Horace had been waiting some time in the little inn before Colonel
Sutherland and Susan arrived. This had not much improved the young man's
temper; but the result of his cogitations on the way here, and while he
waited, had been, that it was necessary to be no longer critical, but
that he must assume the virtue which he had not, and secure his uncle's
assistance in his own way. Horace had settled at last to his own
satisfaction upon his version of his uncle's character. He concluded the
Colonel to be a well-meaning, superficial old man, most at home among
women and children, finding pleasure in trifles, strongly prejudiced in
favour of some old-fashioned virtues, which he recommended not so much
from conviction as from custom. Industry and honesty, and
straightforwardness, a homespun and sober interpretation of all human
laws--Horace decided that his uncle lauded and urged these virtues on
others just as he might recommend cod-liver oil or Morison's pills, and
that he was unable to comprehend anything higher than that old code of
respectability. But granting this, it was all the more wise to humour
and yield to the old man, and permit him to maunder on in his own way.
Horace resolved to profess himself ready and anxious for employment, the
choice of which he meant dutifully to leave to his uncle; and having
thus settled summarily the more important issue, set himself with all
his might to observe and entrap the unsuspicious Colonel in his
confidential and unguarded talk. It suited him a great deal better to do
this, than to consider honestly how he should provide for his own life,
and establish his individual position in the world; and it was
significant of his character that he dismissed the former question at
once, but lingered with inclination and zeal upon the crafts of the
other, laying his ambuscade with all the cunning and precaution
possible.
He sat by the fire in the inn parlour, while the maid and mistress
bustled in and out laying the cloth and preparing for the Colonel's
arrival. Mrs. Gilsland having recovered her temper, and remembering the
embellishments of her master's table, in the days when she professed
herself a cook, had been at pains to gather a handful of laurustinus,
with dim, pinky, half-opened blossoms, to adorn the table, upon which
sparkled the best glass and whitest linen of the establishment. The
worthy woman would fain have insinuated herself into the confidence of
Horace as he sat by the fire, and wanted only the very smallest
encouragement to break forth in praises of the Colonel, and to hint her
fear that they would not see much of the young gentleman at Tillington
now that "his grand friends had turned up at last, and he was nigh coom
to his fortune." But Horace did not give the slightest opening to any
such familiarity. He kept possession of the room with an insolent
unconsciousness of the landlady's presence and her hesitating glances at
him, which enraged and yet awed her. It was Mr. Horry's "way," and this
arrogance imposed upon the village people even while it offended them;
but it was very different from "the Cornel." Mrs. Gilsland, who had been
much disappointed at first to learn that her guest was no lord, and had
not the shadow of a title, was by this time entirely captivated by the
old man, and zealous to serve him; but still she turned to Mr. Horry
with the interest which attaches to mystery. He took no more notice of
her than if she had been a piece of furniture. She was angry but
reverential--there was "a power o' thought" in the young man.
When the gig arrived with the two travellers, Horace hastened to the
door to meet them with a novel amiability. He lifted Susan down, and
gathered her parcels together with a good-nature that astounded her.
They were all equally pleased, it seemed, as they went in together and
met Mrs. Gilsland, curtseying and cordial, ready--half from goodwill and
half from curiosity--to attend Susan herself, and help her to take off
her bonnet. Then Susan carried a passport to respect wherever she went
in that wonderful shawl; the landlady touched it with reverential
ignorance, knowing only that it was "Indae," and ready to believe in any
fabulous estimate of its value. Then, for the first time, Mrs. Gilsland
remembered her unlucky trifle, with, not anger, but a pang of
mortification. The wearer of such a shawl did certainly deserve
something better than apples and custards, to which familiar dainties
she had fallen back in despair. However, the luncheon was so far
satisfactory, that it was eaten in perfect freedom, with a lively flow
of conversation on all sides, which exhilarated even Horace, and raised
Susan into a little paradise. What a difference it made to the common
table, when Uncle Edward sat at the head instead of papa!--what an
extraordinary revolution life would undergo, if the bread of every day
were sweetened by such domestic intercourse as this! While her brother
rose into a certain glow of personal exultation in the freedom he
experienced, Susan, thinking less of herself, and feeling more deeply,
found herself, unawares, surprised by the sudden mortification of a
comparison. Involuntarily tears came into her eyes, and as she grew more
grateful and affectionate towards her uncle, her heart ached more and
more for her father. She saw now all the unnatural misery of their life.
Why was it? But these thoughts did not take possession of the girl--they
only came over her mind in a sudden, painful overflow as the tears came
to her eyes; and then she thought of Horace's instructions to her; and,
moved by strong curiosity and anxiety of her own--of a very different
kind from her brother's--proceeded to obey him.
"Uncle," said Susan, with an honest, enquiring look, "did you see very
much of mamma after she was married? But ah, I forgot--you went to India
so soon."
"I saw her only when I returned, my love," said Uncle Edward--"when you
were a baby, and Horace a bold boy of five--yes, and before that, when I
had to come home on business, when your other uncles in India made me
their commissioner to look after the family affairs. At that time I
lived with my sister; that is five-and-twenty years ago."
"And where did we live then, uncle?" asked Susan. Horace did not say a
word; he did not look at his uncle, but preserved such a total stillness
from all motion, almost from breath, that a suspicious observer must
have been alarmed by it. He was listening not for words only, but for
tones, inflections--all those unconscious betrayals by which people, who
do not suppose themselves watched, naturally disclose a certain amount
of feeling with the facts they tell.
But Uncle Edward did not hear--he stooped over towards his niece, and
put his hand to his ear. Then he laughed, and patted her hand upon the
table. "Nowhere, so far as I am aware," said the Colonel; "there was no
word of you, in those days, for all such important grown-up people as
you are. My sister was little more than a bride; a gay young wife, full
of spirits, pretty, much sought after, and loved everywhere. We were a
large family, you know, and had been accustomed to a good deal of
society at home. She was a happy young creature, and did not deny
herself natural pleasures. Poor Mary!--it did not last very long!"
"Why did it not last very long, uncle?" cried Susan.
"Did you say it never lasts very long, my dear?" said Colonel
Sutherland, who _perhaps_ did not hear exactly what she said. "That is a
very wise observation for you, Susan; and it is quite true to be sure,
for when one begins to have a family, you know, one prefers happiness to
pleasure--so that, after all, what the wiseacres say about the change
from youth to sober age is true; and it isn't true like most things in
this world, for it is by no means a melancholy change. When I came back
fifteen years ago there was a great difference. I think she must have
been ill of her last illness then, though we did not know of it. She had
lost her pleasant spirits, and her pretty colour, and was anxious and
desponding, as sick people grow. That made all the house melancholy. I
daresay Peggy has told you as much as that."
"Oh! Uncle," said Susan, "when Peggy has told me there has always seemed
to be something which she did not tell me. I always fancy something
dreadful had just happened--some misfortune, or something wrong, or--I
cannot tell what--but she never would say any more. Did mamma break her
heart?"
The colour rose in Colonel Sutherland's cheek in spite of himself.
Horace watching him, though he never looked at him, and though at this
present moment he seemed intent on balancing a fork upon his finger, to
the exclusion of all other concerns, found, or fancied he found, a
certain irrepressible resentment mingled with his reluctance to answer.
The Colonel spoke shortly, and with an embarrassed tone:--
"She was leaving her children young, without a mother; she did not know
what might happen to you; she died anxious, troubled about you. I don't
know this for certain, Susan, but I can believe it. It is hard to die in
the middle of life, my dear child--yes, harder than in youth, for one's
children seem to have so much need of one. I have no doubt, before all
was over, the Lord showed her something of his purpose in it, and
comforted her soul; but I don't wonder she seemed heart-broken. We will
not speak any more of this, Susan. Horace is silent, you see, and is not
interested, like you. He is thinking of his own concerns, as is natural
to a young man--and all that is far and long past."
"On the contrary, I am very much interested, uncle," said Horace.
"I have no doubt of it, my dear boy, at a more suitable time. Of course
I don't suppose you to be indifferent about your mother," said the
Colonel; "but I understand your feelings perfectly. It is not selfish
nor egotistic, as you fear, but simply natural; you _must_ think of your
own plans and intentions; you would be to blame if you did not."
If the Colonel _could_ have known how far astray he was! If anything
could have made him comprehend how little place in Horace's thoughts
these same plans and intentions bore, and with what a stealthy
watchfulness his nephew had been "interested" in his own recollections!
But Uncle Edward comprehended his nephew quite as little as his nephew
comprehended him; and the old soldier was not without a little
strategical talent of his own; he found himself getting on dangerous
ground; he feared saying too much, a thing which, if he allowed himself
to get excited, he was only too likely to do--and Horace's plans were a
famous diversion. Disappointed thus again, just at the very point of the
story which seemed most likely to elicit something, Horace could
scarcely be otherwise than sulky; but once more he put force on himself.
"I have decided, uncle," he said--"but only that it is you who must
decide. You know the world, you know life. I am unacquainted with
everything that could guide me. I have made up my mind to leave it in
your hands. I must provide for myself, _it appears_," said Horace,
sliding into these two words an involuntary interjection of bitterness,
in a tone too low for his uncle to hear. "Take it into _your_
consideration, and I will adopt whatever you decide upon. You know a
hundred times better than I."
Colonel Sutherland was partly gratified, partly annoyed, for this was
not at all what he wished. When at that moment the landlord came in to
announce that the gig was at the door again, ready to take the young
people home. Susan went away immediately to get her bonnet: then Uncle
Edward had leisure to express his sentiments:--
"I daresay it is very probable that I know life better than you do," he
said; "but, my boy, I don't know your inclinations, nor your tastes, nor
your particular abilities, half, or a hundred part, so well. I'll
consider the matter as long as you like, but how shall I be able to
determine what you will like best?"
"Uncle, don't be annoyed," cried Horace, starting up--"can _I_ have
inclinations?--do you think it is possible? Do you suppose I don't
understand what it means, all that you have said, and all that you have
not said, about my mother? I would not grieve Susan with such words, but
_I_ know, as well as if you had spoken it, that it was my father who
broke her heart."
"No, no, no!" cried the Colonel, rising likewise, and lifting his hand
in earnest deprecation. "No, it is a mistake--no, you are unjust to him,
Horace! I cannot excuse him to you as I might, but beware how you think
ill of him. There _are_ excuses--there _are_ reasons. Listen to me,
Horace Scarsdale: your father is a man as much to be pitied as blamed."
"And why?" said Horace, with a sceptical smile.
"My dear boy, sometime you will see all these circumstances more
clearly," said the Colonel, a little agitated; "take it for granted in
the meantime, and remember that he is your father--and really this has
little to do with the question after all. You must _like_ something:
_he_ has not been kind, I grant; but even where the most perfect love
exists between parents and children, a father is never all in all,
either for good or evil, to his son."
"No, uncle, but constant hate and enmity may kill the heart out of a
man," said Horace. "I am not a fool; I could learn anything if I set
myself to it: do you decide for me."
"I _will_ then, my dear boy; and you will come to me to-morrow?" said
the Colonel, faltering a little. "Come early, and I will walk back to
Marchmain with you. Here is Susan ready. Are all the parcels safe? And
you have spent a pleasant day, you fairy? Take care, Horace, that she
does not catch cold."
"_Pleasant_ day? Oh, uncle, the very happiest day of all my life!" said
Susan.
The old man led her out well pleased, involuntarily solacing himself,
after her troublesome brother, with the sight of her fresh face. And
Susan's happiest day was quite over when she caught the last glimpse of
his gray, uncovered head bowing to her from the inn-door. Horace had no
kind talk or affectionate cares for his sister. The wind blew cold, and
the evening began to gather damp over the fells. The two young people
fell into perfect silence as they pursued the monotonous road, and there
was no great comfort to be had in the idea of the welcome which waited
them at home.