There were strange elements of incongruity in the scene presented by
that dinner-table. Mr. Scarsdale sat at the head of the table, with his
son and daughter at the sides, and Peggy behind his chair, erect and
stately in his evening dress. All the furniture of the table, the linen,
the silver, the china, were of the finest description, and in beautiful
order; and strangely around this little centre of light gloomed the
meagre unadorned walls, the homely furniture, the heavy hangings of the
cheerless apartment, which, however, scarcely formed a greater contrast
to the dainty arrangements of the table than Horace Scarsdale's gray
morning jacket, and disordered hair, did to the formal toilette of his
father. Susan sat at Mr. Scarsdale's right hand, in her clean collar.
Her dress was very homely; but Susan, at seventeen, was one of those
women who have a natural fitness for their place everywhere, and never
fall out of harmony. Perhaps she was not over-sensitive by nature; at
all events, she was not distressed by the silence of this meal, at which
there was no conversation. It was their invariable custom, and Susan had
seen no other family-table to make her aware of the misery of this.
Horace was of another temper: everything was an offence to the unhappy
lad; the silence galled almost beyond endurance; and when his father
addressed him as he did always, with formal politeness, upon helping him
to anything, the blood rushed to the young man's cheeks with such sudden
violence and force, that no one, who watched his countenance, could
have been surprised to see him answer with some demonstration of
passion. But he never did; he replied, in the stifled voice of rage,
with thanks and formal courtesy. Thus they sat like two enemies, forced
to civility by the circumstances of sitting at the same table, and
together ate, as if it choked them, their unblessed bread. "Shall I help
you to some soup?" asked Mr. Scarsdale, and Horace made a stubborn bow
and said, "Thank you." Neither spoke the other's name, neither even
looked in the other's face--yet, by that strange magic of antagonism,
which is as strong as love, were aware, instinctively, of every
movement, almost of every sentiment, which influenced each other's
conduct for the moment. But they had this little duel all to
themselves--Susan, dulled by habit, and knowing that it had always been
so, observed it not--Peggy, behind her master's chair, saw everything,
and said nothing. Sometimes, indeed, an acute observer might have
noticed that the faithful servant set down something on the table with
an unnecessary emphasis, which answered, instead of words, to give her
impatience vent, and which her master never failed to notice. Peggy,
too, did not hesitate to interfere in the business of the table--to
remark that Mr. Horace did not eat, and to recommend a particular dish
to Miss Susan. Peggy's dialect was rather a remarkable one, and
difficult to identify. She was a North-countrywoman by birth, but had
lived in many districts of England, and had taken up, with great
impartiality and candour of mind, their different manners of speech. But
Mr. Scarsdale, who had killed all natural utterance in his children, had
no power over Peggy; he never even tried to restrain her. Her discourse
ran on a cheerful chorus during the whole solemn period of dinner; and
this it was, more perhaps than anything else, which prevented a
positive outbreak between the father and the son.
"Young Master Roger, Miss Susan, dear, he's agoin' hoam," said Peggy;
"he's got father and mother livin' _after_ all, as I hear say, and none
so poorly off neither, for all his goin' off in a despair wi' talk o'
'listin'. Natur's a mystery, that's for certain--to turn off a manchild
upon a godfayther, and rather to 'list nor to go hoam! I dunno know
which is worst if ye ask me. Stewed chicken, master, and done perfect,
though I say it as should not; but I'm none so pleased with the peatoes.
I'll not have no more from the mill--they're agoin' in the disease.
Wine?--this very minute, if I had the keys."
Mr. Scarsdale brought forth the keys from his pocket; and, totally
regardless of Peggy's monologue, which ran on in further gossip, broke
the silence of the table in his own person--a most portentous and
unusual incident. He spoke without either addressing or looking at
anyone, though it was, in fact, a question which he asked.
"There is, I believe," observed Mr. Scarsdale, "a spare bedroom in the
house?"
Peggy did not hear for the first moment, being taken aback by the
unusual event; and Susan said, timidly, "Yes, papa," taking the remark
to herself.
"The door was open this very day, master," said Peggy, when she
recovered her surprise; "I judge you wur lookin' with your own eyes what
like it was; but the good of a spare bedroom in this house I would wish
a wise woman to tell to me."
Mr. Scarsdale made no response, but delivered himself of his further
intelligence as though he heard her not. "I wish it to be put in order,"
he said, briefly; "Colonel Sutherland arrives here on a visit,
to-morrow."
Even Horace was moved to a momentary start and look of surprise at his
father's immovable countenance, while Susan clasped her hands in spite
of herself, and cried--"Oh! papa, is it my uncle?" with the most eager
and joyful anxiety suddenly suffusing her face.
But Susan's voice was drowned in Peggy's more decided accents. "Master
Edward!" cried Peggy, with a restrained shout of triumph--"blessings on
his honest face! he never crossed a door but he brought comfort--and as
handsome a man as eye could see, and the pleasantest gentleman to speak
to that ever said good-morrow. So he's Cornel now!--and well deserves
it, I'll be bold to say. Custard, master?--as light as a May breeze--and
the very tarts you had in holiday times, when you were a boy. I had a
thought of old times, and knew no reason--to be sure, it was for a
forewarning of the news!"
Mr. Scarsdale thrust the china dish containing the tarts out of his way
with an unusual expression of impatience. Then, recollecting himself,
took it up and turned to Horace--that is to say, turned his head to him,
without turning his eyes, as was his custom. "May I have the pleasure of
helping you?" said the father, with a tone of suppressed bitterness.
Horace put forth his plate immediately; Peggy's harmless confectionery
was evidently vexatious and annoying to Mr. Scarsdale, and his son took
pains to express his enjoyment of it, and compliment Peggy on her
handiwork. It was as rare an event to hear Horace's voice at dinner as
his father's. The approaching event seemed to have loosed the tongues of
both.
This little incident put an end to Peggy's gossip; she removed the
remainder of her tarts with a visible flutter of offence, and set down
the wine on the table with double emphasis. When Peggy withdrew, Mr.
Scarsdale took a book from his pocket, and set up a small folding
reading-desk, which had been placed by his hand when the cloth was
withdrawn. There he sat, with his glass of purple claret reflected in
the shining mahogany, and the two tall, slender candles illuminating a
little circle round him, and his head relieved against the dark
curtains, which looked almost black in the feeble light. A line of magic
drawn round him could not have screened him more completely from the
other inmates of the room. Horace thrust his chair away rudely, and
leaving it thus at a little distance from the table, went to the window
and disappeared behind the curtains to look out on the night. Susan
stole quietly round to the side of the table, and produced out of her
big bag her evening work--an occupation dear to her heart, though it was
only a patchwork quilt, the only fancy work that Susan knew; but before
she sat down, withdrew her brother's chair noiselessly to the side of
the fire, where it looked human and companionable. Then silence, entire
as if these three human creatures were statues, fell upon the room,
where still Mr. Scarsdale sat at the shining table with its two lines of
reflection, with the claret jug at his elbow, and his book supported on
the reading-desk, and the glass before him half-full of purple wine. He
turned the leaves at regular intervals, and went through them with
mechanical gravity; but his ears were keen to every rustle of the
curtain, and with all the virulence of domestic strife the mind of this
singular father watched his son.
As for Susan, her whole mind, as she worked in silence, was full of the
wonderful intimation she had just heard. Perhaps by this time you are
disposed to think that Susan was very insensible and dull in her
feelings not to be miserable about the enmity which existed between her
father and brother; but Susan was accustomed to it, and had never seen
other fathers and sons, and had seen this go on in the same way so long,
that, though she felt it uncomfortable, she entertained no apprehensions
about it. As for Horace, if he would remain by himself in the window,
looking out upon the black night, Susan could not help it. He was not
more miserable there than he would be at the table with his father's
austere shadow upon him; and conversation was tacitly prohibited in
those dismal evenings. Susan's was still an unawakened mind; her brother
did not encourage her to think her own influence over him of any
importance, nor permitted her to suppose that she had any power to
soothe him; and the trembling, timid, mediatory love, which holds a
fearful balance in many a divided household, needs love and softness of
some kind, on one side or the other, to keep it alive. Love Susan found
none in either of her two nearest relatives. She loved them by nature
and custom; sometimes a terrible impatience of their discord seized
her, and a momentary impulse of passion, to do something or say
something which should stir this stagnant, stormy calm, or perhaps
change the manner of their existence, had possessed her once or twice in
her life; but the tender, anxious, intense love which cruelty cannot
kill when it has once developed itself, never can develop itself without
the stimulus and creating power of dear love from some one to begin
with. Thus it was that Susan beheld with vexation and distress
sometimes, but without agony, the unnatural feud beside her, that she
took neither side, because either side was equally cold, repulsive, and
unaffectionate. She did not know life; she knew not even the fictitious
life of books. She did not fear when her brother rushed out into the
night, as he did often, that Horace would fall into the rude snares of
village dissipation, or run in the way of vulgar crime. She was not
alarmed for a possible outbreak of violence between the father and son;
such things had never been suggested to her inexperienced mind.
So she sat in the silence, not resenting it for her own part, content in
herself, and making out of that dismal quiet a little circle of domestic
tranquillity when she arranged her patches and contrasted her colours,
and secretly entertained vague anticipations of unknown pleasure, and a
warmth of inextinguishable personal happiness, in the very heart of the
misery through which her life had grown.
At eight o'clock to a minute Peggy brought in the tea-tray, and removed
the claret-jug, which, though he had only once filled his glass, stood
all that time by Mr. Scarsdale's side. Then he took his cup of tea from
his daughter's hand without even looking at her, and went on with his
reading. Comfort was not to be got out of anything in this house. Horace
drank his standing--told his sister it did not rain now, and went off
out of the room like a wind. And when Susan looked over her tea-tray to
see her father's eyes fixed upon his book, and the door closed upon her
brother, and herself compelled to sit formally there till Mr. Scarsdale,
sipping it slowly and by intervals, had finished his second cup of
tea--a certain forlorn sensation of solitude and discomfort moistened
Susan's eyes, and brought an ache to her heart. Then her thoughts went
back with a joyful rebound to the promised visitor of to-morrow--her
mother's brother, an actual relation, whose love and kindness she had a
claim on. She lost herself in wonder what like he would be, and how he
would treat his sister's children. To-morrow would solve Susan's long
and troubled problem--whether all men were like papa: to-morrow would
give her a glimpse into that world of which she knew nothing. Nature was
sceptical in Susan's heart: she could not believe that papa was the
type and impersonation of man. Kindness, unknown and longed for, seemed
coming to her in the person of that uncle. She returned to her patches,
longing to run into the cheerful kitchen to Peggy, to ask all about the
new-comer; but bound by the customary punctilio of the house to sit
there silent and occupied opposite the reading-desk--a bondage which
Susan had never felt more oppressive than on this particular
night--while Mr. Scarsdale still turned the mechanical pages, and Horace
roamed through the black moor and the falling rain, cursing his fate.