The House on the Moor: Volume 2 by Mrs. Oliphant - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXVII.

SUSAN could not tell how long the interval was till Peggy came softly stealing into the room, in her big night-cap, and with a shawl over her shoulders. Peggy had waited till she heard Mr. Scarsdale sweep upstairs; she could see him out of her kitchen, where she sat in the dark, silent and watchful as her own great cat, with her eyes turned towards the closed door of the dining-room; and as soon as she supposed it safe, she made haste to the succour of his poor daughter. Susan was sitting in despair, where she had sat all the evening, pale, stupefied, and silent—not sufficiently alive to outward circumstances to notice Peggy’s entrance; overpowered by her own personal misfortune scarcely more than she was shocked in her sense of right, and ashamed to be obliged to expose her father’s cruelty and injustice. A new horror on this point had seized her; she was not of that disposition which is pleased to appear in the character of victim or sacrifice; she would have suffered anything sooner than disclose the grim ghost of her own house to the public eye; notwithstanding this was what she must do, in spite of herself. When Horace left his home it was not an unnatural proceeding, nor was his father to be supposed greatly in the wrong; but she, a girl, what would any one think of a man who expelled her from his unfatherly doors? Her heart ached as this new thought fell with afflicting and sudden distinctness upon it, and she had now no more time to weep or bemoan herself. This night only was all the interval of thought or preparation to be permitted her. Already, indeed, in the chill of that deep darkness the day had begun which was to see her cast forth and banished; and already her mind sickened and grew feeble to think that she could not take a step upon the road without revealing to some one how hardly she had been treated; and that her own very solitude, helplessness, and necessity were all so many mute accusations against the father who had no pity on her womanhood or her youth.

Notwithstanding, Susan was recovering command of herself, and felt that she had no time for trifling; and when she felt Peggy’s hand on her shoulder, and heard the whisper of kindness in her ear, she did not “give way,” as Peggy expected. She looked up with her exhausted face, almost worn out, yet at the same time reviving, full of what it was necessary to do.

“I am to go away,” she said, slowly, with a quiver of her lip—“to-morrow—early—that he may never see me again. I am to tell you where to send my things, and to go away, Peggy, to-morrow.”

“Weel, hinny, and it’s well for you!” cried Peggy, herself bursting out into a fit of tears and sobbing. “Oh, Miss Susan, what am I that I should complain and grumble?—but it’s all that heartbreaking face, my darling lamb! What should I lament for? Nothing in this world but selfishness, and because I’m an old fool. The Lord forgive us!—it’s a deal better for you!”

“Oh! hush, Peggy—don’t speak!” said Susan—“and don’t cry—I can’t bear it! There is very, very little time now to think of anything; and you must tell me—there is nobody else in the world to tell me—what I am to do.”

“Nobody else in the world? Oh, hinny-sweet!” cried poor Peggy. “There’s a whole worldfull of love and kindness for you and the likes of you. There’s your uncle—bless him!—that would keep the very wind off your cheek; and many a wan ye never saw nor heard tell o’, will be striving which to be kindest. Say no such words to me—I know a deal better than that. I’m no’ afraid for you,” cried Peggy, with a fresh burst of sobbing—“no’ a morsel, and I’ll no pretend. I’m real even down heartbroken for the master and mysel’!”

Susan could not answer, and did not try; she was but little disposed to lament for her father at the present moment, or to think him capable of feeling her loss. She put her hand on Peggy’s, and pressed it, half in fondness, half with an entreaty to be silent, which the faithful servant did not disregard. Peggy took Susan’s round soft hand between her own hard ones, and held it close, and looked at her with sorrowful, fond eyes. She saw the young life and resolution, the sweet serious sense and judgment, coming back to Susan’s face, and Peggy was heroic enough to forget herself, for the forlorn young creature’s sake.

“Ay, it’s just so,” said Peggy—“I knowed it from her birth. She’ll never make a work if she can help it, but she’ll never break down and fail. Miss Susan, there’s one thing first and foremost you mun do, and you munna say no to me, for I know best. You must go this moment to your bed——”

“To bed! Do you think I could sleep, Peggy?” cried Susan, with involuntary youthful contempt.

“Ay, hinny—ye’ll sleep, and ye’ll wake fresh, and start early. You wouldn’t think it, maybe, but I know better,” said Peggy. “You munna say no to me, the last night. Eyeh, my lamb! you’re young, and your eyes are heavy with the sleep and the tears. I’ll wake ye brave and early, but you mun take first your nat’ral rest.”

“It is impossible. I do not know what to do—I have everything to ask you about. Oh, Peggy, don’t bid me!” said Susan, crying; “and I have no money, and nobody to direct me, and I don’t know how to get there!”

“Whisht! Youth can sleep at all seasons; but it’s given to the aged to watch, and it doesna injure them,” said Peggy, solemnly. “Go to your bed, my lamb, and say your prayers, and the Lord’ll send sleep to his beloved; and as for me, I’ll turn all things over in my mind, and do up your bundle: you mun carry your own bundle, hinny, a bit of the road—there’s no help; and rouse you with the break of day, and hev your cup of tea ready. Eh! the Lord bless you, darling! you’re a-going forth to love and kindness, and a life fit for the likes of you. Am I sorry? No, no, no, if ye ask me a hunderd times—save and excepting for mysel’.”

“Oh, Peggy, you’ll miss me!” cried Susan, throwing herself into the arms of her faithful friend.

“Ay; maybe I will,” said Peggy, slowly; “I wouldn’t say—it’s moor nor likely. Miss Susan, go to your bed this moment; ye’ll maybe never have the chance of doing Peggy’s bidding again.”

Moved by this adjuration, Susan obeyed, though very unwillingly; and smiling sadly at the very idea of sleep, laid herself down for the last time on her own bed, “to please Peggy.” But Peggy knew better than her young mistress. Through those deep, chill hours of night, while Peggy, in the same room, looked over all the different articles of her wardrobe, selecting the dress in which she should travel, carefully packing the others, and putting up the light necessary articles which must be carried with her, Susan slept soft and deep, with the sleep of youth and profound exhaustion. She had been tried beyond her strength, and nature would not be defrauded. When Peggy’s task was over she sat down by the bedside, a strange figure in her great muslin nightcap, and with her big shawl wrapping her close against the cold of the night. Peggy was too old to sleep in such circumstances; she sat wiping her eyes silently, though not weeping, as far as any sound went, thinking of more things than Susan wist of; of Susan’s mother, who had succumbed so many years ago under the hard pressure of life; of the unhappy man in the next room, who was consuming himself, as he had consumed everything lovely and pleasant in his existence, by the vehemence and bitterness of his passions; and of yet another man who was dead, an elder Scarsdale, whose malevolent will worked mischief and misery, after he had ceased to have any individual action of his own. Susan would have thought it strange and hard if she had known that she herself, the darling of Peggy’s heart, came in only at the end of this long musing upon others; and that even her brother, with his hard and ungenerous spirit, had a larger share in the sorrowful cogitations of the old family servant than she herself had. Susan was only a sufferer—she was young, she had friends who would love her. Peggy would “miss” her sorely and heavily, but it was well for Susan. She had nothing to do with that long line of perversity, and cruelty, and guilt which ran in the Scarsdale blood.

The dawn was breaking gray and faint when Peggy woke her young mistress. Susan sprang up instantly, unable to believe that the night was really over. Peggy had made everything ready for her, even to the unnecessary breakfast and comforting cup of tea down-stairs, set before a cosy fire, and the girl dressed herself with a silent rapidity of excitement, listening to the directions which Peggy, not very learned herself, gave to her inexperience. Peggy, out of the heart of some secret treasure of her own, which she kept ready in case of necessity, and had done for many a year, with a prevision of some such want as the present, had taken an old five-pound note, which, stuffed into an old fashioned purse, she put into Susan’s hands, as soon as her rapid toilette was completed.

“They’ll no ask more nor that, Miss Susan,” said Peggy; “they tell me they’re no as dear as postchays, them railroads. Now, hinny, I’ll tell you what you’ll do—you’ll take across the moor to Tillington, to John Gilsland’s, at the public; it’s a long walk, but it cannot be helped, and it’s early morning, and no a person will say an uncivil word to you. You’ll tell him to get out his gig and take you immediate to the railroad, and you’ll no pay him. Maybe he might impose upon you, though he’s a decent man, if it wasna his wife; and maybe they might ask moor nor we think for at the railroad, and put ye about. Ye can tell him to come to us for his payment, and so I’ll hear how ye got that far. Then, Miss Susan, ye’ll make him take out a ticket for you—that’s the manner of the thing—as near till the Cornel’s as possible—you knaw the names of the places better nor me; and then, my darling lamb, you’ll buy some biscuits and things, and take grit care of yoursel’; and you’ll come to Edinburgh, so far as I can mind, first; and then you’ll ask after the road to your uncle’s. I canna believe, not me, that there’s a man on the whole road as is fit to be oncivil to you. And you’ll tell John Gilsland to take your ticket for the best place; and look about you, hinny, till you see some decent woman-person a-goin’ the same road, and keep beside her. Miss Susan, my dear lamb, you’ll have to think for yoursel’, and no be frightened. Eh, if I could but go and take care of ye! but the Lord bless us, hinny, we munna leave him, poor forlorn gentleman, all by himself.”

“I will think of everything you say. I shall not be frightened. I’ll take care, Peggy,” cried Susan, through her tears.

“Whisht, whisht!—you’re no to go forth greeting. My lamb, it’s best for you—I’m no sorry for you,” cried Peggy, with a sob; “here’s your tea—a good cup of tea’s a great comfort; and here’s some sandwiches—eat them when you can on the road, for I see you’ll no put a morsel within your lips at Marchmain. And now, my darling hinny, it’s good daylight, and here’s your bundle, and you’ll hev to go.”

The parting was sore but brief, and Susan stood without in the early sunshine before she knew what had happened to her, holding unconsciously but tightly the bundle in one hand, and Peggy’s old leather purse in the other, and hearing closed behind her, with an inexorable certainty and swiftness, which was poor Peggy’s artifice to hide her own grief, and to shorten the pang of their farewell, that remorseless door of Marchmain. The desolate girl stood for a moment, blind with tears, on the step. Her fate was accomplished. There lay the moor, with the world beyond, strange, unfamiliar, bewildering—and her home, cold as it was, had closed upon her for ever. The first thrill of that reality was so dreadful to Susan, that she might have fallen and fainted upon the cold threshold where she still stood, holding by the doorpost to support herself, but for an incident that roused her. A window opened above—the window of her father’s room. She looked up eagerly, thinking that perhaps he might have relented. Something, magnified and blurred in form by the tears which filled her eyes full, fell from above, and descended heavily at her feet; but no one appeared at the window, which was instantly closed. She stooped down to lift it, trembling. It was another purse, not so homely as Peggy’s, containing no note or word of farewell as she had hoped for a moment, but merely another five-pound note. With a strange access of anger and disappointment, Susan threw it from her upon the step of the door. “Give it to Peggy—her money is better to me!” she cried aloud, with involuntary indignation; and then brushing the tears from her eyes, set out upon her journey without looking behind, her whole heart and frame tingling with wounded feeling and injured pride.

That cold and grudging provision for her wants, thrown to her at the last moment, transported Susan with a sudden touch of passion foreign to her nature; it sent her across the moor at a speed which she could not have equalled under any other circumstances. The dew was on the early heather-bells, and the solitary golden flower-pods which lighted the dark whin bushes opened under her eye to the morning sun; but though the scene had many charms at that hour and season, and though the whins and straggling seedlings caught her dress as if to detain her, the young wayfarer made no pause.

“The tears that gathered in her eye
She left the mountain breeze to dry.”

And pushing forward, with all the sudden force of a sensitive nature, urged beyond strength or patience, pressed along the rustling moorland path, without once turning her eyes to look upon that house from which the last gleam of hope disappeared with her disappearance. Henceforth all life of youth and light of affection were severed from Marchmain.

END OF VOL. II.