Meanwhile Colonel Sutherland and his niece drove along the bare and
exposed moorland road with very different sentiments. Susan could not
feel any cold, could not allow herself to suppose that any landscape
more delightful or weather more entirely satisfactory was to be found
anywhere in the world. She pitied the poor people shut up in a close
carriage, whom they passed at a little distance from Marchmain. She
appealed to her uncle if a gig was not of all other kinds of conveyance
the most delightful. She listened to his stories of travel in India,
with all its elephants and camels, and of the still more miraculous
railway at home, with equal admiration and wonder, as things equally
unlikely to come under her own observation, and enjoyed her present
extraordinary felicity all the more from thinking how unlikely it was to
occur again.
Everything concurred to put Susan in the highest spirits--her freedom,
her kind protector, the novelty of her position, the wondering looks
cast at her from the cottages they passed, the involuntary respect
excited by her companion, the air, the sunshine--even the fine shawl,
though it was entirely covered by her other wrappings and nobody could
see it--all contributed towards the full and joyous satisfaction of her
young mind. She put Peggy's great old-fashioned veil, with its big
beetles, up from her face--she was not afraid of the wind, or of taking
cold, or of anything else in the world; and as the horizon gradually
widened, and the road extended out of the immediate vicinity of her
home, Susan's delight increased. She declared the hills went faster
than they did, and kept continually receding, and every new opening of
the landscape increased her pleasure. The Colonel listened to all her
admiring exclamations with a smiling face; he told her of his own
neighbourhood, a fairer and richer country. He spoke of the visit she
must make him shortly, and of all the places he should take her to. The
wind blew cold in their faces, with by no means a balmy or genial
breath; but then their hearts were so fortified with warm affections and
honest happiness, that the cold did not hurt them. Little by little they
fell into more particular conversation. Colonel Sutherland was
interested and concerned about Horace, anxious to know how to help him;
but he was not and could not be confidential with his nephew, whereas
his heart flew open to Susan as at a touch of magic. He could not help
speaking of everything which moved when he had gained her ear, and had
her to himself alone. He had told her all about young Roger Musgrave
before he was aware, and about Kennedy's story, and his own vexation and
annoyance to find that the young stranger had not dealt quite truly by
him.
"But, uncle!--oh, Peggy knows all about him," said Susan; "Peggy did not
know he had any friends till just the other day. Perhaps he did not know
himself--perhaps--I think, Uncle Edward, I would not believe he was
wrong till he told you of it himself."
"But if he is in the wrong, Susan, _will_ he tell me of it himself?"
"Some people would not," said Susan, gravely, "I know that; but yes,
uncle, oh, yes, I am not afraid."
"Perhaps you know him better than I do, my love," said Uncle Edward,
observing with a little curiosity the expression of Susan's face.
"Yes, I think I saw him once," said Susan. Then she added, with a little
laugh--"I was very much frightened--I am afraid it was very wrong of
him--he was actually fighting, uncle."
"Fighting?--it was certainly very wrong," said the Colonel; "but you
laugh, you wicked little fairy--what was it about?"
"It was not so much fighting either," said Susan--"it was _punishing_.
It was gipsies, uncle--what the people here call muggers, you know. One
of them was driving his little cart along the road with a poor wretched
donkey, lashing it like a savage, and his poor wife came trudging after
him, with her baby tied in a shawl on her back--and twice over he gave
_her_ a cut with his whip, to make her go faster. I could have beaten
him myself--the great beast!" cried Susan. "Roger Musgrave was coming
down the road; and, just as he met the muggers, that fellow pushed his
wife out of the way so rudely, that she fell down, poor creature, and
hurt herself. Mr. Roger had been watching them like me--he came up just
then with a spring, and caught the mugger by his collar and his waist
like this; and, before he had time to say a word, tossed him over the
hedge--_right_ over--where he rolled head-over-heels on the grass. You
should have seen his face when he got up! I clapped my hands--I was so
pleased. And Mr. Roger took off his hat to me," said Susan, after a
little pause, with a rising colour, "as you did, uncle, to-day."
"It was very well done, I don't doubt," said Colonel Sutherland; "but,
my dear child, that was not fighting."
"Oh, no--not that!--but I liked it better than what came after," said
Susan. "The mugger scrambled through the hedge, and swore at Mr. Roger;
and _he_ took off his coat in a moment, and told him not to be a coward,
to flog women and beasts, but to come on--and I was very much
frightened; then the mugger's wife, _she_ came forward and swore too,
and it was all very dreadful. I did not want to see them fight, and ran
into a cottage--I rather think they did not fight at all, for the
mugger was frightened too; but, however, that was the only time I ever
saw Roger Musgrave; the people in the cottage told me who he was, and I
liked him for punishing the man."
"I daresay the fellow punished his wife and the donkey all the more,
when they were out of sight," said the Colonel; "but I confess I should
have done it myself. Very well! I will put down in my books--my little
Susan in favour of young Musgrave versus Sergeant Kennedy against. And
so you only saw him that one time? Do you know anybody at all, you poor
child?--have you ever had a companion in your life?"
"Not a companion," said Susan; "but"--and she looked up in her uncle's
face--"_you_ won't be angry, I know, uncle. Peggy goes to the meeting,
and sometimes in the morning, when papa does not go out, I go with
_her_. It is dreary to go to church all alone."
"So it is," said the sympathetic uncle; "and what then?"
"Then," said Susan, blushing a little more, and looking up shyly in his
face--"I am sure I do not know how we got acquainted. We used to look at
each other, and then we nodded, and then, at last, one day we spoke; and
now, sometimes, we meet when we are out walking, uncle--and once I have
been in their house--only once. I did not mean it--I was there before I
knew what I was about."
"But you have not told me yet who this mysterious person is," said the
Colonel, a little disappointed and troubled, if the truth must be told,
at the thought of some young and no doubt perfectly unsuitable lover who
met his little girl in clandestine walks, and whose house even, the
inexperience of Susan had been persuaded into visiting. He said the
words rather coldly, in spite of himself--he was mortified to find the
virginal quiet of her mind already thus disturbed.
"Uncle, are you displeased?" said Susan, with a little fright and
surprise. "Oh, I never thought _you_ would be angry; for even Peggy
said that to be friends with Letty would be for my good. She is the
minister's daughter at the meeting, and the only child; and she has
learned so much, and knows a hundred things that I know nothing of; and,
uncle, sometimes I want somebody to speak to--oh, so much!"
"My dear child, forgive me! I wish you knew a dozen Letties," cried the
repentant Colonel; "that you should have to blush over an innocent
friendship, my poor dear little girl; but your confusion, Susan, made me
think it something very different. Why should you be ashamed of knowing
Letty? I am very glad to hear it, for my part."
Susan did not answer just immediately. She said to herself, with a
little quickening of her breath:--
"I wonder what was the something very different that Uncle Edward
thought of," and a little inclination to laughter seized the little
girl. Who could tell why? She did not know herself, but felt it all the
same.
"Does Horace spend much of his time with you, Susan?" said Uncle Edward;
"does he tell you what he is thinking about? Do you know that your
brother is tired of an idle life, and wants to be employed, and to make
his own way in the world?"
With that question Susan was brought back to her home, and separated as
if by magic in a moment from all her individual involuntary girlish
happinesses; she shrank a little into herself and felt chilled and
contracted, without knowing how. She could not even be so frank as she
would have been a little while ago--Uncle Edward's love had opened the
eyes of the neglected girl, and developed all at once in her heart the
natural instincts of "the only woman in the family." She could not bear
to convey an unfavourable impression of Horace to her uncle; but,
unskilled in her new craft, she betrayed herself even by her reticences
and reserves.
"I know he wants to go away," she said, faltering a little; "and I am
sure you would not be surprised, if you lived with us only for a
day;--for," added Susan, blushing and correcting herself, "it is very
dull at Marchmain, and boys cannot put up with that as we can. Horace
has always felt it a great deal more than I have."
"I am not surprised," said Colonel Sutherland; "if Marchmain was the
happiest home in the world, still the young man must go away--it is in
his nature. He must make his own way in the world."
"Must he, uncle?" said Susan, looking up with a little surprise into his
face.
"I was only sixteen, my love, when I first went to India," said the
Colonel; "the boys, as you call them, must not stay at home all their
lives--they must do something. My Ned will be on his way to India, if
all is well, in a year or two. The sooner a young man gets into his work
the better--and now Horace would set about it too."
"But he cannot do anything, uncle," said Susan, seriously; "what is he
going to do?"
"Has he never told you?" asked Uncle Edward.
The question seemed to imply blame, and Susan was troubled.
"Horace is not like you, uncle," she said, recovering a little boldness;
"he does not tell me things; he knows a great deal more than I do--he
has almost learned German--and he thinks a great deal more. I am afraid
I do not always understand him when he does speak to me. It is my fault;
so he thinks over everything all the more, and I am afraid sometimes
gets angry in his heart, because no one can understand him at
Marchmain!"
Colonel Sutherland shook his head, but did not say anything. He began to
tell Susan what he did when he was a lad.
"There were a great many of us at home, to be sure," said the Colonel;
"but we were all scattered before the youngest was fifteen--the sisters
married, and the brothers making their own career. They are all dead,
Susan, every one--but you have quantities of cousins, my dear, in India
and elsewhere, whom you never heard of, I daresay. Your Uncle William
was puisne Judge of the Saraflat, John was Resident at Cangalore, both
of them very much respected. I was the youngest but one. I could not
bear the thought that all my brothers were independent but myself. I
gave them no peace at home till I got my cadetship. Unless one has the
good fortune to get an appointment, it is quite as hard work getting on
in India as at home, my dear; and all our influence had been used up for
my elder brothers, and exhausted before it came to my turn. I was but a
subaltern when I married, Susan. Your aunt was--ah, I can't describe
her, my love. I am very happy on the whole and contented, but sometimes
I think on what might have been, and make myself wretched, which is
very sinful, considering how much I have to thank God for. Yes, Susan, I
was a rich man once. I had wife and daughters, and my house full. We had
not very much money, but we were very happy; and now, my dear child, you
are the only woman of the family--that is, _here_."
Susan could not have spoken a word to save her life--she sobbed silently
under her heap of warm wrappings, looking with a wistful, youthful
sympathy into the grave face beside her. The Colonel shed no tears;--he
guided his horse with the same quiet caution as before, turning the
animal aside from a sudden obstacle in the way, with a steady
promptitude, which showed his perfect attention to what he was about,
even in the midst of these recollections; yet he was not looking at the
road, nor at her, nor at anything; but had his eyes fixed on the
far-away horizon, which yet he did not see. Susan sat beside him in
silence, wondering with youthful awe and reverence over the
indescribable yearning, with which some instinct told her this brave old
heart longed for the heaven which held his departed; but she could not
say anything--she would have felt it sacrilege.
However, they shortly approached the town, which recalled Colonel
Sutherland from his graver thoughts. It was a comfortable country town,
pleasantly placed at the opening of a valley, with the gray fells
ranging themselves on either side, and the great gray tower of the old
Abbey church reigning over the little crowd of houses. The market-place
was still busy and bright, though the more serious merchandize of the
morning was over; cosy country-women, in cloth pelisses, made promenades
round the open square, where the best shops in the town displayed their
riches, to see "how things were wore," and make stray purchase of a
kerchief or ribbon; and still the notable housewives of the town bought
vegetables, and rabbits, and country eggs, and chickens, from the
remaining stalls in the market-place. And still heaps of dark-green
vegetables--winter greens and savoys, purple flowers of broccoli, and
tiny red lines of carrots, illustrated some boards, close to the white
eggs and yellow butter, the hapless decapitated poultry, and butter-milk
pails of the others. Susan and her uncle walked through the throng,
attracting no small degree of observation; for there were not many such
cavaliers as Colonel Sutherland in Kenlisle, and very few such shawls as
that one which, relieved of all her other wraps, Susan displayed upon
her shoulders with no small degree of pride. The scene was quite
extraordinary in its animation to her eyes. She looked at the ruddy
winter apples and crisp greens with the most perfect interest. She
longed, with a natural housewifely instinct, to make purchases herself,
to the confusion and amazement of Peggy. She could scarcely conceal her
unbecoming curiosity about the booths of toys and sweetmeats, the cases
of coarse ornaments, brooches, and rings, and ear-rings, which Susan
could not believe to be paltry and worthless. The glamour of her
ignorance brightened everything; and when her eyes, as she looked up
unconsciously, fell upon the gray mass of the Abbey tower withdrawn into
a street which led off from this busy space, Susan felt awed and ashamed
to think of her own vanity and extreme regard for "the things of this
world." But she could not school herself into righteous indifference;
above all, when Uncle Edward, indifferent to her morals, took her into
shop after shop, buying a little parcel of books in one place, some
pretty ribbons in another, a cap for Peggy, which captivated the old man
in a window; and, last of all, patterns and materials for work of
various kinds, canvas and Berlin wool, and an embroidery-frame. This
last purchase raised Susan into a paradisiacal condition, for which it
is to be hoped nobody will despise her. She was not very intellectual,
it is true--it might very well happen that she preferred her needlework
to her book sometimes. She saw herself rendered completely independent,
as she supposed, of _ennui_ and domestic weariness by that ecstatic
parcel. She longed to take it in her arms, and run all the way home with
it, that Peggy might see, and half regretted for a moment the luncheon
at Tillington, which, however, would give her still another hour or two
of her uncle's company. Then Susan looked at that uncle with a great
compunction, thinking of what he had told her; but Colonel Sutherland
was happy in her happiness, delighted to see her so delighted, and
entered with fresh, natural pleasure into the scene for his own part. It
was quite a work of art to pack the gig with all the parcels, and wrap
Susan up again into all her cloaks. Then they went off at a great pace
to Tillington. So far it had been a most successful day.