A walk of five miles on that dismal February afternoon was not a
pleasure excursion; nor was it pleasant to look back upon poor Susan's
face at the window--flushed, tearful, ashamed, mortified, Susan had not
experienced an equal vexation in the whole course of her life. To think
of Uncle Edward having to go away through the damp and twilight five
miles off to find a lodging! Uncle Edward, who had come closer to
Susan's heart in half-an-hour than all the rest of the world in all her
life! When they were out of sight she subsided into the arm-chair and
had a good cry over it, and then went to talk to Peggy, who was actively
furious, relieving herself by incomprehensible ejaculations. Still
somehow, mortified and vexed as she was, there was all the promise of a
new life remaining for Susan. Uncle Edward would return to-morrow; so
long as he stayed he would see them every day--and the idea disturbed
the stagnant atmosphere, and diffused an indescribable cheerfulness
through the house. Even Peggy, though she fumed, was exhilarated by the
thought--perhaps on the whole, it was even better that the Colonel's
tender, honest heart should not be grieved by the sight of the ghost of
family life existing here. So long as he did not see it to make himself
wretched with the view, Uncle Edward's sweet and healthful imagination
could conceive of no such scene as Mr. Scarsdale's dinner, or the
evening hours which followed it. And then he was coming back to-morrow!
So Susan took her presents upstairs, and fell wondering and dreaming
over them, making impossible fancy scenes of cheerful rooms and pleasant
people, and smiles, and flowers, and kindness unknown. Somehow whispers
of all these delightful things seemed to breathe out of that pretty
muslin, with its graceful wreaths of embroidery. The horizon opened to
her awakened girlish fancy, far off, and almost inconceivable, yet with
a vague brightness of possibility--and Susan spent an hour arranging her
new riches in the drawer, which was the only scene they were likely to
enlighten at present, and making herself happy with her novel thoughts.
While in the meantime the Colonel and his nephew trudged onward across
the moor. The rain had ceased, but the sky was low and the air damp--and
evening darkened round the vast blurred circle of the horizon, dropping
down among the hills. The scene was dismal enough for anything: the
exposed path across the moor--the black furze bushes and withered
crackling heather--the slender saplings cowering together here and there
in a little circle, where attempts had been made to naturalize them--and
the great, monotonous, unbroken stretch of desert soil around, inspected
from the lower heights by gaunt clumps of fir-trees, savage and
melancholy anchorites, debarred from the change and variety, the autumn
and the spring of common nature. Colonel Sutherland threw a shivering
glance round him, and drew his cloak close about his throat. We will not
say that even at that moment, when his thoughts were occupied with more
important things, an involuntary patriotic comparison did not occur to
the old soldier, who was native to the rich fields of Lothian, and might
be disposed to wonder complacently whether _this_ were indeed the
sunnier south. He had, however, a more immediate subject of observation
in Horace, who trudged beside him with the stoop and slouch, and heavy
irregular step, of a neglected and moody youth. He was well-looking
enough, and not deficient in any bodily quality, but the lad's
_physique_ had been totally unattended to, and he had never been in
circumstances which could have led himself to perceive his faults of
bearing and carriage. The Colonel's soldierly eye could not help
regarding him with manifest dissatisfaction. We will not take it upon us
to affirm that Colonel Sutherland at the head of his regiment might not
be something of a martinet, or the least thing in the world particular
about stocks and cross-belts. He looked at Horace, and could not help
looking at him as he might have done at an awkward recruit. How he held
his sullen head down against the wind, as if he butted at an invisible
enemy; how he swung his hands in the pockets of his shooting-coat; how
he dragged his heavy feet as if there was a clod at each heel. The
Colonel did not quite understand how it was that his nephew's person
inspired him with a vague distrust, and, somehow, contradicted his
nephew's face; but the fact was that Horace could change the expression
of his countenance when he had sufficient motive, but could not alter
the habits into which neglect, and indolence, and sullen temper had
thrown his outer man. And he himself was entirely unconscious of the
clownish walk and ungracious demeanour which gave the old officer so
much annoyance. Colonel Sutherland respected everybody's _amour propre_.
He could scarcely find it in his heart to wound any one, on the virtuous
principle of doing them good; but, between professional sentiment, and
that family pride which is wounded by being obliged to admit the
imperfections of those it is interested in, he never exercised more
self-denial in his life than that which he showed during this walk, in
restraining an exhortation to his nephew in respect to his bearing and
deportment; while his kind imagination went to work directly, to
contrive expedients, and inducements, and hints for Horace's benefit, to
lead him to perceive his own deficiencies and adopt means to correct
them, without wounding his feelings or his pride.
While Colonel Sutherland occupied himself with these reflections,
Horace, totally unconscious of criticisms upon himself, which would have
stung his self-love deeply, pondered, in his turn, the best means of
bringing his uncle over to the length of helping him, by any means or in
any way, to escape from Marchmain. The most palpable mode of entering on
the subject--that of lamenting his father's want of hospitality--had
been made impracticable by Colonel Sutherland, who laid all the weight
of the arrangement upon his own convenience; and his simplicity and
straightforwardness made a sidelong approach to it equally out of the
question. Horace was compelled, accordingly, to bring in his subject all
at once, and without introduction. Colonel Sutherland, without meaning
it, said something half consciously about the dreary country, and his
nephew seized upon the chance.
"Dreary, indeed!--and nothing else do we see, uncle, from year's end to
year's end!" cried Horace. "Is it not enough to kill a man?--without a
human face to break it, either; and here am I, strong and young,
condemned to this life, and kept from any information--any advice--which
can direct me what to do. Uncle, you are the only friend I have been
able to see with freedom and confidence, and I am almost glad you don't
stay at Marchmain--for there is no freedom there. Tell me, I beg of you,
what can I do?"
"My dear boy!" cried the Colonel, grasping his nephew's hand in sudden
sympathy, and with a little gasp of earnest attention--"you take away
my breath. Solitude has not diminished your energy, at all events. Do?
Why, to be sure, a boy like you can do anything. We must look for an
opening, that is all--but you should have begun before now."
"My father," said Horace, with unconscious bitterness, "has stopped
that. I don't know anything about the world, except this paltry little
world here, of gamekeepers and poachers, and sporting farmers' sons--for
gentlemen, of course, don't associate with me. What are we,
uncle?--nobodies? I can't tell--my father keeps up habits which look
like the relics of a better time--and at the same time I know we're
poor; but _he_ throws no light upon our unhappy circumstances. _He_
keeps me shut up in this horrible house, till I think all sorts of
horrors: that he's a returned convict, or something like that--that our
name's a disgrace. What is it?--of course there must be some cause for
this seclusion--and you must know."
Colonel Sutherland was much embarrassed. He fumbled with his cloak in
the first place to gain time, and then, finding no other resource, fell
back upon the shelter of his deafness.
"I'm a little hard of hearing," said the Colonel. "I partly lost your
last observation--but what's that about the poachers and gamekeepers?
Bad company, Horace!--unfit associates, except in the way of sport, for
any gentleman. I've known lads of good family ruined just by an
inclination that way. Not that they meant ill to begin with; but what's
mere fun at first comes to be liking before long--and a gentleman's son
of course is flattered and courted among them. It's a pernicious thing,
Horace--attend to me!--it's been the ruin of many a man."
"What is ruin, uncle?" shouted Horace, with a wild and bitter smile,
which somehow mingling congenially with the wind and the chill, carried
into the Colonel's mind a singular identification of that landscape and
scene which gained their climax in this moment. He was startled, he
could not explain how. He turned round to look into his nephew's face,
with a sudden consciousness of depths in the heart and in the life of
Horace undecipherable and mysterious to himself.
"My dear boy," he said, with a little tremble in his voice, "ruin is
such a destruction as can be accomplished only by a man himself."
Horace made no answer. His face subsided gradually, out of that
self-revelation, into the assumed good-humour which he had put on for
his uncle's benefit. Colonel Sutherland, however, continued to regard
him with concern and apprehension. The Colonel's mind was not
enlightened up to the pitch of modern times. When his imagination
uncomfortably pictured Horace seated, perhaps, in the alehouse they had
passed, with the gamekeeper or sporting men of the village, it was not
the knowledge of life which the young man might acquire, but the
old-fashioned horror of "bad society," which moved the thoughts of the
uncle, who secretly in his own mind began to attribute something of the
slouching gait and unsatisfactory bearing of his nephew to his
unsuitable companions. He could not give up the subject, but partly in
natural anxiety, and partly to evade the youth's troublesome questions,
recurred to it immediately again.
"I am your oldest relation except your father, Horace," said the
Colonel. "I have some experience in life. You know what the proverb
says: 'A man is known by the company he keeps.'"
"Had he better keep _no_ company?" said Horace; "very possibly; but then
I can't help being young, poor devil that I am. I can't make a woman of
myself, or be a child all my life. I must have something out of my
prison--and you are not the man to blame me, uncle. The fellows you
blame are those who have society in their favour. As for those country
blockheads, whom I see in the woods or in the alehouses, do you think I
care for them? Do _you_ care for a set of dancing dogs or a wandering
monkey? You laugh at them. If you have nothing else to think of, they
amuse you for the moment. I despise the louts!--they are no more than
bears on exhibition to me!"
Once more Colonel Sutherland looked at his young companion. It was not
in his kindly human heart, which despised nobody, to like this manner of
expression; but somehow the force with which it was uttered, and the
implied superiority of tone, had a certain effect on the simple-hearted
old man. He still retained his uneasiness, his want of comprehension;
but he began to change his ideas of Horace, and to think him
intellectual and clever--not a youth dangerously falling into "bad
company," but a man whose talents were lost to the world for want of
"opportunities." He fixed his gaze anxiously upon his nephew, and longed
for the candid eyes which told all Susan's sentiments and emotions; but
that doubtful face said nothing of itself. There might be "talent," but
there was no candour in the countenance of Horace--what the lips might
say, was the only index to what the head conceived or the heart felt.
Colonel Sutherland turned away from him again with a little sigh. He was
interested, his curiosity was awakened, and his paternal anxieties in
full exercise; but somehow under all his heart whispered hesitations and
inarticulate warnings to him. He had no experience in this unknown
development of human nature. His own instincts said as much. But a man
does not always give attention to those instinctive intimations. Colonel
Sutherland was accustomed to believe that he had rather a natural gift
for the guidance of young men--his sympathies with youth were warm--his
heart young--his kindness unbounded. Many a youth ere now, charmed by
the natural benignity and freshness of his character, had opened his
soul to the old Colonel, and given to him that full, youthful confidence
seldom bestowed by halves, which harsher fathers had failed to
gain--with great advantage to themselves; for the old man was wise, as
old men come to be who are not clever, but only humble, candid,
religious, fearing God, and slow to make themselves judges of men. The
habit of counsel, of assistance, of kindly attention, and regard to the
self-revelations of his young companions, was accordingly strong upon
Colonel Sutherland--yet, though he would scarcely acknowledge it to
himself, a certain conviction of being out of his depths, and in a world
altogether new to him--among elements which he was unable to handle--was
present with him now.
"I am glad you have no inclination towards such society," he said, in
his perplexed tone; "but, Horace, my boy, even for sport you must not
continue it. It sticks to a man in spite of himself; and, indeed, the
young fellows now are very different from what they were in my time. I
don't bid you despise your fellow-creatures--there's a long distance
between despising them and preferring their society--a man of your
condition should do neither the one nor the other, as you will learn
when you come to know life."
"What is my condition, uncle?" asked Horace, suddenly, interrupting the
slow and hesitating general sentiments, which were the only things which
the perplexed Colonel could find ready to his hand in this embarrassing
case. It is to be feared that Colonel Sutherland heard this question,
which was asked in a high tone, for his face became gradually flushed
over with a painful heat and colour; but once more he put his hand to
his ear.
"Yes; what are your own inclinations?--that is really the question,
Horace--if we knew that, we could look out for you. There are many
openings now to honourable ambition; but what do you wish yourself for
your manner of life?"
"Uncle," said Horace, with a force which _would_ be heard, "I have no
inclinations, thanks to my manner of life hitherto--I have only one
wish, and that is, to escape from Marchmain. Get me away from that
wretched house. I don't care if I turn a shoe-black or a scavenger--get
me away from here!"
The Colonel once more looked at his nephew, but with less respect--"On
these terms, could you not get yourself away? You are not confined by
locks and bars," said Colonel Sutherland, disapprovingly; "why have you
no inclinations? That dear child yonder, who has nobody in the world to
speak to, has kept her heart as fresh as a May flower."
"Susan?" said Horace, growing red; "you don't compare me with
Susan?--Susan's a girl--she's content--she's very well off, so far as I
can see--she's in her natural vocation. Would you have me put on
petticoats and sit down to patchwork?--As well do that as compare a man
with a girl!"
"Susan," said the Colonel, with a little _hauteur_ and heat which became
him, "is the only woman of the family. You are not aware, I daresay, of
the indulgences and pleasures that are natural to girls of her years. I
don't wonder so much either that you think of yourself first--but why
have you no inclinations?--she has, and you think yourself her superior,
I perceive."
"Don't be displeased, uncle," said Horace, changing his tone, and
suffering only a little impatience, to testify to the fury with which he
heard himself reproved. "You know better than I do, that women are tame
creatures, and content themselves easily in their own sphere, when they
don't know any better. Susan has leisure to form little plans and
fancies, I believe. I have no such thing--the pain of years has brought
me to one point of desperation. I know nothing of the world: I don't
know what I am--my position--my prospects--my birth, are all a mist to
me. My mind is not sufficiently disengaged to form projects; therefore I
say I have no inclinations--the air stifles me--I must get out into the
world, where there is room to breathe!"
"Then, why," said the Colonel, "have you not gone away before?"
Horace was silenced--he fumed with silent rage within himself, wounded
in the tenderest point of his self-love and pride--it was, perhaps, the
only suggestion which could have made him feel a pang of humiliation. It
was one which Susan herself, in her simple and practical intelligence,
had made more than once. Why had he borne and brooded over his
wretchedness? Why had he not gone away?
"Many young men," said Colonel Sutherland, "have left home of their own
accord on a less argument than that of desperation. I don't mean to say
I approve of it--but--there are some things that one could not advise,
which, at the same time, being done, cut a difficulty which might be
hard to solve. I say all this, my dear boy," added the Colonel, moved by
Horace's gloomy face, "to show you that it is foolish to use such strong
expressions: if your _desperation_ had been so great as to deprive you
of all choice or inclination, depend upon it you would have gone away."
And having delivered himself of this kindly bit of logic, totally
inapplicable as it was to the person whom he addressed, and attributing
the silence of his nephew to the natural confusion of a young man
detected in the use of undue heroical expressions, the Colonel was
himself again.
"And this, I suppose, is my resting-place for the night," he said, as a
church-spire and the roofs of a village became dimly visible before them
at the end of the road. "I will remain here three or four days, and
during that time, Horace, you must find out your inclinations, my boy,
and let us discuss them and see what is to be done. You must stay and
dine with me in the first place, and be with me as much as possible
while I am here--that is to say, unless your father makes any positive
claim upon you during the time."
"Positive claim! I wish you had dined with us one day, uncle, to see
what these claims are!" cried Horace, with a laugh of bitterness; but
the Colonel, who had been thinking of something else for the moment,
inclined his ear towards him with a little start and a smile, before
which bitterness fled. Horace could no more comprehend his uncle than
his uncle could understand him. This smile discomforted him
strangely--he could not stand against that kind prompt attention, the
ear so solicitous to catch what he said, and the face so guileless and
benign. The young man was of a crafty intelligence, and could have
detected wiles--but this sunshiny simplicity put him out. It went deep
into the primitive truth, sincerity, and honesty of nature--things which
Horace Scarsdale had small acquaintance with in the secret spring and
fountain of his life.