. Say no such words to me--I know a deal better than
that. I'm no' afraid for you," cried Peggy, with a fresh burst of
sobbing--"no' a morsel, and I'll no pretend. I'm real even down
heartbroken for the master and mysel'!"
Susan could not answer, and did not try; she was but little disposed to
lament for her father at the present moment, or to think him capable of
feeling her loss. She put her hand on Peggy's, and pressed it, half in
fondness, half with an entreaty to be silent, which the faithful servant
did not disregard. Peggy took Susan's round soft hand between her own
hard ones, and held it close, and looked at her with sorrowful, fond
eyes. She saw the young life and resolution, the sweet serious sense and
judgment, coming back to Susan's face, and Peggy was heroic enough to
forget herself, for the forlorn young creature's sake.
"Ay, it's just so," said Peggy--"I knowed it from her birth. She'll
never make a work if she can help it, but she'll never break down and
fail. Miss Susan, there's one thing first and foremost you mun do, and
you munna say no to me, for I know best. You must go this moment to your
bed----"
"To bed! Do you think _I_ could sleep, Peggy?" cried Susan, with
involuntary youthful contempt.
"Ay, hinny--ye'll sleep, and ye'll wake fresh, and start early. You
wouldn't think it, maybe, but I know better," said Peggy. "You munna
say no to me, the last night. Eyeh, my lamb! you're young, and your eyes
are heavy with the sleep and the tears. I'll wake ye brave and early,
but you mun take first your nat'ral rest."
"It is impossible. I do not know what to do--I have everything to ask
you about. Oh, Peggy, don't bid me!" said Susan, crying; "and I have no
money, and nobody to direct me, and I don't know how to get there!"
"Whisht! Youth can sleep at all seasons; but it's given to the aged to
watch, and it doesna injure _them_," said Peggy, solemnly. "Go to your
bed, my lamb, and say your prayers, and the Lord'll send sleep to his
beloved; and as for me, I'll turn all things over in my mind, and do up
your bundle: you mun carry your own bundle, hinny, a bit of the
road--there's no help; and rouse you with the break of day, and hev your
cup of tea ready. Eh! the Lord bless you, darling! you're a-going forth
to love and kindness, and a life fit for the likes of you. Am I sorry?
No, no, no, if ye ask me a hunderd times--save and excepting for
mysel'."
"Oh, Peggy, _you'll_ miss me!" cried Susan, throwing herself into the
arms of her faithful friend.
"Ay; maybe I will," said Peggy, slowly; "I wouldn't say--it's moor nor
likely. Miss Susan, go to your bed this moment; ye'll maybe never have
the chance of doing Peggy's bidding again."
Moved by this adjuration, Susan obeyed, though very unwillingly; and
smiling sadly at the very idea of sleep, laid herself down for the last
time on her own bed, "to please Peggy." But Peggy knew better than her
young mistress. Through those deep, chill hours of night, while Peggy,
in the same room, looked over all the different articles of her
wardrobe, selecting the dress in which she should travel, carefully
packing the others, and putting up the light necessary articles which
must be carried with her, Susan slept soft and deep, with the sleep of
youth and profound exhaustion. She had been tried beyond her strength,
and nature would not be defrauded. When Peggy's task was over she sat
down by the bedside, a strange figure in her great muslin nightcap, and
with her big shawl wrapping her close against the cold of the night.
Peggy was too old to sleep in such circumstances; she sat wiping her
eyes silently, though not weeping, as far as any sound went, thinking of
more things than Susan wist of; of Susan's mother, who had succumbed so
many years ago under the hard pressure of life; of the unhappy man in
the next room, who was consuming himself, as he had consumed everything
lovely and pleasant in his existence, by the vehemence and bitterness of
his passions; and of yet another man who was dead, an elder Scarsdale,
whose malevolent will worked mischief and misery, after he had ceased to
have any individual action of his own. Susan would have thought it
strange and hard if she had known that she herself, the darling of
Peggy's heart, came in only at the end of this long musing upon others;
and that even her brother, with his hard and ungenerous spirit, had a
larger share in the sorrowful cogitations of the old family servant than
she herself had. Susan was only a sufferer--she was young, she had
friends who would love her. Peggy would "miss" her sorely and heavily,
but it was well for Susan. She had nothing to do with that long line of
perversity, and cruelty, and guilt which ran in the Scarsdale blood.
The dawn was breaking gray and faint when Peggy woke her young mistress.
Susan sprang up instantly, unable to believe that the night was really
over. Peggy had made everything ready for her, even to the unnecessary
breakfast and comforting cup of tea down-stairs, set before a cosy fire,
and the girl dressed herself with a silent rapidity of excitement,
listening to the directions which Peggy, not very learned herself, gave
to her inexperience. Peggy, out of the heart of some secret treasure of
her own, which she kept ready in case of necessity, and had done for
many a year, with a prevision of some such want as the present, had
taken an old five-pound note, which, stuffed into an old fashioned
purse, she put into Susan's hands, as soon as her rapid toilette was
completed.
"They'll no ask more nor that, Miss Susan," said Peggy; "they tell me
they're no as dear as postchays, them railroads. Now, hinny, I'll tell
you what you'll do--you'll take across the moor to Tillington, to John
Gilsland's, at the public; it's a long walk, but it cannot be helped,
and it's early morning, and no a person will say an uncivil word to you.
You'll tell him to get out his gig and take you immediate to the
railroad, and you'll no pay him. Maybe he might impose upon you, though
he's a decent man, if it wasna his wife; and maybe they might ask moor
nor we think for at the railroad, and put ye about. Ye can tell him to
come to us for his payment, and so I'll hear how ye got that far. Then,
Miss Susan, ye'll make him take out a ticket for you--that's the manner
of the thing--as near till the Cornel's as possible--you knaw the names
of the places better nor me; and then, my darling lamb, you'll buy some
biscuits and things, and take grit care of yoursel'; and you'll come to
Edinburgh, so far as I can mind, first; and then you'll ask after the
road to your uncle's. I canna believe, not me, that there's a man on the
whole road as is fit to be oncivil to you. And you'll tell John
Gilsland to take your ticket for the best place; and look about you,
hinny, till you see some decent woman-person a-goin' the same road, and
keep beside _her_. Miss Susan, my dear lamb, you'll have to think for
yoursel', and no be frightened. Eh, if I could but go and take care of
ye! but the Lord bless us, hinny, we munna leave _him_, poor forlorn
gentleman, all by himself."
"I will think of everything you say. I shall not be frightened. I'll
take care, Peggy," cried Susan, through her tears.
"Whisht, whisht!--you're no to go forth greeting. My lamb, it's best for
you--I'm no sorry for _you_," cried Peggy, with a sob; "here's your
tea--a good cup of tea's a great comfort; and here's some
sandwiches--eat them when you can on the road, for I see you'll no put a
morsel within your lips at Marchmain. And now, my darling hinny, it's
good daylight, and here's your bundle, and you'll hev to go."
The parting was sore but brief, and Susan stood without in the early
sunshine before she knew what had happened to her, holding
unconsciously but tightly the bundle in one hand, and Peggy's old
leather purse in the other, and hearing closed behind her, with an
inexorable certainty and swiftness, which was poor Peggy's artifice to
hide her own grief, and to shorten the pang of their farewell, that
remorseless door of Marchmain. The desolate girl stood for a moment,
blind with tears, on the step. Her fate was accomplished. There lay the
moor, with the world beyond, strange, unfamiliar, bewildering--and her
home, cold as it was, had closed upon her for ever. The first thrill of
that reality was so dreadful to Susan, that she might have fallen and
fainted upon the cold threshold where she still stood, holding by the
doorpost to support herself, but for an incident that roused her. A
window opened above--the window of her father's room. She looked up
eagerly, thinking that perhaps he might have relented. Something,
magnified and blurred in form by the tears which filled her eyes full,
fell from above, and descended heavily at her feet; but no one appeared
at the window, which was instantly closed. She stooped down to lift it,
trembling. It was another purse, not so homely as Peggy's, containing
no note or word of farewell as she had hoped for a moment, but merely
another five-pound note. With a strange access of anger and
disappointment, Susan threw it from her upon the step of the door. "Give
it to Peggy--_her_ money is better to _me_!" she cried aloud, with
involuntary indignation; and then brushing the tears from her eyes, set
out upon her journey without looking behind, her whole heart and frame
tingling with wounded feeling and injured pride.
That cold and grudging provision for her wants, thrown to her at the
last moment, transported Susan with a sudden touch of passion foreign to
her nature; it sent her across the moor at a speed which she could not
have equalled under any other circumstances. The dew was on the early
heather-bells, and the solitary golden flower-pods which lighted the
dark whin bushes opened under her eye to the morning sun; but though the
scene had many charms at that hour and season, and though the whins and
straggling seedlings caught her dress as if to detain her, the young
wayfarer made no pause.
"The tears that gathered in her eye
She left the mountain breeze to dry."
And pushing forward, with all the sudden force of a sensitive nature,
urged beyond strength or patience, pressed along the rustling moorland
path, without once turning her eyes to look upon that house from which
the last gleam of hope disappeared with her disappearance. Henceforth
all life of youth and light of affection were severed from Marchmain.
END OF VOL. II.
R. BORN, PRINTER, GLOUCESTER STREET, REGENT'S PARK.
* * * * *
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
delighful books=> delightful books {pg 57}
traveling=> travelling {pg 173}
he could scarely believe=> he could scarcely believe {pg 281}
End of Project Gutenberg's The House on the Moor, v. 2/3, by Mrs. Oliphant