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THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF
"MARGARET MAITLAND," "ADAM GRAEME,"
"THE LAIRD OF NORLAW,"
&c., &c.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1861.
_The right of Translation is reserved._
LONDON:
PRINTED BY R. BORN, GLOUCESTER STREET,
REGENT'S PARK.
THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR.
CHAPTER I.
IT was still early, when Susan, somewhat flushed by her rapid walk, and
somewhat tired to the boot--for, elastic and strong, and accustomed to
exercise as she was, six miles of solitary road, with a bundle to carry,
not to say the burden of her desolate circumstances, and the natural
timidity which, after a while, replaced her flush of indignant
vehemence, was rather an exhausting morning promenade for a girl of
nineteen--arrived at Tillington. And, in spite of Peggy's injunctions
and her own sense of necessity, it was only with lingering steps, and a
painful reluctance, that she at last summoned courage sufficient to
present herself at John Gilsland's open door. Once there, however,
matters became easy enough, smoothed by Mrs. Gilsland's eager and ready
welcome, and by an incident of which Susan had not thought.
"Eyeh, miss! but he's gone no moor nor half an hour since," cried Mrs.
Gilsland. "Bless us awl! to have a young lady like you come as far, and
o'er late, when awl's done! But he was in grit haste, was Mr. Horry.
Come into the fire, and rest yoursel', for the like of them long walks
at this hour in the morning, they're no for leddy-birds like you. You'll
have heard from the Cornel, miss? And how is he?--the dear gentleman!
But you're not agoing to stand there, with that white face. Dear heart,
sit down, and I'll get a cup of tea in a twinkling. She's clean done
with tiredness, and the disappointment. John! if ye had the spirit of a
mouse, ye'd goo after Mr. Horry, and bring him back to satisfy
miss--there, do ye hear?"
"No, Mrs. Gilsland," said Susan, eagerly; "but, please, if John will get
the gig, and drive me to the railroad, and perhaps we might overtake my
brother. I'm--I'm--I'm--going to see my uncle to Scotland; and Horace
would--might, perhaps--see me away."
"But, dear miss, your boxes?" cried Mrs. Gilsland, gazing at the young
pedestrian with astonishment, and throwing her wonder into the first
tangible thing that occurred to her, as she took the bundle out of
Susan's hand.
"They are to come after me," said Susan, with a blush of shame; "but we
had better make haste, and overtake Horace. He does not know I am going;
but I think--thought--he would, perhaps, go with me to the railroad,"
added Susan, availing herself of that unexpected assistance, to cover
her strange departure alone from Marchmain, yet blushing at the
falsehood of the inference. "Oh, will you please to tell John? I have
had breakfast. I could not take any tea, thank you, Mrs. Gilsland, but I
want so much to overtake my brother."
This was so reasonable and comprehensible, that the good woman left her
guest immediately, to startle her husband into unusual speed, and urge
him on to the harnessing of the horse, and preparation of the gig, with
such wonderful expedition, that John, who, contrary to his usual habits,
had no time whatever to think about it, was perfectly flushed with the
exertion, and scarcely knew what he was doing. Susan, grateful to be
left unquestioned, sat alone in the meantime in the little parlour,
feeling half glad, and half guilty, in the strange relief afforded her
by Horace's recent presence here, and the excuse it served to give for
her own appearance. It saved her entirely from the halting and timid
explanation of a sudden visit to her uncle, and there being nobody at
Marchmain who could be spared to accompany her, with which she had been
trying to fortify herself, as she approached Tillington; and the
momentary rest and quietness was a relief to her tired and excited
frame. Then the very room recalled to poor Susan recollections which
warmed and strengthened her heart. Uncle Edward!--the only person in the
world, save Peggy, who had ever looked with tender, indulgent eyes of
affection upon her youth; and it was to him and his house she was going!
She sat there motionless, in the dingy little inn parlour, too much
fatigued and strained in mind even to unclasp her hands, but
unconsciously recovering her courage, and feeling the light and flicker
of a happiness to come about her heart.
This sensation of comfort increased when Susan was fairly seated in John
Gilsland's gig, most carefully wrapped about with shawls and mantles,
and began to feel the exhilaration of that rapid passage through the
free air and over the open country. The youth in her veins rose like
mercury in spite of herself, and she was not sure that she was so very
glad in her heart as she ought to have been when John Gilsland assured
her of her certainty of overtaking Horace. She was not a very attentive
listener to honest John's talk, profuse and digressive as that was. She
made gentle answers, for it was not in Susan's nature to show even
unintentional rudeness to anybody; but with so much to think about, and
possessed by the thrill of novel excitement which their first necessity
of acting for themselves gives to very young people, she made but a very
indifferent listener in reality. Then her heart kept beating over the
thought of this approaching interview with her brother, and leaped to
her mouth, as people say, when any distant figure became visible on the
road. She did not know the road, nor whether her conductor was taking
her direct the nearest way to the railway. They _were_ making progress
on this earliest stage of her long journey; and it was still morning,
and all the long spring day was before her; that was almost enough for
Susan in her present state of mind.
She was roused at length, and startled into an instant access of renewed
excitement and anxiety by a shout from John Gilsland.
"Holla, Mr. Horry! Holla, lad! hey! hear ye! Maister Horry! here's me
and your sister fleeing after you this six or seven miles. Mr. Horry,
I'm saying--holla!"
Horace was before them, at some little distance. He stopped when the
shouting reached his ear, and turned to look back. As they came up to
him, Susan had full leisure to observe the changes which this year had
wrought upon her brother's appearance, and a little sensation of
affectionate pride gladdened her at the sight. But she was anxious, a
thousand times more anxious, to make sure that he should speak to her
with ordinary kindness, and without exposing rudely the nature of her
sudden journey, which he was sure to guess, than she was to think how
Uncle Edward would receive her when she went to throw herself penniless
upon his charity; and felt herself approaching him close and fast with a
degree of trepidation strange to see between two persons so nearly the
same age, and so closely allied. He for his part stared at her with
utter amazement as the gig approached closer. "Susan! what on earth has
brought you here?" he exclaimed, with an astonishment which was by no
means free of anger. Susan trembled and faltered in her answer, as if
her father himself had asked the question.
"Oh, Horace! to ask you to go to the railway with me," she said,
stooping closer towards him, and pressing the hand which he slowly
extended towards her, significantly and closely, to make him understand
that she had more to say: "I am going to Uncle Edward--will you come and
see me away?"
He looked at her with a strange, half-envious, half-contemptuous smile.
"So, he lets you go!" he exclaimed; "he has grown amiable all at once,
it would appear."
"Oh, Horace, hush!" cried Susan, stooping closer, with a sudden rush of
tears to her eyes. "I will tell you all whenever we stop. Oh, Horace,"
she added, in an inexpressible yearning for sympathy, and sinking her
voice to a whisper, "don't look so unkind and cold; he has sent me
away!"
"The mare's fresh and spankey," said John Gilsland; "she's enough to
manage without any whispering in her lug. Jump up behind, Mr. Horry, and
tawlk as we goo. It'll be straight to the railroad now?"
"Have you not been going straight to the railroad?" asked Susan, in
surprise.
"Straight! I trust you thought me of sufficient importance to bring you
five miles out of your way," said Horace, sharply, "and lose your train
too, most likely. Why didn't you drive as she ordered you, Gilsland?
What good can I do her? Look sharp now, then, can't you? Well, Susan,
what's this sudden journey about?"
"Oh, Horace! can't you guess?" said Susan, looking at him wistfully.
"But, hush!--never mind," she added, as she encountered his angry stare
of inquiry. "Oh, hush! I'll tell you everything when we get there!"
And from that moment the most eager wish to get there moved poor Susan.
His angry dissatisfaction at being stopped; his cold salutation; his
apparent resentment at the idea that he could know anything about her
journey or its cause; the tone in which he repelled her confidential
whispers, and repeated aloud what she had said to him with all the
little pantomimic exhortations to secrecy which were possible to her;
brought a renewed chill upon her heart. They went along at a great pace,
the mare, however, being the only individual of the party who showed the
least exhilaration or pleasure on the road. Would that John Gilsland
had been less considerate of the sister's desire to overtake her
brother! Would that he had gone the straight road, and made less
demonstration of his kindly intentions! After all, the straight road is
the best; but to hear Horace Scarsdale angrily insisting upon that plain
fact, and upon the folly of making so long a detour to overtake him, was
not calculated to raise anybody's spirits, or to make the drive more
agreeable. John Gilsland's talk, which Susan had only half listened to,
was much better than the sharp, dropping conversation which now went on
at intervals; and Susan bought at a sufficiently hard price her
momentary ease and relief.
"Where are you going, Horace?" she asked, with hesitation--"away from
Kenlisle, Peggy said----"
"I am going to Harliflax," he said, shortly. "I have got a better
appointment there. I have managed to make my own way so far, you can
tell my uncle--without being obliged to any one," he added, with a
sneer.
"And will you write sometimes, please, Horace?" said Susan. "There are
only two of us in the world; and tell me, where shall I write to you?"
He laughed, as if this was an extremely unimportant matter. "I shall be
with Mr. Stenhouse," he said--"Julius Stenhouse, Esq. I daresay your
letters will find me, with his name."
"Stenhouse, said ye? Eyeh, Mr. Horry, will that be the Stenhouse that
was i' Kenlisle, in ould Pouncet's office?" asked John Gilsland,
suddenly looking round.
"And if it should be, what then?" asked Horace, insolently.
"Oh, little matter to me," said honest John. "He's a great scoondrel,
that's awl--and married that bit silly widow, poor thing!--her as didn't
know when she was well off, and had good friends; though the Squire
would have done for her, as I have reason to know, like a sister of his
own."
"What widow?" demanded Horace.
"It's no concern of mine," said John Gilsland, touching the mare with
his whip for a grand final dash up to the railway station. "She wasn't
my widow, I reckon, nor belonging to me. Her first man was a sodger
captain, another chance kind o' person, like his son, one Mr. Roger that
was. What the deevil has a woman to do with a new husband, that has
house and hyame o'er her head, and a likely son? Serve her right, as I
aye said, and will say. They're away out of this country--but he's a
great scoondrel, as I tell ye, wherever he may be."
In spite of himself Horace started, and was shocked, as well as
astonished, for the moment by this information. While Susan gazed at the
railway, glad, and yet trembling to reach it, with thoughts of launching
forth by herself, without even those familiar faces near which she knew
well, though they smiled little upon her, Horace was busy with this
strange bit of news. It was somewhat astounding even to him to think
that the man who had betrayed the interests and appropriated the estate
of the son, should be the husband of his mother. Running on with this
contemplation, and biting his thumb, as was his custom when he
addressed himself to the task of arranging something new among his
stores, and finding out where it fitted best, his eye suddenly caught in
the group before the railway-station the stooping and decrepid figure of
his old pitman, carefully dressed in his "Sabbath clothes." Horace
sprang from the gig, though it was still in rapid motion, with an
impulse of alarm, and hurried up to his strange acquaintance. The mare
drew up immediately after, with a great dash and commotion. John
Gilsland helped Susan to descend, and finding some of his own friends
immediately, while her brother's presence freed him from all
responsibility concerning her, left the timid girl to herself. She stood
alone for a moment, frightened and discouraged; then, seeing nothing
better for it, followed Horace, who was in close conversation with the
old man. She was not curious, nor even interested, in what they were
saying; but she had never stood by herself before, exposed to the
wondering gaze of strangers, and she felt secure when she could glide up
beside her brother and stand close to him, even though he paid no
attention to her, nor noticed she was there.
"Well, and what were you going to Armitage Park for, eh? What business
have you there?" said Horace, imperatively, to the old man.
"My lad, that's no' the gate to speak to me," said the pitman, "that am
owld enough to be your grandsire. I'm a-gooin' for awl wan and the same
reason as ye cam' to me, my young gentleman. Sir John he's at the Park,
and we've ta'en counsel, the neebors and me--them as seen me sign the
paper, at your own bidding--and what we've settled is, Sir John's young
Mr. Roger's friend; and if it was worth a gold sovereign to you, it's
maybe worth a 'nuity or a bit pension to the man himsel'; so I'm
a-gooin' to the Park to see Sir John, and try my loock--and that's awl."
"Sir John? Do you think Sir John will see you?" cried Horace, "you
impatient old blockhead! Do you think I can't manage for you? Why don't
you trust to me?"
"I'm an ould man; if it's to be ony gud to me, there's little time to
lose," said the pitman, stoutly. "You're a clever lad, I'm no'
misdoubting, but ye're nouther the man himsel' nor his near friend. I
hevn't ony time to lose, and a bird in the hand's worth twa in the
bush--no meaning ony distrust of you, young gentleman. If the young
Squire should find his advantage in knowing what I know, he mought weel
spare a bit something by the week, ten shilling or so, to an owld man as
won't be a burden upon nobody for lang."
"Don't you understand this is the very thing that I intended?" cried
Horace, making--as Susan, who had gradually become interested, could
perceive--the greatest effort to keep his temper. "To be sure, I'm
trying all I can. I meant to let you know as soon as I could tell
myself, but you'll spoil all if you interfere. Go back to Tinwood, like
a sensible man; I'll see you in a day or two. A bird in the bush is
better than no bird at all, I can tell you; and do you think Sir John,
with a score of servants about him, would see you? Trust to me, and you
shall have what you want in two or three days. I give you my word--are
you not content?"
The old man grumbled and hesitated, but Horace's arguments were strong,
and at last overcame his opposition. Horace was not content, however,
with the reluctant consent to give up his project which he at last
extorted. He followed the tottering old figure out of the place,
negotiated with a carter who was going that way to give him "a lift" on
the road to Tinwood, and stood in the road watching till he was quite
out of sight, with a total forgetfulness of Susan and the train by which
she had to travel. Susan followed him at a little distance, and stood
doubtfully behind waiting for him, not knowing what else to do. He had
forgotten her totally in the stronger interest of this more important
concern; and when he did turn round, with a vexed and thoughtful face,
the start and frown with which he recognized her standing so near him
were anything but flattering to his sister.
"What do you mean, following me about and listening to my private
affairs?" he cried, roughly. "Eavesdropper!--but I suppose that's like
all women," he added, with bitterness, and an adoption of his father's
look and sentiment, which drove Susan to desperation for the moment.
"You are very wicked to say so," she exclaimed; "you!--do you not know
why my father sent me away? Oh, Horace, is there no heart in
you?--because of that letter; he said I took it--me!"
"And why not you?--you are so very virtuous, I suppose," said her
brother, with a sneer; "you who can listen behind a man when he does not
know you're there. However, this is not a place to cry and make a
scene--come along, and get your train. If you are fortunate you can cry
there, and make yourself interesting to somebody. Where is your money? I
suppose you've got some money. I'll get your ticket for you; but
remember, Susan," he said, turning back again, after he had proceeded a
step or two before her on this errand--"remember! you may have heard
something I'm concerned in without my knowing it--tell it to my uncle,
if you dare!"
Susan made no reply--the menace and the insulting words roused her; she
followed him, without the slightest appearance of that inclination to
cry with which he taunted her, with a flushed cheek and steady step, and
no intention or thought of yielding any obedience to him. Fortunately
the train was expected instantly, and there was small leisure for
further leave-taking. He shook hands with her slightly as he helped her
into the carriage, turned his back at once, and went away. It was so
that Susan parted with her two nearest relatives. Honest John Gilsland,
waving his hat as the train plunged along on its further course, touched
her into those tears which her brother had checked in their fountain,
but she choked them up in her handkerchief, with the remembrance of his
taunt strong upon her; and so went forth alone, upon her first voyage
and enterprise into the world, which scarcely could be so cruel to her
as those she had left behind.
But Susan, deeply wounded as she was, did not lose all the long, silent,
exciting day in tears or melancholy; her mind ran astray a little after
the old pitman, and the story he had to tell to Mr. Roger, which might
gain him an annuity; and then escaped into anticipations which roused
her out of herself. Shy and quiet in her corner, too much excited to eat
Peggy's sandwiches, too shamefaced to venture forward to the book-stand,
when the train stopped, to provide herself with amusement, keeping still
in the same seat at the same window; shyly remembering Peggy's
precaution, and ready to change only if the "woman person" who occupied
another corner of the same carriage did so; Susan arrived at Edinburgh.
She got there while it was still daylight, to her great comfort; and
having argued the question with herself for an hour or two previously,
and recollected that Uncle Edward had once spoken of taking a cab at the
railway and driving to Milnehill, proceeded with trembling intrepidity
to do the same thing. The cabman, whom the poor girl addressed with
humble politeness, conveyed her in somewhere about two hours, along the
darkening country road, during which time the beating of Susan's heart
almost choked her. But she got there at last--saw the little door in the
wall opened, and recognised, in the perfumed breath of the atmosphere
around her, the fragrance of those great, white turrets of
chestnut-blossom, which built their fairy pinnacles in the garden of
Milnehill. How she got through that darkling garden-walk Susan could not
have told for her life; and the bright light and rejoicing welcome at
the end of it; the start of delight, the warm embrace of the new house
and unaccustomed love, were too much for the traveller. She could not
speak to her uncle, and neither saw nor felt anything but a vague
sensation of unspeakable rest and comfort, as they half led and half
carried her over the safe threshold of Milnehill.