Susan had been at the window for nearly two hours, though it was still
only eleven o'clock. She said to herself that Uncle Edward would not
certainly come before the middle of the day, but still could not leave
the window in case she might possibly lose the first glimpse of him on
the road. When she had satisfied herself, to her great disappointment,
that the homely country vehicle which she saw approaching contained him,
poor Susan nearly cried with vexation. There was not even anybody in the
gig with him to take charge of it. It appeared that he must only mean to
remain a moment, and Susan withdrew from the window in the first shock
of her disappointment, feeling that Uncle Edward had deceived her, and
that there was no longer anything to be depended on in the world.
At that instant Horace, who had no desire to subject himself to the
inquiries of Susan, and had hitherto kept rather out of her way, entered
the room abruptly.
"Here is my uncle!" he exclaimed. "What! you don't care for him to-day,
don't you? He's no novelty now?--that's famous, certainly! But, do you
hear, Susan, I want something of you. While he's here, make him talk all
you can; ask him about my mother; how they used to live when we were
babies; what happened about the time she died; everything you can think
of. I want to hear what he says, and of course all that's very
interesting to you; you want to know."
"Don't _you_ want to know, Horace?" asked Susan, half alarmed by his
tone, and yet half pleased with the idea that he was becoming
interested about their dead mother, and the life which was connected
with her. She looked at him with dubious, uncertain looks; she did not
know what to make of him. She could not comprehend any secondary or evil
motive which he could have, and yet he did not seem to speak quite
honestly, or in good faith.
"To be sure; why else should I bid you ask?" said Horace, throwing a
book down on the table and seating himself by it, as if he had been
pursuing his morning studies there.
And indeed Susan had said the same thing to herself. She ran to the
window again as the wheels began to approach audibly, and could no
longer feel disappointed when she met Uncle Edward's smile, and saw him
uncover his grey head in the sunshine, in his antique affectionate
gallantry. Susan was quite unaccustomed to the common tokens of respect
which belonged to her womanhood. The salutation made her blush, and yet
pleased her wonderfully; she could no longer believe that her uncle was
coming only to call as if they had been strangers. She stood smiling and
waving her hand to him till he was quite near, and then ran to the door.
John Gilsland's mare was the soberest beast in the district--she stood
still as a statue when the Colonel descended, and looked so perfectly
trustworthy, that he did not hesitate to leave her to herself for a few
minutes. He took both Susan's hands in his and kissed her forehead with
a fatherly grace, then drew her arm into his own to lead her back to the
dining-room. His whole manner, with its protecting, tender, indulgent
kindness for her youth, and its chivalrous respect for her womanhood,
had in it the most exquisite sensation of novelty for Susan. She laughed
to herself secretly, yet with tears coming to her eyes--she felt a new
pride, a tender humility in her own heart. She was flattered, and
touched, and stimulated at the same moment. Wonderful was this love,
this new influence, this unknown soul of life; it might have been more
romantic had it dawned upon her through a young man instead of an old
one--a lover rather than an uncle; but in that case the revelation would
have been very different, and perhaps the revolution scarcely so
complete.
"Call Peggy, my dear child," said Uncle Edward, "and put on your bonnet,
I want you to go with me as far as Kenlisle--not too far for a drive
this fine morning; it is cold to be sure, but bright and pleasant; tell
Peggy you must have on your warmest wraps; tell her I want you to see
something else than the moor, for one day at least--tell her--ah, here
she is herself! Peggy, I want my niece to drive with me to-day to
Kenlisle--will there be any objections, do you think?"
"The master never sets eyes on Miss Susan, from ten o'clock in the day
till six at night," said Peggy. "_He_ can scarce complain, and as for
me I give my consent willing. Ay, honey! you may look, with your eyes
dancing in your head--I said new times was coming. Would you keep the
Colonel waiting? and the mare at the door like a douse wife, taking
great notice on the bits of green grass agrowing amidst of the stones.
There, Colonel, she's off like a hare athwart the moor--the poor child!
from a baby, she's ne'er had a holiday before."
And Peggy hastened upstairs after Susan, who, gazing from one to another
for a moment of bewildered and doubtful delight, had at last burst from
the room, seeing that nobody opposed the extraordinary, delightful
suggestion, to get ready for her drive. When the old woman disappeared
following her, the Colonel turned to Horace, who had listened with a
good deal of discomfiture, resentment, and contempt, unable to
comprehend the bad taste which could contrive pleasures for Susan, to
the neglect of himself. It gave Horace a worse opinion of his uncle
than he had yet entertained. He could scarcely help sneering at him, and
calling him an old woman to his face.
"Will you walk over to Tillington and meet us, Horace?" said Colonel
Sutherland, who, for his part, exhilarated by the sight of Susan's
delight and wonder, was now full of smiles and satisfaction; "I have
ordered some luncheon between two and three, which will leave you time
to bring your sister home. You will come?--you look a little pale, my
boy--you have been thinking too much over-night!"
"It is possible--I have not slept since I saw you, uncle," said the
young man.
"Too much--too much," said Colonel Sutherland, resting his hand kindly
upon his nephew's shoulder. "Important as the question is, I am sorry
you lost your sleep--it is only old people who can do that with safety.
And you have come to a good conclusion, Horace?--that is right!
Already, I am sure you feel the pleasure of decision. But I will not ask
you what you have resolved on now. Eh, Susan?--what, not dressed yet,
you fairy?--what is it now?"
"Oh, uncle!--I only wanted to ask, if you won't be angry," cried Susan,
out of breath, "whether I should be too grand if I wore my shawl?"
The old man's face brightened, and expanded all over with the simplest
pleasure.
"Too grand!--you don't drive with me every day, do you?" he said with a
laugh, as he patted her cheek. "No--I should be quite mortified if I did
not see you in your shawl; but make haste--think of the mare, and in a
winter's day remember there is no daylight to lose."
Susan ran off again with flying feet, and the Colonel turned once more
to his nephew. He could not help recognizing then something of the
amazement, contempt, and derision which filled the mind of Horace. Uncle
Edward was a little struck by his look--perhaps, even a little
offended. He paused unconsciously to defend himself.
"You think that very trivial--eh, Horace?" said the Colonel. "Ah, my
boy! one is heroical when one is young--one feels it grand to be
superior, and despise the smaller matters of life; but at my age one
learns that happiness itself is made up of trivial things."
Horace's eyes fell under his uncle's look; he was half ashamed--not of
his sentiments, but of having betrayed them.
"I am sure it is very good of you to take so much trouble for Susan," he
said, with his uncomprehending, half-resentful voice.
Colonel Sutherland supposed Horace to be jealous, and was a little
pained, but yet acknowledged a certain amount of nature in the feeling.
He had no conception of the true state of the case--of the entire
contempt his nephew felt for himself, and the angry and derisive wonder
with which he perceived the importance given to Susan. It was not
jealousy: Horace only could not comprehend how any man in his senses
could resign _his_ conversation and society for that of his
sister--Susan! a girl! who knew nothing, hoped nothing, desired
nothing--a tame, contented woman! He found it hard to restrain himself
under these circumstances, and called his uncle an old fool and an old
trifler in his secret heart. Then Susan came downstairs, smiling and
happy--her India shawl contrasting, perhaps, rather too strongly with
her simple bonnet and dark merino gown, standing before her uncle to be
admired, and turning round that he might see his present in all possible
aspects. What trifling! what folly! what miserable vanity! But it
pleased the two wonderfully, who stood there making a little sun-bright
group of their own, the old man stooping over the girl, with his tender,
indulgent smile, and the girl looking up to him in her unusual flutter
of happy spirits. Perhaps it is true, after all, that common, every-day
happiness--that dear solace of common life, which comes, when it does
come, without asking--is made up of very trivial things; at all events,
it was much more agreeable to look at them than at Horace, who loured
behind them like a dark cloud, and turned away his head in disgust, and
felt that it was all he could do to keep the sneer of scorn from his
lip. In much the same condition he attended them to the door, and saw
them drive away. Susan, wrapped up and covered over with shawls and
cloaks of every description by her uncle's careful hands, and with
Peggy's great black veil, embroidered with great flowers, like gigantic
beetles, fastened over her bonnet; from the midst of all which unusual
coverings the pretty face, smiling and blushing, radiant with pleasure
and gratitude, looked out in its sweet colour and expression, with a
simplicity of happiness quite beyond Horace's frown to stifle or
prevent. Somehow his sister's face disgusted him that day: he stood
looking after them, suffering his sneer to take form and remain, long
after they were out of sight. He rose over them in his own mind with a
contemptuous superiority, yet felt himself humbled and envious at sight
of the happiness with which he had no sympathy, and which he did not
understand. He did not wish to share it--it was something beneath his
level. Yet the very power of being exhilarated by such trifles, and
finding pleasure so independent of reasonable grounds, filled the young
man with a certain envy, and humiliated his pride. Susan's happiness did
not give him a single throb of pleasure, yet it brightened his uncle's
face into quite a kindred light: it was altogether incomprehensible to
Horace. He took refuge in silent contempt and sneers of unacknowledged
mortification, disdaining the pleasure, yet galled in himself not to
comprehend how it was.