The House on the Moor, v. 2/3

Translation

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. BORN, GLOU

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other, the hopeful young man only responded, that "the Cornel said th' army was a noble perfession," and appended thereto a vow to "break the head of that thundering 'Ould Hunderd'" at the first opportunity, neither of which conclusions was satisfactory to Mrs. Gilsland. The Colonel had scarcely put on his spectacles, and begun to turn over the leaves of the professional beadroll, when the proprietor of the same made his appearance, very cordial and anxious that the Colonel should dine at the

r-in-law is a recluse, and, I fear, keeps his family i

he country," said the court

y List" in his hand-"I want to find out if the Sir John Armitage of this neighbou

ind-he has never taken kindly to his new position; he thinks it is his duty to marry, and is extremely nervous about it. I thought it proper to pay him a good

Colonel, without perceiving the inference, which the other, poss

ch, though I think it right to show him attention, I do not approve of Sir John. His opinions are not what could be desired,

the compassion of a stranger. "He was a very good fellow when I knew him," said the Colonel; "I he

klessness, like a man of three times his means. He brought up a young man, a sort of distant relative, as his heir. Poor man, when the affairs were examined it turned out that the heir had not

od feel disposed to do anything for

n our neighbourhood; and really, no one has felt warranted in incurring so great a responsibility. Sir John, indeed, might have done something for him; but then he is abroa

w," said the Colonel, with the least outbreak of impat

of view. I remember urging strongly upon the late Squire the propriety of sending Roger to Cambridge, when my own boy went there, for we had no suspicion then of his unfortunate circumstances. He would not, sir; he wa

hen, a Nimrod?" aske

was fond of athletic sports, that he excels in most of them. So much the worse for him now. It is a very sad thing, and one unfortunately too common, to see young men brought

r this calm regret and sympathy, which never conceived the idea of helping, by a little finger, the misfortune it deplored. Aft

th his former circumstances; he has been thrown accidenta

ting smile-for he was low church, and evangelical in theology, however he might be in his actions; "everything has

d his shoulders, and remembered involuntarily the priest and the Levite who passed on the other side. He could not comprehend this entire want of all neighbourly and kindly feeling among the inhabitants of the same locality. The old man had been so long absent from home, and was so much accustomed to attribute the want of human kindness, which of course he had seen many times in his life, to the deteriorating effect of a strange country, and the entire want of home influences, that it amazed him now to perceive how even the primitive bosom of an English rural village held sentiments of self-regard as cold and unneighbourly as anything he had met with in the faraway world to w

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s hand. The Colonel received him with all the more cordiality, that he had not yet quite lost the impression of the Recto

sed I was. Look here, sir, a letter from my mother-my dear mother, whom I have never been able to forget, whom I have never ceased to love. I have done her injustice,

was the most exquisite compliment to the young man; and the Colonel's glasses grew dim as he read. It was the letter of a weak, loving woman, with too little strength of character to assert for herself any right of protecting or succouring her first-born, who was alien and strange to her husband and his family. One could almost see the gentle, broken-spirited woman over-ridden even by her own children, uncertain of her own mind, in weak health, and with nerves which everything affected, as one glanced over those hurried lines, which seemed to be written in absolute fear of discovery. There was lit

that the enclosed was her own, and that her dear boy need have no hesitation in using it. Thi

. "I know she must have saved it up-spared it from her own necessities for me; I know she must, for she knows very well I would never receive an alms from him," cried poor Roger. "I-I daresay you think it's not very much to tal

ow exactly our neighbour's circumstances, and see into their hearts, we would be slow to judge them, let alone dear friends. 'Can a mother forget her child, that she should not have compass

l's unlooked-for kindness, and the affection of his mother, had warmed the young man's heart, and put him once more on good terms with the world. He began to believe in friendship and kindness, and to think that, after all, ma

there is little to think of; for the case is not at all changed; but because you wish it, Colonel-you who

tled; but that should not make him less cordial to his fellow-creatures. We have been under fire together, and under canvas. He is an older acquaintance of mine than of yours. It will be odd if two old soldiers, when they lay their heads together, can do nothing to help on a young one. I have a li

re you so good to me?" cried Roger, astonished; "thanking you is folly; I

iendship of your neighbours since your grief? There are various families hereabout, I understand; your Rector for example-I am afraid you must have repulsed that good man in your f

said Roger, simply; "but-it does not matter," he said, after a little

y?" asked the Colonel, with persistence; he wanted to ascertai

re-you will not think worse of me, Colonel Sutherland? I had rather not think of Willy. It is the greatest folly in the world, but I cannot help it; when I think of meeting him, perhaps, in my changed circumstances-I who us

d have proved you a different person from what I supposed. Now, tell me again; shall you stay here? you are still in your l

stool for poor old Sally in the kitchen, I will be grateful to them; but they cannot sell the Grange. It is entailed-I cannot sell it. Poor, dear old nest, it is the last

nly of love, but at law,"

and to wait until he should be able to obtain an answer from Sir John Armitage; but, above all, to keep him advised of where he was, and what he was doing-a promise which the youth gave with a slight reluctance. Then a cordial farewell passed between them. They parted like old friends-the young man with grateful affection, the old man with interest and kindness quite fatherly. They had never met till three days ago, yet however long they lived, neither could ever cease now to feel the warmest interest in the other. In the meantime, the Colonel put up this matter of Roger Musgrave in the bundle with his most particular concerns, and gave himself, with the most earnest gravity, to his voluntary task of aiding and helping this stranger, nothing doubting to succeed in it; while Roger, on the other hand, went home to his solitary Grange, not knowing well wh

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little importance that he opened out his gilt-edged paper before him, and smoothed the crumple, which Sam Gilsland's hand, not used to such delicate burdens, had left in the sheet, and, beginning with a most particular date, "Tillington Arms, 15th February, 184-" made a pause

rict quite unknown to me, but with which I have managed to establish a connection rather surprising to myself, by dint of a few days residence here. I came home six months ago, after more than thirty years' service, exclusive of leave and former absence from duty, and had the happiness to find my boys well and hearty, and making progress to my entire satisfaction. Ned, you will be pleased to hear, is al

I don't doubt you remember, was left entirely unprovided for. I found the boy in conference with a romancing old rogue of a sergeant of my own regiment, who was filling his head with all kinds of ridiculous accounts of a soldier's life in India. You may suppose I made short work of the sergeant, but found the young man, on entering into conversation with him, entirely bent upon enlisting. He had evidently been treated very shabbily by your gentry here; and, having no money, and being too proud to seek help from any one, the lad had made up his mind that the only thing left him to do, was to go for a soldier, and never be heard of more. By dint of questioning, I discovered that you were his relative's (I don't know what is the degree of kindred-the boy calls him his godfather) closest friend, and made up my mind at once, believing you to be a stranger, to take upon myself the task of maki

ime when you were twenty, that the boy is very impatient, and quite likely to do something rash out of his own head, if he supposes himself neglected. Address to me at Milnehill, In

d Suth

onel, 100

To be forwarded immediately, put it beside him to be sent by express to Armitage Park. Then the old soldier's countenance relaxed. He l

at I told you the very remarkable circumstances in which your cousin Horace stands. This, my dear boy, if you should happen to have any intercourse with Horace, you must do your best to forget. By some unaccountable perversion of mind, which I can excuse, perhaps, in a man of his character, but certainly cannot explain, your uncle has carefully concealed everything from his son which can throw the least light upon his position; and as he has at the same time refused all special training and education to the lad, and never encouraged or directed him to make any provision for his

e here, and on the way broke out into rather extravagant protestations of his wish to leave home, and bitter complaints against his father. You may suppose I was confused enough, longing to let the poor lad know the secret which could have explained all to him, and hindered by my promise. I detest mystery-always abjure it, Ned, as you value my approbation; nothing can be honest that has to be concealed. This miserable, mistaken idea of your uncle's has gone far, I am afraid, to ruin the moral nature of his son. There is a shocking unnatural enmity between the two, which cuts me to the heart every time I think of it. Of course, Horace has no clue whatever to the secret of his father's conduct. He thinks it springs out of mere caprice and cruelty, and naturally fumes against it. This is all very

r cousin in his most laudable wish, or to explain to him why he did not? Oh, Ned, Ned, how miserable we can make ourselves when we get leave to do our own will! The man is wretched-you can read it in every line of his face; but he will not yield to open his heart to his boy, to receive him into his confidence, to make a friend of his only son. This mise

as so forgotten that word, 'Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath,' that it absolutely alarms me when I think what may be the consequences if Horace hears it suddenly from any lips but his father's. So, if you should chance to come in contact with your cousin, my dear boy, see that you forget it, Ned. Le

been writing on his behalf to old Armitage, of the 59th, whom you remember, I daresay, when you were a child, and who knows this young fellow, of whom I'll tell you more hereafter. To-morrow I go home (D.V.), and will post this in Ed

the Gospel grace, and all we owe to it-nor

uther

d up-stairs, and of the chilly journey which he had to undertake early next morning. Had he not better put off his other letter till he got home to Milnehill? "There is no time like the present," said the Colonel, with a sigh, and he rung the bell and comm

, declines to aid him in studying the profession which he has chosen, being that of the law. Under these circumstances, which, as his nearest relative, I have become aware of, I feel that my only resource is to apply to you. Mr. Robert Scarsdale, as you are aware, is still a man in the prime of life, and, so far as I know, in excellent health. To keep the young man without occupation, waiting for the demise of a vigorous man of fifty, would, even if my nephew were aware of all the circumstances, be something at once revolting to all natural feeling, and highly injurious to himself. I venture to ask you, then, whether you are justified in advancing to him, or, if you prefer it, to me, under security for his use, a sufficient sum to enable him t

d Suth

by the fire, the old man carried his pleadings to a higher tribunal. How could he have kept his heart so young all these years, exce

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elf so as to increase anybody's comfort in the house. "I have appealed on your behalf to a person who ought to feel an interest in you," wrote the Colonel-"and as soon as I hear from him I will let you know immediately whether he can help me to put you in a satisfactory position. If not, my dear boy, we must try what my own means can do; and, in that case, I should propose that

Colonel Sutherland, who very likely had pleased himself mightily by this little exhibition of liberality and apparent goodness, at Horace's expense. With this miserable ingenuity Horace defended himself from all the influences of kindness, and stood coldly and bitterly superior to the devices which he supposed himself to have found out. Having thrust the note into his pocket with this satisfactory clearance of everything like thanks from his own mind, he turned to the letter itself, which was not at all agreeable to him. He had no more idea of waiting for the decision of the anonymous individual to whom his uncle had appealed, than he had of proceeding to Edinburgh, and living under the eye and inspection of Colonel Sutherland. He had unbounded confidence in himself, in his own abilities and skill in using them; he was not disposed to wait upon anybody's pleasure, or to be diverted from his own purpose, because some one else was labouring for his benefit in another fashion. He smil

ed to the heart by the friendship shown to him; and yet, as he thought over it alone in the silent house, felt it overmuch for him, and could scarcely bear it. Should he take advantage of this wonderful goodness, the busy devil whispered in his ear? Was it right to impose his misfortunes-which, after all, were not so bad as many others in the world-as a claim upon the tender compassion of the Colonel? Was it generous to accept services which, perhaps, another had more need of? He could not remain quiet, and resist this temptation; he rushed out, like Horace Scarsdale, into the bare woods, where the wind was roaring, and through the dark plantation of fir-trees, with all its world of slender columns, and the dark flat canopy of branches overhead, which resounded to the level sweep of the gale; and where, by-and-bye, the things around took his practical and simple eye, and won his heart out of the tumult of thoughts which he was not constitu

the lady had contemplated with longing eyes in the Squire's time, extended a passing hand to Roger, and recommended him, scarcely stopping to give the advice, not to stay. Some young men, warmer hearted, surrounded him with attempts, the best they knew, to divert him from the sight of what was going on, and scandalized the grave people by their jokes and laughter. The humbler persons present addressed Roger with broad, well-meaning condolences: "Ah, if th' ould squire had but known!" one and another said to him with audible sighs of sympathy. The poor youth's eyes grew

cheer and hopefulness. Only to have patience! Could he have patience?-was it possible that he could wait here, listless and inactive, while the good Colonel laboured for him?-and once more all his doubts and questions returned upon the young man. Should he accept so great a favour?-was he right to stand by and allow so much to be done for him, he who was a stranger to his benefactor? He buried his face in his hands, leaning on the table, which was the only thing in the apartment which had not been removed out of its usual place. Here exhaustion, and emotion, and grief surprised the forlorn lad into sleep. Presently he threw himself back, with the unconscious movement of a sleeper, upon his chair. The moon bright

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ged. Uncle Edward's bundle of books, which had not captivated Susan at first sight, she found, after looking into them, to be more attractive even than her new embroidery frame. They were all novels-a kind of composition totally unknown to Susan. She had been very little attracted by literature hitherto; in the first place, because to obtain a book was a serious matter, necessitating a visit to her father's study, and a formal request for the undesirable volume, which had no charm for a young imagination when it came. But now Susan read with devotion, and amazement, and delight, each more vivid than the other. She entered into the fortunes of her heroes and heroines with a perfect interest, which would have won any story-teller's heart. She sat up almost all night, in breathless engrossment, with one which ended unhappily, and cried herself to sleep, almost frozen, with great indignation and grief at the last, to find that things would not mend. There, too, she found enlightenment upon many things. She learned, after its modern fashion, the perennial fable of the knight who delivers his lady-love. She fou

m, without knowing it. Sometimes her hands fell idle on her lap, as her new thoughts rose. Often she went out upon solitary rambles, with this pleasant companionship in her heart. It would not be right to say she

t desirable companion for poor Susan, who was ignorant of all these fine things. Besides her accomplishments, Letty was very sentimental, and wrote verses, and took rather a pathetic view of things in general. Her great misfortune was that in her own person she had nothing to complain of. She was the only child of her parents, who petted and humoured her, as old people are apt to do to the child of their old age, and who were correspondingly proud of her acquirements. Consequently, to her own great disgust, she did very much as she liked, and was contradicted by nobody. She threw herself, with all the greater fervour of sympathy, into the circumstances of

wanted to come out, mamma would not let me. I do not mind being ill. Why should not I die young like my cousin

periority, and scarcely liked to confess her own worldlymindedness. "No; I shoul

e Judgment?-perhaps I might have said something to one of the children which she never would have forgotten all her life-and to think of the opportunity being lost, for fear I might take cold! I am sometimes afraid," said Letty, with

oldness; "the more the better, I think; for indeed I am sure, Letty, that the Bi

how mamma takes care of me, I tremble for her. I should not mind

's sake, do not spea

e long," said Letty. "I am going to write my will in poetry, Susan-I did one verse the

san, in terror and dismay, holding fast by her friend's a

the subject, and was about to resume it in a still more pathetic tone, when

ooks!-one is the 'Heiress;' I have just finished it; about a young lady that had a great deal of money left her, and did not know of it, and was brought up quite poor, and a gentleman fell in love with her, and they went through such troubles; and at last they were-but oh, I forgo

Susan," said Letty, wi

uld your mamma be pleased?" cried Susan; "and would

speak to him, Susan-for very likely if some one spoke to him properly, about being good to you, and about what pe

ompanion on towards Letty's own house, where she resolved to deposit her safely out of harm's way, telling meanwhile in elaborate detail the plot of another of her novels. Letty, who had no intention of making an immediate onslaught upon Mr. Scarsdale, turned the matter over in her mind, and thought it was "quite a duty," if she should see him, to remonstrate with her friend's unnatural father. The thought captivated Letty. As for the consequences, instead of being frightened, she would be pleased t

l Sutherland had seen it, besetting the bare walls round and round, and printing off its naked outline against the moor, which stretched round it on every side. Familiar as she was with the house, Susan's heart sank as her attention fell involuntarily upon the strange nakedness and neglect which its unenclosed condition seemed to show. A bit of cottage paling, a yard of grassplot, the merest attempt at flowers, even a little paved yard, would have made a difference. No such thing was there; the doorstep descended upon the wayside herbage; around, the black whins and withered heather came close up to the walls. Here was no gracious life, active and affectionate, to beguile into verdure the stubborn yet persuadable soil. Nobody cared-that was the sentiment of the place: its unloveliness was of the merest unimportance to those who found a shelter within its walls. Who was this looking at it? When he had once passed the house, he turned back again, made a little pause, and then sauntered along the front of it once more, advancing to meet Susan, who felt a little alarmed at so unusual an exhibition of interes

nd in motion as a kind of safeguard. The only wonderful thing of the whole was that while Susan, without running, reached Marchmain with an incredible silent speed, and got in with her pulse high and her eyes shining, and the most profound amazement in her mind, Roger scarcely ever

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redit to his own character; that he could no longer wait for what other people were doing for him; that this very day he must leave the Grange. What his meeting with Susan had to do with hastening this resolution it is quite impossible to tell; he did not know himself; but the conclusion was beyond disputing. He felt a feverish restlessness possess him-he could not remain even another night, though the morning certainly would have seemed a wiser time for setting out upon his journey. He pushed aside the chop which old Sally, with much care and all the skill her old hands retained, had prepared for him, and began to write. He wrote to his mother, who had recovered all her original place in his affections, a short cheerful note, to say that he was going to London, and would write to her from thence. Then he indited less easily a letter to the Colonel, in which, with all the eloquence he possessed, he represented the impossibility of remaining where he was. He described, with natural pathos, the empty house, the desecrated home, the listless life of idleness he was leading. He said, with youthful inconsequence, strong in the feeling of the moment, that, thrown back upon himself as he had been all these lonely days, he no longer cared for rank, nor desired to keep up a pretence of superior station, which he could not support. "In what am I better than a private soldier?" he wrote, with all the swell and impulse of his full young heart: "worse, in so far that I am neither trained to my weapons, nor used to obedience-better in nothing but an empty name!" And with all that f

e house as well as you can, and make yourself as comfortable as possible. Don't make the old place a show for stran

d. I said, says I, 'the young maister, take my word, 'll no bide

mation a third time, holding the money he had given her in her hand as if she did not know what t

, maister?" she said, looki

the young man, with a smile which

rtin' be!" cried the old woma

e that careless!" said poor old Sally; then she went back again to her kitchen, and looked at the money, and, after an interval, perceiving what had happened, fell a-sobbing and crying in her solitude, and praying "the Lord bless him!" and "the Lord be

were from home. There was something in the action symbolical and significant to Roger; it was the shutting up of the old house, the closing of the old refuge, the audible and visible sentence forbidding the return which up to that moment had been possible: he turned away with tears in his eyes, slung his travelling-bag over his strong shoulders, and setting his face to the wind, sped away through the dark country roads to the little new-built railway town, with its inns and labourers' cottages. It was quite dark when he got there; the lights dazzled him, and the noise of the coffee-room into which he went filled him with disgust in his exalted and excited state of feeling. Strangely enough as it appeared to him, a recruiting party had possession of the inn; a s

rance across the rails, and an abysm of darkness on either side, out of which, and into which, now and then plunged the red-eyed ogre of a passing train. In answer to his inquiries, he found that the night-train to London stopped here to take up passengers in the middle of the night. He made a homely supper in the inn, and then came outside, to the station, to wait for it. There he paced up and down, watching the coming and going of short trains here and there, the hurried clambering up, and the more leisurely descent of rural passengers, upon whom the light fell coldly as they went and came. The roar and rustle with which some one-eyed monster, heard long before seen, came plunging and snorting out of the darkness, and all the rapid, shifting, phantasmagoria, of th

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nner not very dissimilar, Ho

Horace left the house. He, too, carried a little bag-and he, too, when he had got half-way across the moor, turned round to look at the house in which the greater part of his life had been spent. Looking back, no tender images softened in the mind of Horace the harsh and angular outline of those unsheltered walls; he had no associations to make sweet to him the dwelling of his youth. He drew a long, deep breath of satisfaction. He had escaped, and he was young, and life was bright before him. As he stood there, too far off to be called back, with his bag lying at his feet among the brown heather, he could see Peggy steal out to the corner of the house and look up and down the road to see which way he had gone, with her hand over her eyes, to shield them from the sun: and then another lighter figure came quickly, with an agitated speed,

. He had heard, for example, numberless allusions made to a notable attorney, or solicitor, as he called himself, in Kenlisle, who managed everybody's affairs, and knew the secrets of the whole county. It was he to whom Horace intended addressing himself; a romantic idea, one would have supposed; for he was a prosperous man, and was not very likely to prefer a penniless individual in young Scarsdale's position to a rich townsman's son, with premiums and connections. However, the young man was strong in the most undaunted self-confidence-an idea of failure never crossed his mind. He made as careful a toilette as he could at the inn, had himself brushed with great care, and, pausing no longer than was absolutely necessary for these operations, proceeded at once to the solicitor's office. Here Horace presented himself, by no means in the humble guise of a man who seeks employment. Business hours were nearly over-the young men in Mr. Po

a profession, though I ought to have no need for any such thing. I have determined to adopt yours, Mr.

h effusion; for the preface was not very

n, on the borders of Lanwoth Moor," said Horac

have heard the name," said the attorney, taking up his pen, playing with it,

supportable at Marchmain. My uncle wishes me to proceed to London, to read for the bar. I confess my ambition does not direct me towards the bar. I see no necessity for losing my best years in labour which, when I discov

lourishes, and devoting a greater amount of attention to these than to his answer. "Really, I find it difficult to advise,

"you will receive m

e is already full," said Mr. Pouncet, with a little quiet

I am of very different mettle; you will find a place for

young friend," said the lawyer, laughing dryly

me; I know it!-and it must be worth his while; he's not a man to waste his ill-temper without a good cause; very likely there's an appeal to the law before me, when I know what this

ct imposition you have practised upon me. You come as a client, and then you ask for employment; it is absurd. I have young men in my office of most excellent connection

advise me, as the best thing I could do. As for premium, I don't care for that. If I am not worth half-a-dozen of these lads, to any man who knows how to employ me, it is a ve

to him than his articled clerks, who teased the life out of his unfortunate manager, and even puzzled himself. Then, "to do him this favour would be to bind him to me in the commonest gratitude," was the inarticulate reflection which passed through the mind of the attorney; forgetting entirely, as the most sagacious men forget, that the qualities which would make Horace a useful servant were not such as consist with sentiments like gratitude. On the whole, the young man's assurance, coupled with the known mystery that surrounded Marchmain, and the popular report of some great law-suit in which Mr. Scarsdale had once been concerned, imposed upon the lawyer. He kept repeating in his mind, Scarsdale versus -- Scarsdale against --, but could not find any name which would satisfy him for the other party to

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etherin' Ould Hunderd! Where's my Sam? Eyeh, my purty boy, that was aye handy to a' things, and ne'er a crooked word in his mouth but when you crossed him

ation; but do you think it was me to face the sodger officers, and say he bud not to list?-and him had listed, if I preached till the morn. Na, wife, he's fast and sure-as fast as the Ould Hunderd him

bought him mysel' but a week agoo; and everything he could set his face to to make him commforable. Oh! Sammy, Sammy! what will ye say when your mother's grey hairs is brought to the grave in sorrow along o' you? I'll tear the een out o' that murderin' Ould Hunderd if he come near this door!-I will! if he was the best customer in twenty mile. What do I care for his dribble of drink an

e, who should come in but Mr. Roger, him that should be the young Squire by rights, if the ould wan had done fairly by him. He stood i' the door, as I might be dooing, and gave a look athwart the place. If he warn't envying of the lads as could 'list, and no more said, never trust my word again. I'll bet a shilling he was in twenty minds to take the bounty himsel'. Though he is a g

many gossiping visits of condolence, in all of which she renewed and expatiated upon her grief. When the evening arrived, Mrs. Gilsland was in considerable force, with red eyes, and face a little swollen, but strong in all her natural eloquence and courage, lying in wait for the arrival of the unsuspecting "Ould Hunderd," who had not yet been informed, so far as she was aware of, what had taken place. Before he made his appearance, however, there arrived the carrier from Kenlisle, who made a diversion in her excitement. He brou

r folks's sons, and dare to look me in the face as if ye had ne'er done mischief in your days. Where's my Sam? Where's my lad, that n

in his uniform. Husht, would you have the onlearned believe he had 'listed in drink, or because of ill-doing? You're an oncommon discreet woman when ye like. Think of the poor lad's credit, then,

skilful a defence, since, to blame her son in blaming Kennedy, was the last thing she could have th

oaking in whatever's gooing in the way of liquor. He's no as long-tongued nor as acquaint with ill; and but for coming across of you when the lad knowed no better, and taking a' your stories for Gospel, he'd ha' been here this day. And you sit and lift up your face to me in my own h

s eloquence as a spectator, and rather rejoicing in the castigation of the sergeant. This assault took away his breath-nor was it allowed to remain a single blow. Before anyone could speak, an old cracked, high-pitched voice m

e for a silly ould fool, that thought there was such a thing as thankfulness to the fore in this world! Eh, man! to think ye should have come coorting to the Grange kitchen, many's the day, and eaten your commforable supper wi' the rest on us, and yet have the heart to

Gilsland's reflections on the looks of Roger when he encountered him the previous night had been overheard and carried rapidly to the interested ears of Sally, the sergeant was still unaware both of Roger's purpose and his departure. He incli

rd, had no ill maening to Mr. Roger. We'll al' hear the rights on it. Many's the talk I've had with him, and many's the

e, and took the beer in her hand, with her respects to the sergeant; but be

leman, who should it be but him there? He's seduced away my innocent lad. He's led Sam astray, and putten it into his head to 'list and goo

start, and dropping the glass from her hands; "pisoned!-eh, the cannibal! the

the influence of the all-conquering sergeant. John Gilsland stood by a little nervous, but secretly enjoying the attack which old Sally, easily diverted from her indignation against himself, and turning her arms upon "th' Ould Hunderd," aided with all her feeble forces. The other spectators encouraged the combatants with vociferous plaudits. As for the sergeant, he

, I advise ye to have patience. Then, in the first place, Sam-he's a very fine lad, clean, well-made, a good figure, a good spirit, fond to be out o' dours, and to see the world. I'll say, before a hunder faothers and maothers, it's a disgrace to keep a man like that serving beer. He behooved to serve his country, did a lad like that; thinks I to mysel', there's a figure

e that Sam's mother, overcome by this eloquence

he not as great a man as the Duke till his furlough's done; and I ask you," continued Kennedy, turning boldly round upon his principal accuser, "when the boy comes to end his life in aise and c

gure in uniform, with honours and rewards heaped upon him by the public gratitude, which sho

e asked me about the t'other one, and I gave the young gentleman what information I could. And then, ye see, al' at once, out of my knowledge, comes up the Cornel. I cannot purtend to say what business he had here. There was some story about a nevvy of his, Mr. Horry, that ye al' knowe. I've no very great faith in Mr. Horry, for my own account. My belief is

to speak to my Sam mysel'. Eyeh, sergeant! it's an awfu' misfortune-but it's

e's Mr. Horry gone his gate also," said John-"I'm strong o' the mind to take the cart mysel', and g

Eyeh, but it's true-Mr. Horry has gane as well-three young men of them out of this w

he Cornel was aye an affable gentleman, and spoke his mind free; I kn

el queer lad-he takes no more notice of a body nor if they were the dust beneath his feet; but dreedful clever, there's no doubt. I'll make John goo himsel' to Marchmain as he said-maybe there's some new

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isurely way across the moor, carrying with them the n

ck Mr. Scarsdale took his seat at the head of the table. Horace's chair was placed as usual, and stood empty by the side. Mr. Scarsdale gave one glance at the empty seat, as he took his own, but said nothing. Susan could not help remembering the only former time when that place was vacant, the day so happy and so miserable, when Uncle Edward first came to Marchmain. As on that occasion, his father took no notice of the absence of Horace; the dinner was eaten in silence, Susan swallowing a sob with every morsel which she ate, and tr

ds, an old, round work-basket, which she had found in the upper room where the apples were kept. But she did not venture to put that ornamental article, so simply significant as it was of the rising tide of her young feminine life, upon the table. She bent over her neglected patchwork, smoothing it out and laying the pieces together, but somehow finding it entirely impossible to fix her attention upon them. She could not help watching her father, shaking with terror when, in putting down her scissors, or her cotton, she disturbed the profound stillness; she could not help listening intently for those sounds outside which betokened to her accustomed ear the approach of Horace. She longed, and yet she feared to see her brother come back again; she could not believe he ha

to the door, which he barred and bolted, with a precaution Susan had never known to be taken before. Then she heard him securing the shutters of the windows. With an infallible instinct of alarm and terror, she knew that it was against the return of Horace that all these precautions were taken. She stole into her room, closed the door noiselessly, and looked out. Black in its unbroken midnight of gloom lay the moor, a waste of desolate darkness on every side, rain falling, masses of black clouds sweeping over the sky, a shrill gleam of the windy horizon far away, shining over the top of the distant hills. And Horace, if he should be near, if he should still be coming home, remorselessly shut out! Susan sat up half the night, listening with a nervous terror to all the mysterious sounds which creep and creak in the absolute silence of th

, trembling and afraid to join her, sprang up upon the wooden chair, and peeped out of the window. There she saw Peggy in the act of assaulting the unfortunate John, shaking him by the shoulder, and demanding to know if that was the way to deliver a message at a gentleman's house. John scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders: he was too much accustomed to

r I'll no, nor the master, if he's disturbed in his study. I would not advise you to rouse up him. Whisht then!-if you have any regard for your own

rmed in safety, the cart was drawn up to the side door, and Horace's goods safely deposited in it-Mr. Scarsdale, up to this moment, taking no notice of the proceeding. Then John returned into the kitchen, to have a little chat with Peggy, who was nothing loth. Peggy did all the marketing for the family, and though perfectly impenetrable and deaf to all questions about her master, was rather popular in the neighbouring villages, as a housekeeper and purveyor, who wa

d, to ask questions, and listening to this volunteer gossip with all her ears

, about your ain business-no wonder the wife has little patience if this is how y

s none so far away either," said John; "if the family wa

estless attention he had skill enough to perceive. Peggy's answer was

word himself with the Cornel. As for the young squire, he was coming and going the whole time, and Mr. Horry, he's nevvy to th' ould gentleman, as far as I can hear. It's a rael cooriou

an stood timidly with her work in her hand, startled with this new piece of intelligence, and looking towards the stranger with a face full of wonder, a sudden sound startled the vigilant ear of Peggy. But she had scarcely time to put down the dinner-plate in her hand, and to wave her towel at John Gilsland, commanding i

een so summarily expelled, would have been worth a comic actor's while to see. The honest fellow stood outside, looking first at the house and then at his mare, with a ludicrous astonishment. "The devil's in the woman!" said John. That was a proposition not unfamiliar to him. Then in his blank bewilderment he marched gravely round the house, spying in at the vacant windows. Everything was empty except that kitchen, in which the pale spectre in the dressing-gown might be murdering

f, Mr. Scarsdale addressed himsel

y nothing against that-he is perfectly welcome to choose his own residence; but I desire you to understand, both of you, that on no pretence whatever must this young man return into my house-not even for a visit; he has plac

that reproach on me. I've conspired against none of you, if it was my last word! Your son's gone, as he should have gone a dozen years ago, if ye had been wise, or ta'en my advice. He's gone, and God's blessing and grit speed be with him!

rld whom I can trust; but I beg you to understand, in respect to Horace Scarsdale, that I am master here, and that he shall not return to this

ver a word against your will, as has been proved for fifteen years, could wild horses get out of me. I've served you faithful, and I will

that nobody but he should ever sit opposite to her at table; and if her heart sank within her, as she tried in vain to occupy herself with her needlework, it was not wonderful. She thought of Horace, and Roger Musgrave, and Sam Gilsland, with a sigh-she wondered whether John was right; and with almost a pang of jealousy wondered still more that her uncle should take pains to liberate these three, while yet he did not try to do anything for her. She could not work-she tried her novels, but she had read them all, and in them all there was not one situation so forlorn and hopeless as her own. Poor Susan threw herself on her knees, with her face against the prickly hair-cloth of the elbow-chair-not to pray, but to bewail herself, utterly disheartened, angry and hopeless! Her temper was roused; she was cross and bitter, and full of unkindly thoughts; she

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ible to that of Marchmain. One side of it was lined with bookcases, full of the collections of the Colonel's life. There were two large windows, commanding a wonderful view. A Turkey carpet, warm and soft, a low fireplace polished and shining, a great easy-chair, drawn close to the cosy round table, with its cosy crimson drapery falling down round it, just appearing beneath the folds of the snow-white tablecloth. Here the Colonel took his place in the morning, rubbing

hands were brought him; he took the one which

hat you imagine. I have no control over the money whatever, nor power to draw upon it until the proper period; therefore, of course, I must decline, as you

r with any unjustifiable proceedings. Your relation has the eye of a lynx, and keeps it constantly upon us. As for the young man, I cannot but think his father is quite right in keeping him ignorant. In such circumstances as his, with the least inclination towards gaiety, and knowing his

wal of the feeling which had moved him on his interview with Mr. Scarsdale, though without the profound regret and compassion which he then experienced; but he was scarcely disappointed. He held his other letter in his hand, and entered into a little rapid mental calculation before he broke the seal, considering how it would be possible, out of his own means, to make the necessary provision for his nephew's studies

her demonstrations of interest in his restless movements and neglect of his half-finished breakfast. The conclusion, however, threw him into evident distress; he got up and walked about the room, stopping unconsciously to take up a piece of useless paper on one of the tables and tear it into little pieces. Anxiety and doubt became the prevailing expression of his face. Here in a moment were all his plans for Roge

e Guards with a positive pang, as he thought of Roger Musgrave's ingenuous face turned, crimson and shame-faced, towards the crowd. What could the Colonel do?-nothing

ine of masonry into the sea; the solitary fishing-boat hovering by; the wide sweep of bay beyond, with the Bass in the distance lying like a turtle or tortoise upon the water, and all the low, far, withdrawing ranges of the hills of Fife. The house was of two stories, homely and rural, with one pretty bright room on either side of the little hall, which was filled with Indian ornaments, as was also Colonel Sutherland's drawing-room, which the Colonel did not enter once in a month. Behind and on the upper story there was abundant room for a family-though the rooms upstairs were low, and shaded by the eaves. The house altogether was old-fashioned, and much behind its neighbours. Smooth polished stone, square-topped windows, palladian fronts, and Italian villas have strayed into Inveresk as to other quarters of the world. But Milnehill rema

engaged, he had all that freshness and minuteness of external observation which some old men keep to the end of their days: he saw, with a real sensation of pleasure, the first big bud upon his favourite chestnut begin to shake out its folded leaves; he noted the earliest tender shoot of a green sheath starting through the sheltered soil, in that sweet nook where his lilies of the valley waited for

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them in its long rush and roll, ringing through the air like a cannon-shot, though there was nothing beyond a fresh breeze to impel its course. The Colonel, born in this neighbourhood, and carrying its well-remembered sights and sounds in his heart, during all his years of exile, rejoiced in the boom of the Firth with that mixture of familiarity and novelty which makes all the special features of his native locality so delightful to a man who has been absent from it for years. He went along, stopping now and then to speak to some one, recognizing ever

ndian shawl, of which the colours, like the colours of the room, were rather the worse of years, sat in an easy chair, with a soft footstool, and cushions for her shoulders, the bell within her reach, and a little table with her book and her work close by her side. Her hair was snow-white, but her cheeks as fresh in complexion through their wrinkles as the cheeks of her rosy maid; and her close cap, with its soft white blond and white ribbons, came round her kind old face with a warm and homely simplicity, increasing the natural expression, which was that which we call by instinct motherly. Yet mother as she certainly must have been, she was alone, with nothing near to bear witness of family love or ties, save a half-open letter, written on impalpable pink Indian-letter paper, which lay on her little table. The old lady held out her hand to her visitor without rising from her chair. "Is that you, Edward? I am very glad to

ere's some trouble going on behind your smile. What

e less within my control. I have two vexatious letters this morning-one from that t

on? I saw a great deal of them when I was young. My uncle that we were sent home to was a merchant, you remember: we used to spend our holidays there. I was very near marrying in that way myself, if I had had my own will at seventeen. They're very good fathers and husbands,

make a pet of, as sure as life; here's a letter from him, informing me that he can't impose upon my goodness, and all that sort of thing, and that he's off to London. I have no doubt in my own mind," said the Colonel, solemnly, "that at th

him?-is he such a paladin?" asked

han can be said of everybody," he added, with a vexed recollection of Horace; "however, these are

Mrs. Melrose; "but look you here, Uncle Edward-here's

spectacles from his pocket, and pu

t to him triumphantly at arms length. "Who is it? Eh? What's this? Fanny-no-Annie Melrose? Who on

ry discreet either; and she was fighting among her young family, poor thing! I took a notion in my head that she was like one of my friends at home, and grew very fond of her. That time when Charlie was ill, when he was five years old, just before we sent him home, when I wanted poor Mary to go to the hills with me, and she could not-you remember?-I took Mrs. Oswald and her youngest, who was very delicate just then. To be sure, it was only a baby, poor bit thing, but the two bairns had but one ayah between them, and lived for a month or two like brother and sister. They were too young to remember anything about it; but I always think there's a providence in these things. And so the short and the

rners of the old lady's eyes, and were wip

much about that kind of thing, or to deny that there's quite as many bad women

h come through life and its battles; both knew losses severe enough to be beyond talking of; and over both beneficent age, consciously approach

lrose, "what you are going to do a

ide for Horace; he has a great opinion of his own judgment," said the Colonel. "However, things are less co

old lady; "and mind, too, that I have a penny in the corner of my purse if you should

at reminds me-if I could persuade her father to let Susan come, will

to take care of me, a delicate young person that I am, when I go to your house. You do not suppose I would have gone to see you if I had thought you any less than a brother all this time? But look at the fellow's impudence, venturing to say, in the very Parliament itself, th

an, Elizabeth," said the Co

ted in," said the old lady; "little wonder if I came to like it myself; and speaking of that, Edward, go you

your news; here it is, safe in my pocket all this time-and never deliver your judgme

f the kitchen, followed by the pretty maid, to arrest the Colonel, and ask if he knew Mr. Charlie was married. "And the mistress is as pleased!" said that respectable

and, smiling; "and as it was sure to happen some tim

e little garden gate for him. Janet was more shocked in her propriety than her mist

l the shower was over. While he stood waiting, with his deaf ear attentive to the entreaty of the good woman at whose porch he stood, to come in and rest, a post-chaise went rapidly past. Glancing out from it, with the momentary glance of a wayfarer, appeared a face which the Colonel recognized without being able to tell who it was; a yellow face, querulous but kindly-a fastidious, inquisitive pair of eyes. Beside the

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m, who opened to him the garden-door-that door in the wall which ad

amazement. "This very moment, sir, two carpet-bags a

asked the Colonel; "make haste! do you see

o say there's wan gentleman, and his man, of course-his man.

rascal!-who is it

either. I ken him as weel as I ken mysel', Cornel-dash me if ever I thought of asking him his name! Arnold-na-tuts! he was in the Queen's

, he recognized him!-to be sure, it could be no other person! He made haste into his cozy dining-room, casting a hurried glance as he passed at the carpet-bags and portmanteau, which still encumbered the hall. The dining-room was in confusion, much unlike its usual

ied the Colonel, hastening up t

am in full possession, like an old campaigner," said the stranger, somewhat l

d, drawing a chair to the other side of the table; "and how is your health? They tell me you have become an in

to keep friends with 'em-only society in the country, except my Lord Duke, and he's stuck-up. Then, when I'm at home, there's a confounded lawyer with his new leases and his raised rents, and 'Sir John,' 'Sir John,' till I'm sick of my own name. Then there's a fellow of a chaplain pegs into me about an heir. What the deuce do I want with an heir? Says the estates go into another family after me-swears it's a sin to let the name of Arm

of leases or heirs," said Colonel Sutherland, laughing. "We'll

nsequence of a man-not selfish, but occupied with himself, and saying whatever came uppermost. "Very odd thing-the very day I got your letter something came into my head: There's old Suthe

e stranger's breakfast, which was going on in the most satisfactory manner. Never guest did more honour to hospitality. He repeated that he could fancy himself once more i

had come then, there would have been some comfort in it. Never felt myself a man till I went to India-always kept trying to find out what this one an

ave known you anywhere. Postchaise from the boat-detestable boat!-rocks like a tub, and smells like an oilshop-came down from London by sea. And, now that I think of it, do you know, I'm mighty sorry a

h-spirited, and impatient, and proud, to wait for our influence, and what we should do for him: he's gone off to London

emplation of that distressing subject, made an end of his breakfast. "However," he said, after a pause of thought, devoted to his own engrossing affairs, "I'll give in to the popular opinion of course here, as I always do. We'll look the fellow up, Sutherland: he shall have his commission; I've got no claims upon me, at present, a

nch," said the Colonel, meditati

marry any girl he might take a fancy to, sir, and make it impossible for any man to help him-for a fellow who marries beneath him," said Sir John, falling into the favourite channel of his own thoughts, "is lost-you can do no m

g, as did the unhappy old bachelor, hunted to death by his problematical heir, and able to think of nothing else. Certainly lads of twenty are not to be guaranteed against such accidents; but Roger, the Colonel felt very certain, was by no means possessed by that hyperbolical fiend who directed the thoughts of the unfo

his all over after dinner. I say, what a famous snug place you've got! There's another grievance of that said Armitage Hall, which the fellows there would have you believe a paradise. Not a room in the house that does not want half a dozen people about to make it look inhabited; not a chance for a snug chat like what we've just had. Suppose

ce comfortable. Take care you don't injure your night's rest by resting through the day-dinner at six-nobody but ourselves. You will

ee the coats and rugs and mufflers lying about on his chairs, and smiled to himself with a little perplexity over that guest, who was so singularly unlike himself. He was not quite certain as yet how they should "get on," though very confident in Sir John's good meaning and his ow

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the day. His biscuit and little bottle of Edinburgh ale did not make their appearance till nearly an hour after the proper time. He had to ring three times for something he wanted; and Patchey himself, the soberest of men, shared, by way of encouraging his confrère, in so many little bottles of the said Edinburgh, that he appeared at last in a confused condition of wisdom, which excited to the utmost the wrath of the Colonel. The explosion of unwonted indignation which came upon Patchey's astonished head sobered him effectually, and the house recovered its equilibrium, especially when Sir John's man was summoned to his master, and the maids awoke to an uncomprehending dread of "the Cornel in a passion," which frightful picture Patchey presented to them in colours sufficiently terrible. Afterwards things went on smoothly enough. An unexceptionable dinner made its appearance, with such a curry as would have won the heart and warmed the palate of any old Indian; and Patchey, if he looked a little wiser and more solemn than usual, was all the more rigid in the proprieties, and behaved himself with a dignity worthy of the grand butler at Armitage Park. Sir John, who had not been seen since breakfast, appeared wonderfully refreshed and rejuvenated at the dinner-table. The leading fancy which inspired him at the present moment, though it frightened him, and though he

eh?" said the Colonel, across the table. "I don't think I should

ortunate baronet's shoulder, the pucker on his brow, and the "pshaw!" of disgust which burst from his lips. However, the dinner mollified Sir John-that Indo-British dinner, with its one yellow-complexioned dish, and its ge

th, and the departure of the servants, Colonel Sutherland began to grow a little anxious about his protegé. Poor Roger, though Sir John might be very willing to befriend him, evidently occupied a very small place in the baronet's memory. The Colonel cracked some nuts very slowly, and fell into silence. His visitor lost in the depths of that easy chair-the Colonel's own chair-which the selfish little man, in the most entire disregard of prescriptive rights, had unfeelingly appropriated, looked round him with perfect comfort and satisfactio

nough, and as sick as-as-as an unfortunate traveller could be. I think this a very agreeable contrast

y old comrade," said the Colone

English temper of the guest a few minutes silence

t: I should have done the same thing in his place. The young fellow of course has done something to bring us into mud and bother by thi

the ranks would find that, I fear, about the most unkindly soil he could try. Musgrave, of course, wants to see service-the Guards

ver. Of course, he's taken in by the superior corps, and high reputation, and all that sort of thing. I'll bet you something he's a Guardsman. Now, what's to be done? If you want me to start for town directly and hunt him up, I say thank you, my excellent friend, I

l," said Colo

quiet for a little, and keep on the look-out. Of course, had I known what had happened I might have stayed in town," he

-he only left home the day before y

hile in town," proceeded the baronet, still in a tone of injury; "really at this time of t

r Australia, and might write on the eve of the voyage, as is most

ions, old fellow-you may want it yet for one of those everlasting boys of yours. I've a strong confidence Tom will take you in, and go for a soldier like the rest of his race. What would you make the boy a parson for? A Scotch parson too!-whom nobody can be of the least b

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thout much allusion to the dreadful subject of marriage, and his own perplexities in respect to it. Then Sir John, when once delivered from himself, was a little of a humorist, and enjoyed the peculiarities of the society in which he found himself. Numberless old Indian officers, members of the Civil service, families who, without being of that origin, had two or three sons in our oriental empire, and peo

s who contest with us the supremacy of the modern world; of those powers so equally balanced whose slightest move on either side sets all the kingdoms of Christendom astir, and threatens contests bigger and more ominous than any conquering campaign of the East; this community was good-humouredly contemptuous of the incomprehensible ignorance of those dwellers at home who knew no difference between Tamul and Hindostani, who innocently imagined that a man at Agra, being in the same country with his brother at Madras, might have a chance of meeting with him some day, or who could not be made to comprehend the difference between a Dhobi and a man of high caste. These strange ignorances they laughed at among themselves with a pleasant feeling of superiority, and contested Indian appointments and the new regulations of the Company with far greater interest than the state of Europe could excite them into. One and another had charge of a little troop of children, "sent home" for their education. Somebody was alwa

had two unmarried ladies at present resident in his house, in whom the baronet felt a certain interest, both bound for India, and consequently not to be seen or treated with after a certain date, which greatly increased their attractions. One of them, the General's grand-daughter, a pretty girl of eighteen, to whom Sir John seriously, but secretly, inclined, and who, he rather more than suspected, was pretty certain to laugh in his face at any avowal of his incipient sentiment; the other, a handsome woman of thirty, youngest of a

had originally brought him here. Colonel Sutherland never entered his cosy dining-room in the morning without the dread of finding a letter from Roger, telling of some step which was irrevocable, and carried him quite out of their reach. He went to rest with that thought in the evening, and took it up on waking the next day: he began to be quite restless and full of discomfort; he even meditated setting out by himself to London to find the young man: he wrote to various old friends in town, begging them to make inquiries. Then he repeated to himself, "Make inquiries! look for a needle in a bundle of hay!" Yet, nevertheless, sent off his letters. On the whole, nothing had so agitated and disturbed the Colonel for years. He pictured to himself the lingering hope of being yet sought after and aided, which would dwell in the youth's mind unawares: he imagined the hope sickening, the expectation failing: he thought of the bitter

ife he repented of kindness. Had he, after all, "raised expectations which could never be realized?" The matter gave him a great deal more pain than Sir John could have thought possible. He, with all the carelessness of a man who has commonly found the world go well with him, put this affair a

l ran his eyes over it, and then thrust it into the hand of Sir John, who was calmly eating his breakfast. The baronet started, read it over, jumped from his seat, and called for his man in a voice of thunder. Then he flew to a writ

office, Edinburgh! To be sent this instant; return directly;

door, following him through the rain along the garden, and shouting, "Telegraph-office, Edinburgh!" in his ear, with sundry stimulatin

the man that's to blame; come down upon me, it'll do you good. I don't give this up yet. How's the wind? Dead south-west for a miracle-can'

he Colonel, whose mortifica

oard the "Prince Regent," to be detained. To the officer in command.' We shall be there by noon to-morrow all right. Why do you suppose

ice when we lose the true opportunity, and then make a fictitious one?-but they don't,

of the many Caffre wars. He wrote to take leave of his friend, believing well to be out of reach before any late succour could reach him. A certain sha

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-disposal; while, at the same time, it was quite true that he had put himself out of everybody's way, and "that nobody was to blame," as people say, all shone through his melancholy leave-taking. If they did succeed in finding him, would he return? the Colonel asked himself. If they came to the rescue at last, after he had made his plunge, and had borne the bitterest part of it, would he consent to be bought off, and owe his improved rank to Sir John's tardy benevolence? The message itself-was that judicious?-might not its only effect be to leave a certain stigma upon the character of the young soldier? Thus one subject of reflection only more painful than another had quick succession in the Colonel's thoughts. He vowed to himself he should never again wait for the co-operation of another in anything which was necessary to be done; and so only shook his head as Sir John hurra'd for the "sou'-wester," and, looking behind him as he descended from the carriage, shook his head still more, and felt the cold whisper of another wind rising upon his cheek. Sir John perceived it also, and grew pale. "It is only a current-there are always currents of wind under thes

lable impatience; he gazed out of the window; he closed his eyes with disgust when he turned from that; he could have got out

d seaward, clouds flying on the same cold track, and as much as these an increase of cold, an acrid contradiction of the sunshine, bewrayed the east wind which drove invalids to their chambers, but carried ships down channel. Often before had Sir John Armitage anathematized the east wind-perhaps he never cursed it in his heart till now, as he watched with envious im

the matter, Armitage?" said th

ore he would suffer him to ask any questions. There the obsequious attendants who received the strangers were startled by the impatient outcry and gesture, almost wild, of the excited baronet. "The 'Prince Regent,' lying in the Downs, with troops on board for the Cape-who can tell me if she has sailed?" This inquiry was somewhat startling to the innkeeper and his vassals. "We can send and see," suggested timidly one of the waiters, "directl

s before the unwieldy transport. The Colonel said nothing; he paced about the room with serious looks and a grieved heart, sometimes pausing to look wistfully out from the windows; a week earlier and Roger might have been saved-a day earlier and they could still have seen him, have tried the last chance for his deliverance, and made him aware of their real intentions and regard for his welfare. The Colonel could not forgive himself. For perhaps the first time in his life he judged his companion unfairly, felt disgusted at Sir John's exclamation of self-encouragement, and secretly blamed as levity his eager special pleadings and arguments with himself. Presently they started again for Portsmouth, fatigue and vexation together proving almost too much for Colonel Sutherland, who was the elder by several years, and the most seriously affected in the present instance. As for Sir John, he still kept himself up by expectations: of course, they must reach Po

nd disappointment, into chairs. This last performance elicited a short, hard laugh from the baronet, now thoroughly out of sorts. "I've been a confounded fool!" cried Sir John-"I'll never forg

feelings of the Colonel. "It cannot be helped now," he said with a sigh; "b

nion's simple, practical reference to a disposition beyond the power of man; "you are not to bla

gan to be reminded of a vigorous appetite, and to recover the exhaustion of fatigue. With a little assumption of languor on his own part, and a tender regard for the necessities of the

h and a famous voyage to the young fellow. I'll take care there's a welcome waiting for him when he lands-for of course every ship that sails the passage will outstrip the transport. To be sure, he's melancholy enough now, I believe. Do him good-teach him to be careful how he runs away from his fr

in every break of his sleep through that long night, before God, who saw the boy; and so, unseen, unaided, and ignorant of the disappointed efforts which had toiled after him, and of the one tender heart which a

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in its number, and that at present there were no vacancies among the officers. At present! The chances were that a few months of a Caffre war might show some difference in those full lists; but a man could not purchase a prospective commission on this grim possibility. The only thing Sir John could do in the circumstances he did. There was no lack of kindness at the bottom of his heart: he wrote a kind letter to Roger, enclosing a bank-bill for a considerable amount, confessing his mortification at the consequences of his own delay, and ordering the young man, with an imperative cordiality which he felt quite justified in using, and which Roger was not likely to resist, to use the money and come home directly-at least, whether he came home or not, he was not to serve the campaign in the ranks. "If he comes home,

and softly, and nothing else within the limits of this history requires immediate attention, let us sp

other grievances cheerfully-but this was impossible; and the life of which every hour sleeping or waking was spent in the rude companionship of men of a class much inferior and a breeding totally different from his own, grew bitter to the young man. He became unnaturally grave and self-absorbed. He attended to the minutest details of his duty with the most scrupulous and rigid care: but the sunshine and the glow of youth died away from him-life spread around him full of vulgar circumstances, unceasing noise, unceasing mirth, a perpetual accompaniment which made his heart sick. He did everything he could to recall his courage-he tried to flatter his imagination with pictures of future distinction; but Roger had not the imagination of a poet; his fancy was not strong enough to carry him out of the midst of the reality which vexed his soul; the pictur

re Roger's dreaming eyes; and then he turned away from the water and the heavens with a quick sigh, and turned back to the little world which made its passage over that sea-the noisy world between thos

ttle community knew what and who he really was. But the annoyance overbalanced the comfort. Sam after this could not come in contact with his former patron but with a ludicrous and embarrassing consciousness, which would have made Roger laugh if it had not pained him; the simple lout felt himself alarmingly on his good behaviour whenever he suspected Roger's neighbourhood, and made a hundred furtive errands and clumsy attempts to do something for him, which at once disturbed his mind and touched his heart. He was by no means a bad fellow, this Sam-a certain gleam of chivalrous sentiment warmed his opaque spirit at sight of the sad equality with himself to which, in appearance, never in reality, the young Squire was reduced. The honest clown felt a certain mortification and downfall in his own person to think that Roger in his crowded cabin was cleaning his own accoutrements like "a

was one of the most unsentimental of men. Abstract benevolence would never have suggested to him any special interest whatever in a recruit of superior rank. "His own fault, of course-best thing the fellow could do," would have been the

came to himself an uneasy idea that it concerned the young man whom he began to note, troubled the Major. The thought riveted his attention more and more upon the melancholy and grave young rifleman, who seemed to spend all his leisure time leaning over the bulwark watching the waves sweep by the vessel's side. Gradually, and unawares to himself, the Major grew more and more interested in this solitary soldier; his interest grew into a pursuit; he could no longer help observing him, and so strongly had the idea entered his mind, that to find it mistaken would have been a personal mortification and disparagement of his own wisdom. Then the Major, in his quick, quarter-deck promenade,

ficer could betray the young rifleman into forgetfulness of the necessary salute, and in every other particular his duty was done rigidly and minutely, beyond the chance of censure. This circumstance itself piqued the Major's curiosity further. Then his interest was aided by the interest of others. Somebody discovered the "superior education" (poor fellow! he himself, in sincere humility, was ready to protest he had none) of the young man, and suggested his employment apart in those regimental matters which required clerking. Strange occupation for the old Squire's Nimrod! Recognizing that he was not what he seemed, the first impulse of assista

was, was a step of progress. And the Major now and then appearing across his orbit, tempted him with wily questions, to which Roger was impenetrable; and Sam Gilsland, with a grin of satisfaction, tugged his forelock and whispered his conviction that Master Roger would ne'er stand in the ranks when they came to land-which conclusion, however, and the hopes of his subaltern patron to get permanent employment for him of this same description when they reached the end of the journey, were anything but satisfactory to Roger. It began to be rather hard for the young man to keep on the proper respectful terms with this honest subaltern, whom yet he did not choose to confide in. "No!" exclaimed Roger, "I am fit for a soldier, not for a

the slowest sailer on the seas), threw him into a sudden agitation of pride, gratitude, shame, consolation, and perplexity, which it is impossible to describe; in the midst of which paroxysm of mingled emotions he was summoned to the presence of the Major

do?" asked Rog

t to interfere when we came to land, whether or no, and inquire about your friends. Here's old Armitage spared me the trouble; recollect as well as possible the meet with the Tillington hounds-your uncle's,

el Sutherland came into his hands. That letter persuaded and soothed the young man like an actual presence; he yielded to its fatherly representations. That voice of honour, simple and absolute, which could not advise any man against his honour-Roger could scarcely explain to himself how it was that his agitation calmed, his heart healed, his hopes rose with all the rebound and elastic force of youth; he no longer felt it necessary to reject the kindness offered him, or to thrust off from himself, as bitter bonds, those kindly ties of obligation to

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by the consciousness of freedom and of knowing it was all his own. He was eminently cold-blooded, and "superior to impulse"-a man who could calculate everything, and settle his manner of life with an uncompromising firmness; but he was not a stoic. He stepped into all the dissipations of the little country town-stepped, but did not plunge-with an unlovely force, which could command itself, and did not. He was not "led away," either by society, or youthful spirits, or by that empire of the senses which sometimes overcomes very young men. What he did which was wrong he did with full will and purpose, gratifying his senses without obeying them. He carried his cool head and steady nerves through all the scenes of excitement and debauchery of which Kenlisle was capable-and it had its hidden centre of shame and vice, like every other town-sometimes as an observer, often as a partaker; but he was never "carried away"-never forgot himself-never, by any chance, either in pleasure, or frolic, or vice more piquant than either, ceased to hold himself, Horace Scarsdale, closer and dearer than either sin or pleasure. He was the kind of man to be vicious in contradistinction to being a victim or a slave of vice. He was the man to pass triumphantly

rban importance, which goes towards the making of the fashionable class of such a place. His father, whom Horace would not have imitated consciously on any account whatever, and who certainly bestowed no pains on his instruction, had notwithstanding known in his day a society and breeding much superior to anything in the little north-country town, and the atmosphere lingered still about Mr. Scarsdale, an imperceptible influence which had affected his son unawares. Then his very position, out

of the place, and left the fullest ground for fancy, which, in the form of gossip, occupied itself mightily about the singular young man. All this involuntary homage was incense to Horace; he sneered at it, yet it pleased him. He was elated to find himself a person of importance, though he despised the community which honoured him; and between the honours of the little Kenlisle society, the pleasures deep down below the surface, which gave a black side to the humanity of even that secluded place, and the new sense of freedom, solitude, and self-government in this new life-the whole put together effaced from his mind for the time all tha

deaf to the voices of the charmers. He was young, and, according to his f

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therland, he had no present motive sufficient to keep up a correspondence with his uncle; and nearly a year had passed over his head before he recollected this unrecorded passage of tim

ed. The stranger was a man of about fifty, with what people called an "extremely open manner," and a frank wide smile, which betrayed two rows of the soundest teeth in the world, and gave a favourable impression to most people who had the honour of making Mr. Stenhouse's acquaintance. This prepossession, however, as might be ascertained on inquiry, was not apt to last-everybody liked, at first sight, the candid lawyer; but he had few friends

ogether, these new circumstances brought Horace to himself; he remembered that he was still only in an inferior position, with no avenue open as yet to fortune or importance. Running over everything in his mind, he perceived that he stood farther than ever from his father's secret, and that no other means of advancing himself had as yet appeared; and with a certain instinctive and sympathetic attraction, his thoughts turned to Mr. Stenhouse. He bestowed h

Pouncet's. Horace had been late, very late, the previous night. This early walk was of two uses-it restored his unsusceptible nerves to the iron condition which was natural to them, and it gave him a chance of finding out in his old fashion anything that there might be to find out. Horace neither knew the extent nor the value of the land possesse

around him. He had not gone very far when he perceived an old man limping out of a miserable little house near the end of the village, with a poor little cripple of a boy limping after him, in the direction of the coal-fields. Their lamps and the implements they carried pointed out clearly enough their occupation; and a certain dissatisfied, discontented look in the old man's face made him a likely subject for Horace, who quickened his steps immediately to overtake the wayfarers. It required no great exercise of speed. The querulous, complaining jog with which the old man and his shadow went unsteadily across the sunshine, told its own tale-the very miner's lamp, swinging from his finger by its iron ring, swung disconsolately, and with a grumble and crack, complaining audibly of the labour, which, to say the truth, was sufficiently unsuitable for t

bled at last; "but an ould man as should be in his commforabl

e not a new hand," said Horace, with the rough and plai

've bin about the pit, dash her, since ever the first day she was begoud, and mought have broke my neck like the rest if it hadn't a bin for good loock, and God A'mighty-e

they?" said Horace; "who was it found the coal?

any coodies!" cried the old man; "haven't I as good as told you my belief?

ce in the means of extending information; "what do you say to a

rt now and again, specially of a morning, when a man has the asthmatics, and finds the cowld on his stomach. If you're sure you're able to afford it, sir, I've no objection, but I would not advise a brisk lad like you, d'ye hear, to partake yoursel'. Ye haven't the discretion to stop at the

ve your dram. Why don't your sons look to it, eh, and keep you at home? It doesn't take very much, I daresay, to keep th

the like of huz as does it a' left to break our ould bones, and waste our ould breath for a bit of bread, after serving of them for a matter of twenty year. Eyeh, eyeh, lad, it's them, dash them! If it had been the ould Squire, or ony o' the country gentlemen, an ould servant mought hev a chance. No that I'm saying muckle for them, more nor the rest o' the world-awl men is for their own interest in them days;

tage property, nor any of the great landlords? But what have a couple of a

ny on't. There's guid ale here, very guid ale, far better for a young man of a morning. You may weel ask what has the like o' them to do concerning sich things; and there's few can tell like me, though I say it as shouldn't. I wa

orned, yet felt galled and disconcerted by, had often humiliated and enraged the son of the recluse, who could take no equality with the young relative of the fox-hunting Squire. H

ood then, with the two o' them somegate about the ploughtail, having their own cracks, with now and again a word to me-when all of a suddent the student, he stops, and he says out loud, 'There's coal here!' I paid little attention till I saw them baith get earnest and red in the face, and down on their knees aprying into something I had turned up with my plough; and then I might have clean forgot it-for what was I heeding, coal or no coal?-when the t'other man, the lad with the muckle mouth, he came forrard, and says he, 'Here's my friend and me, we've made a wager about this land, but we'll ne'er be abl

it happen?" crie

Afore mony days, if ye'll believe me, there was word of his own agent, that was Maister Pouncet, the 'torney in Kenlisle, buying some land of him, awl to serve the Squire, as the fowks said; but when I heard it was this land, 'Ho, ho!' says I to mysel', 'there's more nor clear daylight in this job,' says I. So I held my whisht, and waited to see; and sure enow, before long came down surveyors and engineers, and I know not all what,

land was found so rich?" said Horace; "did he tr

s I hev heard say, and thought shame to let see how little siller he got for that land. He never had no time, nor siller nouther, to goo into lawsuits, and his own agent, as I tell you; besides that he was a simple man, was the Squire, and believed in luck more nor in cheating. Eyeh! eyeh! but I blamed aye the chield with the muckle mouth. He was the deevil that put harm into the t'other lawyer's head;

companion. Horace sauntered by him with a certain scornful humour to the mouth of the pit-untouched by his misfortunes, only smiling at the miserable skeleton, with his boasted wisdom, his scrap of important unused knowledge, and his decrepid want and feebleness. He set his foot upon this

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suggested themselves on this subject: how he had been persuaded that it was a perfectly legitimate proceeding to buy from the needy Squire these lands which at present to all the rest of the world were only worth so little, and which concealed, with all the cunning of nature, the secret of their own wealth. The Squire wanted the money, and was disposed to sell this portion of his estate to any bidder; and even if he were aware of the new discovery, had he either money or energy to avail himself of it? Horace knew, as if by intuition, all the arguments that must have been used, and could almost fancy he saw the triumphant tempter reaping the early harvest of his knavery, and stepping into a share of his victim's business, and of the new purchase which was made in their joint names. These coal-pits were now a richer and more profitable property than the whole of Mr. Pouncet's business, satisfactory as his "connection" was; but Horace was very well able to explain to h

ble places, which began to be dropped about the little gossiping town. He had only time to make a hurried toilette, deferring to that more important necessity, the breakfast, which he had no leisure to take, and to hasten to "the office," where he sat punctual and composed at his desk, for full two hours before his companion of the previous night appeared, nervous and miserable, at his post, with an aching head and trembling fingers. Horace glanced across with cool contempt at this miserable as he entered. He was conscious that h

rtuous young man reasoned as he sat at his desk, the bland object of his thoughts passing him occasionally with smiles upon that wide mouth which the old pitman remembered so well. It might not be possible for Horace to refrain from waving his whip over the head of his present employer, but it was the stranger upon whom for his own advancement he fixed his eyes. Mr. Stenhouse was a man much more able to understand his gifts, and give them their due influence, than Mr. Pouncet would ever be; and in the excitement and exaltation of his present mood Horace thrust from his mind more consciously than ever before that anxiety about his father's s

anations which had to be made between them. Mr. Pouncet had committed himself once in his life, and betrayed his client; but he was a strictly moral man notwithstanding, and disapproved deeply of the craft of his tempter, even though he did not hesitate to avail himself of the profits of the mutual deceit. Twenty years had passed since the purchase of that "most valuable property," but still the attorney, whose greatest failure of integrity this was, remained shy of the man who had led him into it, reluctant to receive his periodical visits, and most reluctant to enter into any discussion with him of their mutual interest. So

PTE

en the vicar was not asked to Mr. Pouncet's on this occasion; the show was very inconsiderable-a fact which Horace made out with little difficulty, and which Mr. Stenhouse's sharp eyes were not likely to be slow of perceiving. Nothing, however, affected the unchangeable blandness of that wide-smiling mouth. Before the dinner was over, Horace, by dint of close observation, became aware that there was a little bye-play going on between the hosts and their principal guest, and that Mr. Stenhouse's inquiries about one after another of the more important people of the neighbourhood, and his smiling amazement to hear that so many of them were absent, and so many had previous eng

ngenuous neophyte, addressing Mr. Pouncet-"Mountjoy versus Mortlock, tried in the Nisi Pr

ood fellow; I daresay your own opinion on the subject would be as shrewd, if not as experienced, as mine; a very clever young man-ris

e very soul of openness and candour, but which Horace somehow did not much care to encounter. Mr. Stenhouse looked at him steadily, as if with a smiling consideration of what he might happen to mean, glanced aside with a slight malicious air of humour at Mr. Pouncet, g

e information concerning a portion of his client's land which more than tripled its value. After which he persuaded the baronet to sell it to him at a very low price, on pretence that it was comparatively worthless, and that he made the purchase out of complacency to meet the pressing needs of his patron. Immediately after the sale a public discovery was made of a val

enhouse, and under his eye as it was, did not overwhelm the old lawyer as Horace, in the self-importance of his youth, imagined it would. His complexion was too gray and unvarying to show much change of colour for any

a man acquires a property fairly at its fair value, no matter what is found out afterwards, an honest bargain cannot be invalidated by our laws. I suppose it mus

s suspicious, sure to create a prejudice to start with, and against the honour of the profession, Mr. Pouncet? Attorneys can't afford to risk a great deal-we don't stand too high in the public estimation as it is. It's a very interesting case, I do not wonder it attracted your attention. The baronet was a gout

notwithstanding; better than most of those other people who are encouraged to look after t

Why?-because you are the guardian of other men's chances, perpetually on the watch to assist your client, and forgetting that such a person as yourself is in the world, save for that purpose. That is our code of morals, eh, Pouncet? But it is high, certainly-a sev

man, and unlike the ordinary idea of his profession, that everybody was tickled with the thought. Next to Mr. Pouncet, however, the person most disconcerted of the party was Horace, whose "power" and menace were entirely thrust aside by the jokes of the stranger. The young man went in sulkily, last of the party, to Mrs. Pouncet's drawing-room, dimly and angrily suspecting some wheel within wheel in the crafty machinery which he had supposed his own rash hand sufficient to stop. Perhaps Mr. Pouncet, after all, was the principal criminal, and Stenhouse only an accomplice-certainly appearances were stronger against the serious and cautious man, evidently annoyed and put out by this conversation, as he was, than against the bol

nnuated Annuals, and pondering over his future proceedings, Mr. Stenhouse came up to him with his usual frankness. He was rea

ery way, if they can prove it. Want of legal wisdom, however, plays the very devil with these odd cases-it may be perfectly clear to

ffly, "become suddenly acquainted w

fellows, indeed, in general-that is to say," he added, more slowly, "if the heir happens to be anybody, or to have friends or money sufficient to see the thing out. In that case it does n

ruth, I don't care for beginning by betraying old friends. Mr. Pouncet has be

burning his fingers in any such equivocal concerns. Come, come, my young fri

as, as it happens, at Tinwood this

e other, with his m

d into excitement by the perfect coolness of his antagonist, "an old

o everything that concerns himself-feeling about the world in spectacles, and as useless for ordinary purposes as if he had

fore the land was purchased by Mr. Pouncet an

k ugly enough for Pouncet if there was much talk on the subject," said Mr. Stenhouse, sympathetically glancing toward

you?" said Horace, with his

rned round upon him with the

our could not bind me to take care of his interests. I was a young fellow like yourself, with my fortune to make. You put it very

Horace, with a certain sulky virulence, ann

cried Mr. Stenhouse, with a

t returned to the charg

I know friends who will stand by him as

-bye, now I think of it, come and breakfast with me to-morrow, when we can speak freely. I have no particular reason to be grateful to him, but Poun

e's side, but no very great gratificati

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Christian work of restoring to Roger Musgrave such remnants of his inheritance as it might be possible to rescue from the hands of Pouncet and Stenhouse. This last alternative was not captivating to Horace. It was not in his nature, had he been the instrument of such a restoration, to do it otherwise than grudgingly. He was too young as yet to have added any great powers of dissim

w entirely uninfluenceable by such friendly cajoleries was the young bear of Marchmain, who had scarcely heart enough to be flattered by them, and had acuteness sufficient to percei

e. "Do you know, my dear fellow, Pouncet has been established here some thirty years, and the people believe in him; do you think th

usgrave was quite as well known, while he lived, as Mr. Pouncet. Besides, it is your own opinion that the public verdict is always against the attorney; and then," s

you yourself are one or two-and-twenty at the outside, have spent a year in Mr. Pouncet's office, and do not assert yourself, so far as I am aware, to have any

nd, if he had, would never use it for me; my father is my gr

sudden appearance of interest; "takes you for his e

ng. I don't pretend to be very clever," continued Horace; "but I think I know a man when I see him. It was you who found out the secret about that land-it was you who put the affair into Pouncet's head-it was you who managed it all along-the success of the undertaking belongs to you, and you know it. Now, look

at, Scarsdale-you can't do me any harm, but it is quite likely you might do me service. Another man most probably would send you off with a defiance, but I am not so liable to offence as most people; I never found it pay, somehow. You can't do me any harm, as I tell you; but you are bold and capable, and might be e

oncealed it so skilfully, was by no means disinclined to be insolent; "about remuneration and prospects, and how I should be employed; for I do not hold myself a common clerk,

my interests, to be sure," added Mr. Stenhouse, with that charming candour of his, "and you must attend to yours; and if you make up your mind afterwards to attack Pouncet on behalf of your friend Musgrave," he continued, with a pleasant smile, "why, well and good-you must follow your fancy. In the meanwhile, I have no doubt I can employ you to good account, and give you more insight into business t

Then that last hint gave a certain glow of eagerness to his excited mind: light upon his own affairs!-light upon that mystery which shrouded the recluse of Marchmain, and made his only son his enemy and opponent! Horace had managed to content himself with inevitable work, and even to excite himself into the ambition of making a fortune and his own way in the world; but that was a mere necessity, to which his arrogance bowed itself against its will; and the thought of leaping into sudden fortune, and the bitter long-fostered enmity against his father which continually suggested to his mind something which that father kept him out of, remained as fresh as ever in his spirit when they were appealed to. These thoughts came freshly upon him as he hastened to his daily occupation, and again began to revive the dreams

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gistrate, and thus letting daylight in upon the whole transaction, he received the statement, and had it signed and witnessed, as a possible groundwork of future proceedings-a strong moral, if not legal, evidence. With this document in his pocket-book, he saw Mr. Stenhouse, accepted his proposal, and consented to his arrangements; then had an interview with Mr. Pouncet, more agreeable to

. Mr. Pouncet's secret flush of rage; his visible determination to restrain himself; his forced politeness, and uneasy, unnatural deference to the studied rudeness of the young bear before him, were so many distinct expressions of homage dear to the young victor's soul. He could strip the respectability off that grave, uneasy figure; he c

brown underground. Under that sunshine and genial spring stir the very house looked less desolate. The moor, spreading far around and behind, was sweetened and softened by the light and shadow of those changeful northern heavens; the sunshine brightened the windows with a certain wistful, outward warmth, as if the very light was cognizant of the blank within, and would have penetrated if it could. The low hills which bounded the horizon had greened and softened like everything else; and even the wistful clump of firs, which stood watching on the windy height nearest to the house, were edged and fringed with a lighter growth, touching the tips of their grim branches into a mute compliment of unison with the sweet movement of the y

s by his sudden appearance; and, what was more, his father was out, an unexampled incident. The old woman screame

orous hand and dragged Horace in, as impatiently as she had motioned him away. "You misfortunate lad! what's brought ye here?" sa

ld thoughts back to Horace as with a flash of magic. He had begun to forget how his father lived, and the singularity of all his habits. His old bitter, sullen curiosity overpowered him as he stood once more under this roof. Who was this extraordinary man, who preserved in a retirement so rude and unrefined these forlorn habits of another life? The

? Has he forbidden it? He can shut his own door upon me, it is true; but ne

said Peggy. "And what do you mean by staying away a year and never letting us hear word of you, Mr. Horry? Is Miss Susan nobo

daylight and sunshine? Gone to walk with his pretty daughter, Peggy, like a good papa? Ah! I suppose th

will of Providence, Mr. Horry, to prevent a meeting and unseemly words atween a father and son. What would ye have, young man?-and where have ye been?-and what are you

ather of mine? You know, though nobody else knows-who is he? what does he do here? why does he hate me? why can't you tell me, and make

is he? 'Deed and he's a man, none so vartuous as he ought to be. And what does he here? Live as it pleases him, the Lord forgive him! without heeding God nor man-that's all about it. And as fo

you'll tell nothing, as I might have known. I suppose I may wait to see Susan; there's nothing against tha

" cried Peggy, half addressing herself, an

ld, hopeless smile. Peggy knew it of old, and had seen it on other faces

here ye please; if ever mortal man has a devil

lf so entirely in command of the house. He paused at the door of the dull apartment in which he had spent so many hours and years, and where Susan's needlework, more ornamental now than of old, made a little unaccustomed brightness on the dark mirror of the uncovered table; but no sympathy for his young sister, shut up here hopelessly during her early bloom of life, warmed his heart, or e

Mr. Scarsdale had been reading. Without hoping to find anything, but with a vague thrill of curiosity and eagerness, Horace lifted the book, and opened the desk. It was full of miscellaneous papers-Peggy's household bills, and other things entirely unimportant; but among these lay some folds of blotting-paper. He opened them with a trembling hand; the first thing he saw there was a letter, which fell out, and which Horace grasped at, half-consciously, and thrust into his pocket; another fold concealed, apparently, the answer to it, half written,

you mention, when, as you say, he seems to have ceased to appear to me as my child, and I have only viewed him as a rival, unjustly preferred to me. I do not object t

m possible that he could have looked thus directly into his father's thoughts without discovering something. He no longer cared to risk a meeting with him. In the tumult of his imaginary enlightenment he called to Peggy, hastily, that he was going away, and went out, as he entered, by the back door. Nobody was visible on the moor; the whole waste lay barren before him, under the slanting light of the setting sun. He put up the collar

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ehouse gossips scarcely knew him, in his changed dress and altered manner. He was the nephew of "the Cornel," a name which Mrs. Gilsland and Sergeant Kennedy had made important in the village, and he was flourishing in the world and likely to come to higher fortune, circumstances which mightily changed the tide of public opinion towards him. Mrs. Gilsland received the young man with her best curtsey, and with profuse salutations. She opened the door of "the best room" for him, and suggested a fire as the evenings were still cold, and offered a duck for his supper, "or dinner, I was meaning," added the landlady, as Horace shrugged his shoulders at the chilly aspect of the room, and tossed his great-coat on a chair with lordly pretension and in

r," he said, loftily; "lights in the meanwhile, and imme

exclaimed to herself as she left the room-"with his candles, and lights, and his immediantely! Immediantely, quotha! Eh me, the differ

. Meanwhile Horace addressed himself at his leisure to his immediate business. He had come thus far without being able to perceive that he had gained nothing by his inroad into his father's privacy. He was still possessed by the excitement of the act. All the way, while he walked as if for a race, he had been going over these unfatherly words, and they moved him to an unreasoning and unusual amount of emotion, rather more than a personal encounter would have done-confirming all his own sentiments, and

, little as he knows of it. And you, my dear Scarsdale, have you forgotten that this boy is your own child, and not a rival unjustly preferred to you? I acknowledge the wicked and desperate injustice of the whole proceeding, but Horace was not to blame. Would it not have been better, I appeal to you, to make an open effort to overthrow this iniquitous will, than to suffer it to produce results so deplorable? Hear me, I beseech you: receive the boy into your confidence before it is t

he perceived it, with savage disappointment and rage. He had been deceived-he, so boldly confident in his own powers, had allowed himself to be blinded and circumvented by his own excitement and childish commotion of feeling. For a moment he had enjoyed such command of his father's house as a midnight thief might have gained, and had sacrificed all the results of that precious instant by a piece of involuntary self-deceit and ridiculous weakness, an indulgence absurd and contemptible. His feelings were not enviable as he sat in Mrs. Gilsland's dark little parlour, with the two faint candles burning, and the damp wood hissing in the grate. He might have borne to be deceived, but it was hard to consent to the humiliating idea of having deceived himself. However, he could make nothing better of it, and grinding his teeth did no harm to anybody, and certainly could do little service to himself. So he swallowed his mortification as he best could, put Colonel Sutherland's letter in his pocket-book, and addressed himself with what content he might

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soldier, which neither of them comprehended; and coming back over that desolate waste of moorland to see his own desolate house standing out solitary and wistful in the bosom of the wilderness, Mr. Scarsdale realized, with a bitter superiority, the kind of house which was likely to call his brother-in-law master-the house full of warmth and kindliness, at which he sneered dismally, with the disgust of an evil spirit. The very desire which her uncle showed to have Susan with him increased the scorn of Susan's father. What did he want the girl for? To make an old man's pet of her, and amuse himself with the fondness of dotage? Thus the recluse returned to his house to conclude his letter, and to intimate, in words few and strong, as befitted his present temper, his desire to receive no further "favours" in correspondence from Colonel Sutherland. He went in unsuspicious, where there seemed nothing to suspect, seeing, as he passed, Susan seated near the window with her work on her knee, and her wistful young eyes gazing across the moor. She had come in from her walk and her stolen interview with the one sole companion whom she ever had any intercourse with. She was leani

him a chance, which was seldom; Letty herself, who was older now, and had ideas of lovers, and made Susan, a little to her own confusion, shame, and amusement, her chosen confidante; Uncle Edward, dearest of friends, whom, alas, it was like enough she might never see again; and, yes-among so few it was impossible to omit him-Mr. Roger, who had thrown the gipsy's husband over the hedge, and had taken off his hat to her, and who was lost in the dis

wind, white with passion, and lost in a fiery, silent excitement, which terrified and shocked her. He came close up to her, with a long, noiseless stride, and grasped her arm furiously: but for that grasp the man might have been a ghost, with his shadowy, attenuated form,

his grasp-"where is it?-what have you done with it? Restore it i

ack unawares with a shrinking of terror. It was a s

sk me? Restore it at once, or I shall be tempted to something

er cheated you in all my life," she said, raising her honest blue eyes to his face-that face which scowled over

and deceive me!" said Mr. Scarsdale. "Do you suppose I do not know-do you think I have no eyes to see you smile over that old fool's fondling letters?

ked Susan. "I will get it this moment, if you

her go, he grasped her

u call the child who takes advantage of her father's absence to go into his room and rob him of it? Was it for love of the writer?-was it for your mis

th a boldness and force altogether unprecedente

that unusual self-assertion, she continued, trembling, "Papa, I have never entered your room; I never went

ay hands upon her, but stood only looking at her with eyes which were incapable of perceiving truth or honesty, and saw only fraud and falsene

r, in spite of the small tenderness he showed her, and had a certain hold upon her habit of domestic affection. She felt t

overcome her emotion; "they are all here in this box-I have no other. I can only repea

e odour of the sandal-wood which lined the box, recalling some subtle association to him, produced a start and flush of angry colour on Mr. Scarsdale's face. He thrust the little casket away with some muttered words which Susan could not hear, but, even in spite of that touch of nature, turned over with a cold suspicion the letters which

away! the smell is suffocating," he cried, with an interjection of rage, and once more pushing violently from him the pretty box with its pungent odour. "But stay, understand me first; it is late, and you are young; I will not turn you out upon the moor to-night, little as you deserve my consideration; but if thi

ing which overpowered her, beneath all her shame, mortification, and terror, a guilty gleam of joy which frightened her shot through poor Susan's heart. She thought it guilty, poor child. She was dismayed to feel that sudden pang of hope and comfort breaking the sense of this calamity. To be expelled from her father's house, cast out upon the moor and upon the world, with the stigma upon her of having robbed and deceived him! She repeated over to hersel

TER

le had thrust it away from him. Susan was by no means above a fit of crying, and had her disappointments and vexations like another, little as there seemed to wish or hope for within her limited firmament; but this listless attitude of despair was new to Peggy, who was somehow frightened to see it. What had happened? Had she expected a letter, and falling into a fit of passion not to receive any, had she thrown out recklessly on the table that cherished correspondence, the comfort of her life? But fits of passion were very unlik

ain? And what did ye know, poor innocent?" cried Peggy, caressing the young head that leaned upon her; "ha

ed Susan, grasping he

uld see, and departed the same. Aye the owld man-a bitter thought in his heart, and an ill word in his mouth. Eh, the Lord forgive us! To think we should have the bringing up of childer!-that can make s

interest almost too eager for intelligence, and whose face had reddened wi

"don't tell papa-for pity's sake, don't tell papa! He will do nothing worse to me than he has threatened. I am only a girl-he would not strike me nor f

sly, "and then I'll know what is behoving and needful. Eh, Miss Susan, you're igno

ad not seen you, and did not know Horace had been here! And he said if I did not give it back to him to-morrow, he would turn me away. Turn me away, Peggy, out of doors upon the moor, to go anywhere, or do anything I pleased

do?" cried the faithful servant. "God preserve us! That's what it's come to. Eh, mistress, mistress! Did I think what I would have to

g, went to poor Peggy's heart. "He will think you know-you will tell him-he will find it out!" cried Susan; "and, Peggy, they wil

ee. He had his childer, his daughter-an innocent that had no share in't, and was wronged as well as himsel'. And now the Lord help us! he'll bereave himsel', and send his one hope away. I'm no' thinking of you, hinny," said Peggy, tenderly, while a few slow tears began to fall, gleaming an

in a flood of desolate luxury to Susan's heart. She thought of herself, lonely and friendless upon the moor, cast out from her home, and ignorant where to turn, with nobody in the world so much as thinking of her, or sparing a tear for her sorrow. Peggy mourning for Mr. Scarsdale-for her father, he who dwelt secure and supreme at home, and cast out his woman-child upon the world. Horace, for whose

t Uncle Edward was far off, and she had no means of reaching him. What was she to do?-wander on day and night, like a lady of romance, seeking her love, with nothing on her lips but "Uncle Edward" and "Milnehill"?-or lose herself and die upon those wistful far extending roads, out of reach of love or human charity? Anything sad enough would have pleased Susan's imagination at the present moment.

nner, whether or no," said Peggy, darting forward to gather up the letters and restore them to their box. Not a moment too soon, for Mr. Scarsdale's study-door creaked immediately afterwards, and his step was audible going upstairs to dress. Susan took the box out of Peggy's hands with youthful petulance, and left the room, carrying it solemnly, and proudly restraining her tears. Nobody should be offended again with the sight of Uncle Edward's present. Nobody should find herself in the way after this melancholy night; and the dinner, that dismal ceremonial-the dinner whic

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y symptoms of the passion which he had exhibited to Susan. He was deeply angry, it is true, still, but he was entirely without alarm, believing, as a matter of course, that Susan must have taken his letter, and contemptuously receiving that instance of dishonourable conduct merely as a visible specimen of the womanish meanness and cunning which belonged to such creatures, and which, p

passion, that terrible incredulity of truth. The poor girl sat still, rigidly, upon her chair, with a feeling that this was her only safeguard, and that she must infallibly drop down upon the floor if she tried to move. When Peggy removed the cloth, and placed Mr. Scarsdale's little reading-desk, his glass and decanter, upon the table, Susan still sat there in spite of many a secret touch and pull from her humble and anxious friend. Peggy was alarmed, but durst not say anything to call the attention of her master; and at last brought Susan's work to her, and thrust it into the poor child's trembling fingers, with a look and movement of anxious appeal. Susan took the work mechanically, and applied herself to it without knowing what she did; and thus the evening went on with a thrilling, audible silence, of which, dreary and long though she had felt these nights many a time before, she had never been sensible till now. The long, gleamin

rather than meet this impending interview; but it was not in her to escape or run away. Susan's mind was the womanly development of that steady British temper which cannot deliver itself by v

hich his young daughter sat before him; but pity found no entrance into his heart. He permitted her to remain so, sitting late and beyond the usual hour of retiring, with a kind of diabolical patience on his own part, which checked the words a dozen times on his lips. He was satisfied to see the entire power he had over her, and at the present moment had no thought of his threat, or of carrying it out. Perhaps even to him the room would have been more desolate, the dismal evening longer, had there been no young figure there,

with a little solemnity, "tha

her by her name that some forlorn hope of his heart relenting towards her entered her head.

e you ready to restore my letter, or to leave my house? Which? You understand the alterna

ever saw it! Oh, papa, did I ever tell you a lie, that you will not believe me now? And how can I give it

d Mr. Scarsdale once more,

der her breath, "I cannot tell! I do not know!" Her terror had taken breath and voice away from her. How could she answer such a question?-she

t you. Fool! do you suppose he cares for you more than for an instrument; or your meddling uncle, who has made perpetual mischie

to her feet, hyster

for you have the power-you may kill me, if you please; but you can

last occasion on which I shall have anything to say to you. I am now alone, and shall remain so while I live. Be good enough to give Peggy directions where your wardrobe is to be sent. In consideration o

wered, in spite of herself, by

d, with a wild appeal. He looked a

with those long, silent, passionate steps, the light he carried gleaming upon his passio

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rsonal 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 door

Peggy's hand on her shoulder, and heard the whisper of kindness in her ear, she did not "give way," as Peggy expected. S

"to-morrow-early-that he may never see me again. I am to tell

what am I that I should complain and grumble?-but it's all that heartbreaking face, my darling lamb! What should I lament

t! There is very, very little time now to think of anything; and you mu

at 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

alf 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 sorro

help it, but she'll never break down and fail. Miss Susan, there's one thing first and foremos

leep, Peggy?" cried Susan, with

ter," said Peggy. "You munna say no to me, the last night. Eyeh, my lamb! you're young, and your eyes are h

you about. Oh, Peggy, don't bid me!" said Susan, crying; "and I have

eloved; 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

ed Susan, throwing herself into

moor nor likely. Miss Susan, go to your bed this moment; ye'l

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 wil

rs, 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 ke

is 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

shall not be frightened. I'll take care

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

r, 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 wi

ch 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

that gather

mountain br

g the rustling moorland path, without once turning her eyes to look upon that house from which the last gleam of hope

F VOL

GLOUCESTER STREE

rs corrected by th

s=> delightful

> travelli

ieve=> he could scar