"Yes, Susan, I am going away presently, and I fear I shall not see you
again either," said Colonel Sutherland, with a cheerfulness which he was
far from feeling--"that is, not _this_ time, my love; but there is
plenty of time, if it be the Lord's will, Susan. You are very young, and
I am not very old. We are tough, we old Indians; we wear a long time,
and we shall meet, my dear child, I don't doubt, many happy days."
Susan looked up to him with inquiring eyes--with eyes, indeed, so full
of inquiry that he thought she must have spoken, and put his hand to his
ear. "No, uncle, I did not say anything," cried Susan, touched by that
gesture almost out of her self-possession. The poor girl turned away
her head and rubbed her eyes with her trembling fingers, to send back
the tears. When might eyes so tender shine in that forlorn solitude
again? It was impossible to look at the old man, with his solicitous
kindness, his anxious look of attention, and even the infirmity which
threw a tenderness and humility so individual and characteristic upon
his whole bearing, in the thought of, perhaps, never seeing him again,
without emotion. It was to Susan as if the sunshine was departing. He
might go away, she might never see him again, but nothing could
obliterate the effect of that three days visit; nothing in the world
could make Susan what she was when this week began. She did not know how
it was, but the fact was indisputable; her undisturbed and unsusceptible
content was over for ever. Was it good for Susan? She did not ask the
question, but rubbed back the tears, and stood close to her uncle,
intent upon hearing the last words which he might have to say, and
vowing to herself that she would not grieve him by crying--not if she
should faint or die the moment he was gone.
Such resolutions are hard to keep. When the Colonel laid his kind hand
upon her head, Susan trembled over her whole frame. Her unshed
tears--the youthful guilty anger provoked by her father, which still
palpitated in her heart--which the poor child could not overcome, yet
felt to be wrong; and the unusual agitation of this crowd of diverse
feelings, very nearly overcome her. Her cheeks grew crimson, her lips
and her eyelids trembled, yet she controlled herself. And Uncle Edward
was still making light of the injury to himself--still accepting his
repulse as something natural and spontaneous; it moved her to an
indignation wild, impetuous, and unlike her character; but there was no
blame on the Colonel's lips.
"Some time or other you will come to my little house, and see the
country where your mother was born," said Uncle Edward; "we shall not
know what to make of you when we get you there--you will be queen and
princess, and do what you please with us. Yes, I hope after a time your
father will consent to it, my love. He is rather angry just now, but
time will soften that down. And remember, Susan, you must make the best
and not the worst of everything. Horace does that last, you know, and
'one wise body's enough in a house,' as we say in Scotland; you must be
the foolish one, my little Susan, and always hope; everything will turn
out well, under the blessing of God."
"I hope so, uncle," said Susan, with an involuntary sob.
"Perhaps, my dear child, I ought to say you must obey your father, and
not write to me," said Uncle Edward--"but I am not quite virtuous enough
for that; only always do it honestly, Susan--never conceal it from
him--and stop if it should make you unhappy, or you find it out to be
wrong in your own conscience. However, I shall write to you in any
case. My boy Ned will want to come and see you, I fear, before he leaves
the country. You must always remember that you are of great importance
to us, Susan, though we have not the first claim on you. You are the
only woman in the family; you represent all those who are gone, to me,
my little girl. Hush! do not cry--you must be very strong and
courageous, for all our sakes."
"I am not crying!" cried Susan, with a gasp of fervent resolution,
though she could scarcely articulate the words.
"That is right, my darling," said the Colonel. "Now, don't let us think
any more about it, Susan. We shall hear from each other constantly, and
some time or other I'll show you Inveresk, and Edinburgh, and your
mother's country; and in the meantime, you will be cheerful and brave
like yourself. Now tell Peggy to bring me some bread and cheese, my
love--I am going to be grand to-day; my carriage is coming for me
presently. Where is Horace? I must see him before I go--call him here,
Susan, and order me my bread and cheese."
Susan was very glad, as her uncle suspected, to run out of the room for
a moment, and deliver herself of the sob with which she was choking.
When she was gone, Colonel Sutherland looked sadly round him upon the
dreary apartment, to which the agitation of this day had given a more
than usually neglected and miserable appearance. He shook his head as he
glanced round upon those meagre walls, and out to that bare moor, which
was the only refuge for the eye. He thought it a terrible prison for a
girl of seventeen, unsweetened by any love or society. He thought that
even the departure of Horace, though he was not much of a companion to
his sister, would aggravate her solitude; and involuntarily the old man
thought of his own bright apartments at Inveresk, and wondered, with a
natural sigh, over the strange problems of Providence. Had Susan been a
child of his own, saved to him from among the many dead, what a
different lot had been hers!--but here was this flower blossoming in
the desert, where no one cared for its presence--and _his_ hearth was
solitary. He did not repine or complain--ingratitude had no place in his
tender Christian soul, but he sighed and wondered at the bottom of his
heart.
In a few minutes Horace joined him. Horace did not care to form the
third of a party which included his uncle and his sister. Their
friendship annoyed him, he could not tell how; it was an offence to
Horace that they seemed to understand one another so entirely; far
superior as he thought himself, he was conscious that neither the one
nor the other was intelligible to him. He came, however, with a little
excitement on hearing that the Colonel had been with his father,
expecting little, yet curious, as he always was about everything, done
and said, by his perennial and lifelong antagonist. When he entered the
room Colonel Sutherland held out his hand to him with an affectionate
sympathy, which he accepted with astonishment, and not without a passing
sneer in his mind at the idea of being consoled, either for such a
supposititious disappointment, or in such a manner. It was with a
feeling very different from a young man's anxiety to know his fate, or
expectation of a decision which should influence his life, that he
waited to hear what his uncle had to say.
"I am sorry to tell you, Horace, you have judged more correctly than I
did," said the Colonel, with hesitation; "I find, to my great
disappointment, that your father is not disposed to assist you, my dear
boy. I don't know what to say about it--it appears that he has taken
some erroneous idea into his mind about myself. I'm afraid the advocate
hurt the cause, Horace. If some one else spoke to him, perhaps--; but
however that might be, to my great concern and astonishment, he has
quite refused me!"
"Don't trouble yourself about it, uncle; I knew how it would be," said
Horace, his eyes lighting up with the unnatural contention which had
pervaded his life. "It was not the advocate, but the cause which was
hopeless. What did he say?"
"He said--some things which had much better remained unsaid. He was
affronted with me," said Colonel Sutherland; "but he gives his
_permission_, Horace--not assistance, remember, but still
permission--that is always something; he seems to have no _objection_
that you should follow your own course, and do what you can for
yourself."
"That is very kind of him," said Horace, with a smile; "but I rather
think I never should have asked his leave, but for your hopes of help
from him, which I never shared. I suppose he was amazed at the idea that
I should expect anything from him. I daresay he appealed to you why he
should take his own narrow means to support an idle vagabond like me.
Ah! he did!--I could have sworn he would!"
"Nay, Horace," said the Colonel, who had been struck unawares by the
correctness of his nephew's guess; "what is the use of imagining unkind
words, which most likely were neither spoken nor intended? The fact is
simple--your father does not think a profession is essential to you; he
thinks that--that you will most probably have enough without. In short,
he does not feel called upon to assist you; but at the same time,
remember, Horace, he puts no obstacle in the way. All is not lost yet,
my boy: I must try whether I can do anything. I am not rich, I have
little to spare, but I have friends, and there are some people who might
be interested in you. Wait a little, Horace--leave it to me, and we will
see what can be done. I would not be discouraged; there are more ways
than one of doing everything in this world."
"You may trust to _me_, uncle, that I certainly will not give up my own
intention because my father declines to assist it--everything is safe
enough so far," said Horace; "as for anything great, you know, study and
that sort of thing, I give that up as impossible--I did so from the
first. I will never be a great lawyer, uncle; but I daresay I'll learn
enough for my own ends."
"Your own ends!--I don't understand you, Horace," cried the Colonel,
somewhat alarmed at the expression of his nephew's face, and for perhaps
the first time in his life suspecting something of double meaning in the
words he heard.
"Have I not to work for my own living?--to support myself, uncle?" cried
Horace, turning round upon him with a bitter emphasis.
"Very well, my lad, what then?" said Colonel Sutherland, with
dignity--"is there anything very terrible in that? The best men in the
world have had to work for their living. I am sorry for you that you
cannot get the freedom of using your powers, and proper advantages for
their cultivation; but I assure you, Horace, I am _not_ sorry for you on
the ground that you must support yourself."
"To be sure not," said Horace, with a little secret mortification; "but
it is therefore I say that I will learn law enough for my own ends."
Once more the Colonel looked at him doubtfully, pondering the peculiar
and unnecessary emphasis with which the young man pronounced these
words. Colonel Sutherland perceived, in spite of his unsuspicious
nature, that there was a gleam in the eye, and a sudden animation in the
manner of Horace, which referred to something different from the calm
means of sustenance, or the knowledge sufficient to secure it. Something
vindictive and eager was in his look. The Colonel probably thought it
better not to inquire too closely into it, for he turned away from
Horace with a sigh.
Perhaps it was a relief to them all when the gig arrived at last, and
Colonel Sutherland bade farewell to Marchmain. The old man was troubled
because he trusted his niece, and knew that she would not deceive his
expectations; and he was troubled because he could _not_ trust his
nephew, and did not feel at all warranted in undertaking for him. While
Horace, for his part, brooded with renewed anger, though he professed
to expect it, over his father's refusal of assistance, and was tired of
amusing Colonel Sutherland by a show of good humour, all the more when
his uncle seemed unlikely to be of much service to him; and the
difficulty with which Susan kept her composure, and the unusual tumult
of personal feeling in which the poor child felt herself, made the
continued effort almost too much for her. The gig arrived at last. The
Colonel said his last good-bye, and drove away from the inhospitable
door which he had seen for the first time three days ago, leaving Susan,
Horace, and Peggy outside, watching his departure, and waving farewells
to him; and leaving, besides that external demonstration, a revolution
in the house, and, for good or for evil, the germs, to these two young
people, of a new world.