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 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "MARGARET IVIAITLAND," "ADAM GRAEI^IE,' 
 "THE LAIRD OF NORLAW," 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 m THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1861. 
 T?ie rigTu of Translation is reserved.
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED BT R. BO UN, GLOHCESTER STREET, 
 
 regent's park.
 
 ^;?3 
 
 
 y . 
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 This book was overshadowed and interrupted 
 by the heaviest grief. The author says so, 
 not to deprecate criticism, but to crave the 
 tender forbearance of her unknown friends.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In a gloomy room, looking out through one 
 narrow window upon a moor, two young 
 people together, and yet alone, consumed 
 the dreary hours of a February after- 
 noon. The scene within doors exhibited 
 scarcely less monotony and dreariness than 
 did the moor without, which stretched black 
 and heavy to the hills under a leaden sky. 
 The room was well-sized, and lighted only 
 by that one window, which was deeply sunk 
 in the deep wall, and hung with terrible cur- 
 tains of red moreen, enough to kill what 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 little amount of light there was. A large 
 dining-table, of cold, well-polished mahogany, 
 occupied the centre of the apartment — an 
 old-fashioned sideboard and mysterious bureau 
 of the same character stood out darkly from 
 the walls — and hard, angular chairs furnished 
 forth the dining-room, as it was called — but 
 which was, indeed, drawing-room, study, bou- 
 doir, everything to the brother and sister who 
 held occupation of it now. 
 
 And here were none of those traces of femi- 
 nine presence which one reads of in books — 
 no pretty things, no flowers, no embroideries, 
 nothing to cast a grace upon the dulness. 
 Perhaps that might be partly Susan's fault; 
 but when one lives all one's life on the bor- 
 ders of Lanwoth Moor, ten miles off from 
 the humblest attempt at a town, without 
 any money, and seeing nobody to stir one's 
 ambition, even a girl of seventeen may be 
 pardoned if she can make little brightness 
 except that of her presence in her shady
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 3 
 
 place. To tell the truth, nobody made much 
 account of Susan ; she was not expected to 
 exert much influence on the changeless at- 
 mosphere of Marchmain. No one supposed 
 her to be the flower of that solitude : any- 
 little embellishments which she tried were 
 put down ruthlessly ; and the little girl had 
 long ago learned, as the first duties of woman- 
 kind, to do as she was bid, and hold her 
 peace. She was seated now before the fire, 
 making a little centre with her work upon 
 the cold glimmer of the uncovered table. 
 She was very fair in her complexion, with 
 hair almost flaxen, white teeth, blue eyes, 
 and a pretty colour. She did not look 
 intellectual, nor interesting, nor melancholy ; 
 but sat leaning very closely over her work, 
 because there was not much light, and 
 Horace stood full between her and what 
 little there was. She had a pair of scissors, 
 a reel of cotton, and a paper of buttons on 
 the table before herj and on the back of 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 her chair hung a huge bag, made of printed 
 cotton, which it was safe to believe was her 
 work-bag. There she sat, with a little fire- 
 light playing vainly upon her dark woollen 
 dress — a domestic creature, not very happy, 
 but very contented, dully occupied in the 
 silence and the gray afternoon, living a life 
 against which her youth protested, but some- 
 how managing to get on with tolerable com- 
 fort, as women unawakened and undisturbed 
 do. 
 
 Of a different character altogether was the 
 Other inmate of this room. On the end of 
 the table nearest the light lay a confusion 
 of open books and an old-fashioned inkstand, 
 which two instruments of learning had, it 
 seemed, gone towards the composition of a 
 German exercise, which appeared, half finished, 
 and with a big blot on the last word, between 
 them. Twenty times over, while that blurred 
 page was being compounded, the young stu- 
 dent had flown at the fire in silent irritabi-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 5 
 
 lity, and poked it half out; and he now 
 stood in the recess of the window, between 
 the red curtains, blocking up the light, and 
 looking out with angry eyes upon the dim 
 black blast of February rain which came 
 with the darkness from the hills. It was cer- 
 tainly a dismal prospect. The very shower 
 was not the hearty, violent shower which 
 sweeps white over a landscape in vehement 
 sheets of water ; it had not a characteristic 
 of storm or vitality about it ; but, saturat- 
 ing, penetrating, invisible, went chill to the 
 heart of the sodden land, if heart was in 
 that wild, low stretch of blackened moss 
 and heather, where nothing living moved. 
 The young man stood in the window^ look- 
 ing out with a vexation and dull rage 
 indescribable upon the falling night. He 
 had this only in common with Susan, 
 that his features were cast in an un- 
 heroic type, and could only have been 
 handsome under the influence of good hu-
 
 6 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 mour and good spirits, two beneficent fairies 
 unknown to that lowering face. Good 
 health and much exercise kept the colour 
 on his cheeks and the light in his eye — 
 against his will, one was tempted to sup- 
 pose. He was short-sighted, and contracted 
 his eyes in his gaze out, till the eyelids 
 hung in heavy folds over the stormy stare 
 which he sent across the moor — and queru- 
 lous lines of discontent puckered the full 
 youthful lips, which were made for a sweeter 
 expression. Weariness, disgust, the smoul- 
 dering rage of one oppressed, was in his 
 face. He was not only in unnatural cir- 
 cumstances, but somebody had injured him : 
 he carried his head with all the loftiness 
 and superiority of a conscious victim ; but 
 it was evident that the sentiment of wrong 
 — just or unjust — poisoned and embittered 
 all his life. 
 
 "Rainl" he exclaimed, jerking the word 
 out as if he threw something at fate.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 7 
 
 '^ My luck ! — not so much as the chance 
 of a run on the moor ! '' 
 
 '^Are you tired of your German already, 
 Horace ? " asked Susan, as he came to the 
 fire to make a last attempt upon its life — 
 lifting up her contented woman's face, not 
 without the shadow of a smile upon it, to 
 her restless brother. 
 
 ^* Tired ? D'ye think I'm a child or a 
 girl like you ? Do you think I can spend 
 my days over German exercises ? What's 
 the good of it ? Have / a chance of ever 
 using that or any other language, unless, 
 perhaps, as a beggar ? Pshaw ! — look after 
 your work, and don't aggravate me." 
 
 "But it would please papa," said Susan, 
 with some timidity, as if this was rather 
 a doubtful argument; "and then, perhaps 
 he might be persuaded to do what you 
 wish, Horace, if you tried to please Azm." 
 
 "To please papa," said her brother, imi- 
 tating her words with contemptuous mock-
 
 8 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 ery, "is an inducement indeed. To please 
 him! Why should I please him, I should 
 like to know ? What has he ever done 
 for me? At least, I shan't cheat him with 
 a false submission. I'd rather chuck the 
 lot of them into the fire, than have him 
 suppose that I read German, or anything 
 else, for his sake ! " 
 
 " But oh, Horace, you would make me 
 so unhappy I " said Susan, with a little un- 
 conscious gesture of entreaty, letting her 
 work fall, and clasping her hands as she 
 looked up in his face. 
 
 " T suppose so," said the young man, with 
 perfect indifference. 
 
 " And you don't care ? " cried his sister, 
 moved to a momentary overflow of those 
 sudden tears of mortification and injured 
 affection which women weep over such cool, 
 conscious, voluntary disregard. " I would 
 do anything in the world for you, but you 
 don't mind how I feel ; and yet there are 
 only two of us in the world."
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 9 
 
 " So much the better/' said Horace, throw- 
 ing himself down in a chair before the fire; 
 "and as for those vain professions, what is 
 the use of them, I should like to know ? 
 What could you do for me, if you were 
 ever so anxious ? Anything in the world, 
 in our circumstances, means simply nothing, 
 Susan. Oh ! for heaven's sake, don't cry ! 
 — you're a good girl, and sew on my but- 
 tons — ^but what, in the name of fortune, 
 could you do ? You know as well as I that 
 it is only a fashion of words " 
 
 " I did not mean it so," cried Susan, 
 quickly — but stopping as suddenly, cast a 
 hurried, painful look at him, and dried her 
 tears with a hasty hand — the look which 
 natural Truth casts upon that cruel, reason- 
 able fool. Wisdom, whom she cannot contest, 
 yet knows in the wrong. A little indig- 
 nation burning up upon her ingenuous cheek 
 helped the hurried hand to dry the tears, 
 and she returned to her work with a little
 
 10 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 tremble of haste, such as a discussion with 
 her brother very frequently threw Susan 
 into. She did not pretend to argue with 
 him : she was not clever, but his philosophy 
 filled her with impatience. She *^ could not 
 bear it." She felt inclined to get up and 
 seize hold of him, and try physical mea- 
 sures to shake this arrogant pretence of 
 truth out of him ; for Susan, though she 
 could not argue, was not without a temper 
 and opinion of her own. 
 
 Silence ensued. Susan made nervous 
 haste with her needlework, and stumbled 
 over it in her little flutter of vexation ; 
 but Horace was too much absorbed to 
 notice this girlish show of feeling. When 
 he had rocked in his chair a little, placing 
 one foot on the side of the old-fashioned 
 grate, he suddenly sprang up and thrust 
 away his seat. ^' By George ! " cried Horace 
 — but not as that exclamation is usually 
 uttered, " Tve not got a friend in the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 11 
 
 world ! — there isn't a man in existence, so 
 far as I know, that will do anything for 
 me!" 
 
 " Oh, Horace ! " said Susan, " think how 
 much better off you are than some people. 
 Don't always make the worst of everything ! 
 Think of poor Roger Musgrave at Tilling- 
 ton, who has neither father nor home — 
 his godfather dead without making any pro- 
 vision for him, and nothing to do and 
 nobody to look to, poor fellow — and break- 
 ing his heart for grief besides, and Peggy 
 says will either 'list or die ! " 
 
 " And a very good alternative too," said 
 Horace ; " he's very well off for a poor 
 milk-and-water nobody — free ! and able to 
 'list if he likes, or die if he likes, without 
 any one troubling their head about the 
 matter. As to home and father, I heartily 
 wish he had my share of these precious 
 commodities. Do you think anywhere else 
 a man like me would sell his soul for a
 
 12 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 bed and a dinner ? There ! there ! hold 
 your tongue, or talk of what you under- 
 stand." 
 
 "What do I understand, I wonder," cried 
 Susan, "sewing on your worship^s buttons? 
 A man like you ! — you are only nineteen 
 after all, when the truth is told." 
 
 " I am man enough to make ray own 
 way,'' said the youth, angrily ; " it is not 
 a question of years or days, if indeed you 
 were able to judge of it at all, which you 
 are not." 
 
 " If I were so very certain of my own 
 strength," cried Susan, following up her 
 advantage, " I'd run away, if I did not 
 care for home, or father, or — or anybody. 
 If I did not mind about duty or affec- 
 tion, or such trifles, I'd go and mgke my 
 own way, and not talk of it — I would I 
 I know something, though I'm not so wise 
 as you. I think it's shocking to talk dis- 
 content for ever, and gloom at everything.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 13 
 
 Why don't you go away ? Think of the 
 great people in books, that go to London 
 with sixpence in their pockets, and turn 
 out great merchants — or with a tragedy, 
 and turn out Dr. Johnson. Think of Chat- 
 terton, whom you were reading of You 
 are better off a great deal than he ! " 
 
 " Chatterton was a fool," said Horace. 
 " I promise you Til wait for the tide, and 
 not shoot myself when it's in the flow. I 
 am much obliged for your advice. I've 
 neither a tragedy nor a sixpence that I 
 can call my own — but some of these days 
 rU go." 
 
 Pronouncing these words with slow and 
 formal emphasis, as if he meant something 
 dreadful, Horace marched solemnly to his 
 German exercise, and sat down to it once 
 more. The evening grew darker round the 
 two ; by degrees Susan's head drooped down 
 on her needlework, till you could see that 
 she had been seized by a womanish panic,
 
 14 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 and was secretly putting up the linen on 
 her knee to wipe her wet eyes. This terror 
 and compunction worked its way silently as 
 the early wintry night came on. By-and-by, 
 through the quietness, which was broken only 
 by Horace's pen, the ashes from the grate, 
 and a slow patter outside of the wet which 
 dropped from the eaves, there broke a little 
 hurried, suppressed sob. Then Susan's white 
 work, more distinct than herself in the twi- 
 light, went down suddenly upon the floor, 
 and a darkling figure glided round to Horace's 
 side. "Oh, don't think of it any more!" 
 cried Susan; "it was only my ill-temper. 
 Oh, Horace, never mind me ! — don't think 
 of it again." 
 
 " Think of what ?" said Horace, peevishly ; 
 " what on earth do you mean, thrusting your 
 arras about me ? I did not ask to be petted, 
 did I ? — what do you mean ? " 
 
 " Oh, Horace — what we were saying," said 
 his sister, with humility.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 15 
 
 " What were we saying ? Can I re- 
 member all the nonsense you talk ? " cried 
 the young man, shaking off her arms with 
 impatience — " can't you keep to your own 
 business, and let me alone? Oh, you 
 wanted me to be Whittington and the cat, 
 didn't you? — thank you, that's not my 
 vocation. Isn't it bad enough I must stand 
 your sauciness, without standing your repent- 
 ance — oh, for mercy's sake, go away ! " 
 
 Susan went away without another word, 
 gathered her work into her big work-bag, 
 and went out of the room, not without 
 making it sufficiently audible that she had 
 closed the door. 
 
 " He's a coward ! he does nothing but 
 talk ! " she said between her teeth, as she 
 went up the dark stairs ; but nobody save 
 herself knew that her momentary passion 
 had brought these words to Susan's lips, 
 and ten minutes after she would not have 
 believed she had said them — nevertheless, 
 sometimes passion, unawares, says the truth.
 
 16 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The household of Marchmain consisted 
 of four persons. The brother and sister 
 we have already seen, their father, and one 
 female servant. In this little interval of 
 twilight, while Susan puts on her clean 
 collar for dinner, and which Horace, who 
 would rather disarrange than improve his 
 dress, out of pure ill-humour and disre- 
 spect, spends in the dark, staring into the 
 fire with his head between his hands, 
 we will explain to our readers the eco- 
 nomy of this singular household. At this 
 hour all is dark in the solitary house.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 17 
 
 Without, the chill invisible raiu, the great un- 
 broken blackness of the moor and the 
 night — within, an unlighted hall and stair- 
 case, with a red glow of firelight at the 
 end of a loDg passage, betraying the 
 kitchen, and a faint thread of light coming 
 out beneath a door opposite the dining- 
 room. Thrift, severe and rigid, reigns in 
 this dwelling. In Mr. Scarsdale's own room 
 a single candle burns, when it is no longer 
 possible to read without one ; but there 
 are no lights in the family sitting-room till 
 the dinner is placed on the table, and 
 Peggy has nothing but firelight in the 
 kitchen, and Susan puts on her collar by 
 intuition upstairs. Everything is under in- 
 exorable rule and law. The family have 
 breakfast between nine and ten, sometimes 
 even later ; for Mr. Scarsdale is not a man 
 to modify his own habits for any considera- 
 tion of suitability. From that time till six 
 o'clock, when there is dinner, the young 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 people see nothing of their father. He sits 
 with them in the evening, imposing silence 
 by his presence ; and that, so far as family 
 intercourse goes, is the chronicle of their 
 life. 
 
 Let us enter at this door, which marks 
 itself off from the floor of the hall by 
 that slender line of light. It has the 
 same prospect as the dining-room, when 
 there is any daylight to see it ; but it 
 is smaller than that gloomy apartment ; 
 two large bookcases, shut in by a brass 
 network, stand out with sharp and angular 
 corners from the walls, no attempt having 
 been made to fill up the vacant space at 
 either side of them, or to harmonize 
 these gaunt pieces of furniture with any- 
 thing else in the room. There are two 
 or three chairs, which stand fixed and 
 immovable in corners, plainly testifying 
 that nobody ever sits there; and before 
 the fire a library table, and in a round-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 19 
 
 backed elbow-chair the father of the house. 
 He sits there reading with a forlorn per- 
 sistence wonderful to see — reading for no 
 purpose, reading with little interest, yet 
 turning page after page with methodical 
 regularity, and bending his lowering fore- 
 head on the book as if it were the 
 business of his life. He is dark, not so 
 much in complexion as in sentiment — a 
 close, self-absorbed, impenetrable man. It 
 is not difficult to perceive that he is 
 neither a student by ardent inclination, 
 nor by profession a searcher into books ; 
 but what is the secret of these solitary 
 studies is hard to discover. He sits with 
 his head leaning upon one hand, and the 
 other turning the pages — sits often for 
 hours in that one position. He is 
 scarcely ever stimulated into interest, and 
 never owns the enlivening touch of that 
 zeal and curiosity which hunts for proofs 
 or illustrations of a favourite theory through 
 
 c2
 
 20 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 a dozen volumes. There is no heap of 
 books by his side, but only one orderly 
 volume, which is not of the class of 
 those fantastic delightful reverie books 
 in which studious men delight. The blank, 
 straightforward manner in which he reads on 
 comes to be impressive in its singularity 
 after a time. He seems to pursue this oc- 
 cupation as a clerk keeps books, and counts 
 his progress, you could imagine, by the num- 
 ber of the pages he has read, and by no 
 less tangible criterion ; and nothing moves 
 the settled darkness of his uncommunicative 
 face. 
 
 Behind him, hung by the side of the 
 window, in the worst light of the room, is 
 a portrait, a very common work, done by a 
 mediocre painter, but in all probability very 
 like its original, for the face looks down 
 through the gloom with a real smile, which 
 paint cannot give — a sweet, home-like, do- 
 mestic woman, such another as Susan will
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 21 
 
 be when the years and the hours have car- 
 ried her into her own life. There can be 
 no doubt it is Susan's mother and this man's 
 wife. There is no other picture in the house, 
 and he cares so little for anyone seeing this, 
 that he has hung it in the shadows of the 
 red moreen curtains, where nobody can dis- 
 tinguish the features. Most likely he knows 
 the features well enough to penetrate that 
 darkness ; for though he sits with his back 
 to it most usually, it is for his pleasure it is 
 here. 
 
 Nobody knows anything about this man ; 
 he has not any family connection whatever 
 with the house or locality. Nobody can 
 understand why of all places in the world 
 he should come here to the tumble-down 
 old house on the edge of the moor, which 
 nobody else would live in. When he came, ten 
 years ago, the country people paid him visits 
 — half in curiosity, half in kindness — which 
 were never returned, till at last society
 
 22 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 dropped off entirely, even from the attempt 
 to break upon his seclusion. To account for 
 his ungraciousness, rumours of great crimes 
 and great misfortunes were whispered about 
 him ; but as the novelty failed, these sunk 
 into abeyance ; and it was tacitly understood 
 or believed now that the loss of a great law- 
 suit, which materially lessened his means, 
 was the cause of his withdrawal from the 
 world. He was then but a young man, 
 scarcely forty ; and if neither sport nor society 
 had attractions for him then, it was not 
 to be supposed that his heart had expanded 
 now. He lived in a severe, rectangular, ma- 
 thematical poverty, which calculated every 
 item, and left room for no irregularity. He 
 kept his children rigidly within the same 
 bounds which confined himself If they formed 
 acquaintances, it must needs have been at 
 " kirk or market," in the roads or the fields, 
 for he strictly forbade them from either re- 
 ceiving or accepting invitations ; while for his
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 23 
 
 own part he gave a certain cold attention 
 to their education as a duty, but spent as 
 little time as possible in their society. It 
 is not surprising, under these circumstances, 
 that this gloomy and brooding man should 
 have roused the kindred temper of his son 
 to a slight degree of desperation, or suc- 
 ceeded in making the thraldom of his life 
 very irksome to a youth who was neither 
 amiable nor submissive, to begin with. Mr. 
 Scarsdale did not even pretend a fatherly 
 regard for Horace ; all his life he had treated 
 the lad with a cutting and desperate civility, 
 which would have pierced a more sensitive 
 child to the heart; and from his boyhood 
 had given him a certain position of equality 
 and rivalship, totally contrary to the rela- 
 tionship they really held, and which at once 
 stimulated the pride and raised the passions 
 of the solitary youth. This unhappy state 
 of things had never come to a climax by 
 any outburst of passion. Horace might be
 
 24 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 as disrespectful, as sullen, as defiant as he 
 pleased. His father extorted a certain hard 
 lineal obedience, but neither expected nor 
 seemed to wish for, reverence, love, or any 
 filial sentiment; and this aspect of affairs 
 had become so habitual, that even Susan did 
 not observe it. Most likely she thought all 
 fathers were more or less the same ; her whole 
 heart of tenderness went back to her little 
 recollection of her mother — and Mr. Scars- 
 dale was still human so far as Susan was 
 concerned. He was not kind certainly, but 
 at least he seemed conscious that he was her 
 father and she his child. 
 
 Notwithstanding his seclusion, his limited 
 means, and morose habits, he still bore the 
 appearance, and something of the manners, 
 of a gentleman — something which even those 
 neighbours whose kindnesses he had repulsed 
 acknowledged by an involuntary respect. 
 When the half-hour chimed from his clock 
 on the mantel-piece — almost the only article
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 25 
 
 of luxury visible in the house — he closed 
 his book as a labourer gives up his work, 
 pausing only to place a mark in the page, 
 and, taking up his candle, went solemnly up- 
 stairs. He was scarcely of middle size, but 
 so spare and erect that he seemed tall ; thin 
 almost to the point of emaciation, with 
 marked and prominent features, unlike either 
 of his children. Yet, strangely enough, 
 though Horace's face resembled that of his 
 mother, the expression — the spiritual resem- 
 blance — was like this dark and brooding 
 face : possibly, the very pang and keenness 
 of opposition between the father and the son 
 lay in their likeness. Mr. Scarsdale carried 
 his candle up the gloomy staircase, leaving 
 his study in darkness, to exchange his easy 
 dressing-gown for a coat, and prepare him- 
 self for dinner. Dinner for ten years, at 
 least, had been to him a solitary meal : dur- 
 ing all that time his doors had never opened 
 to admit a stranger ; but he never once
 
 26 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 failed in the customary punctilio, or ne- 
 glected to close his book when the time- 
 piece chimed the half-hour. 
 
 Meanwhile, the preparations of the kitchen 
 were coming to a climax. This was the 
 only cheerful place in the house. It had a 
 large old-fashioned chimney, with a settle 
 in its warm corner, and the warmth centered 
 in that recess as in a chamber of light. 
 Bundles of herbs were hung up to dry over 
 the mantel-shelf, where was a little oil-lamp 
 attached to the wall, but rarely lighted — so 
 that the apartment itself, with its broad but 
 high window, its great wooden presses and 
 tables, was but half seen in the wavering 
 light. There stood Peggy, putting on her 
 " dinner cap." Peggy was, at least, as tall 
 as her master, and very little younger. She 
 was his foster-sister, attached all her life 
 to his family, and knew the secret of his re- 
 tirement, if anybody did ; but Peggy was of 
 the faithful type of ancient servants, and gave
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOE. 2 7 
 
 no sign. She had been comely in her youth, 
 and was still fresh-coloured and neat when 
 she pleased — and she did please at dinner- 
 time. She had on a dark stuff gown, with 
 a white soft muslin handkerchief covering her 
 neck under it, as is the fashion with elderly 
 women in the north country ; a great white 
 apron, and the before-mentioned cap, which 
 had pink ribbons in it. Peggy had rather 
 a large face, and features big and strong. 
 Had she been born a lady, with nothing to 
 do, she would have been a strong-minded 
 woman ; but Providence had been kinder to 
 Peggy. As it was, she had her own opinions 
 about most things, and hesitated not at all 
 to express her approbation and disapproba- 
 tion. She was, in short, very much what 
 old servants were, as we have said, a gene- 
 ration or two ago. But one thing was the 
 pride of Peggy's life : to have everything in 
 perfect order for her master's dinner, which 
 was the event of the day to her ; to feel
 
 28 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 convinced that her cookery was as careful 
 and delicate as if she had been attended by 
 a score of scullions ; to do everything indeed, 
 as far as it lay in one pair of active hands 
 and one vigorous brain to do, as perfectly 
 as if a whole establishment of servants waited 
 on the comforts of ^^ the family'^ — was the 
 ambition of Mr. Scarsdale's solitary waiting- 
 woman. If no one else felt the compliment, 
 Peggy was continually flattered and inspirited 
 by her master's evening-coat. 
 
 And it was she, though nearly fifty, who 
 did everything in the house, it was she alone 
 who knew the former history of ^'the family" 
 which she tended so carefully. If ever Mr. 
 Scarsdale unbended his reserved soul for a 
 moment, it was Peggy who received the rare 
 confidence. It was she who had helped the 
 inherent woman to come to feminine life in 
 poor little Susan's neglected education; and 
 it was she, the only busy, cheerful living 
 inhabitant of the house, who now carried
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOE. 29 
 
 those slender silver candlesticks into the dark 
 dining-room, and disturbed Master Horace 
 in his reverie with the gleam of the unex- 
 pected light.
 
 30 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 There were strange elements of incongruity 
 in the scene presented by that dinner-table. 
 Mr. Scarsdale sat at the head of the table, 
 with his son and daughter at the sides, and 
 Peggy behind his chair, erect and stately in 
 his evening dress. All the furniture of the 
 table, the linen, the silver, the china, were 
 of the finest description, and in beautiful 
 order ; and strangely around this little centre 
 of light gloomed the meagre unadorned walls, 
 the homely furniture, the heavy hangings of 
 the cheerless apartment, which, however, 
 scarcely formed a greater contrast to the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 31 
 
 dainty arrangements of the table than Horace 
 Scarsdale's gray morning jacket, and disor- 
 dered hair, did to the formal toilette of his 
 father. Susan sat at Mr. Scarsdale's right 
 hand, in her clean collar. Her dress was 
 very homely ; but Susan, at seventeen, was 
 one of those women who have a natural 
 fitness for their place everywhere, and never 
 fall out of harmony. Perhaps she was not 
 over-sensitive by nature; at all events, she 
 was not distressed by the silence of this 
 meal, at which there was no conversation. 
 It was their invariable custom, and Susan 
 had seen no other family-table to make her 
 aware of the misery of this. Horace was 
 of another temper : everything was an offence 
 to the unhappy lad ; the silence galled almost 
 beyond endurance ; and when his father ad- 
 dressed him as he did always, with formal 
 politeness, upon helping him to anything, 
 the blood rushed to the young man's cheeks 
 with such sudden violence and force, that
 
 32 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 no one, who watched his countenance, could 
 have been surprised to see him answer with 
 some demonstration of passion. But he never 
 did ; he replied, in the stifled voice of rage, 
 with thanks and formal courtesy. Thus they 
 sat like two enemies, forced to civility by 
 the circumstances of sitting at the same 
 table, and together ate, as if it choked 
 them, their unblessed bread. " Shall I help 
 you to some soup ? " asked Mr. Scarsdale, 
 and Horace made a stubborn bow and said, 
 " Thank you.'' Neither spoke the other's 
 name, neither even looked in the other's 
 face — yet, by that strange magic of antagon- 
 ism, which is as strong as love, were aware, 
 instinctively, of every movement, almost 
 of every sentiment, which influenced each 
 other's conduct for the moment. But they 
 had this little duel all to themselves — 
 Susan, dulled by habit, and knowing that 
 it had always been so, observed it not — 
 Peggy, behind her master's chair, saw every-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 33 
 
 thing, and said nothing. Sometimes, indeed, 
 an acute observer might have noticed that 
 the faithful servant set down something on 
 the table with an unnecessary emphasis, which 
 answered, instead of words, to give her im- 
 patience vent, and which her master never 
 failed to notice. Peggy, too, did not hesi- 
 tate to interfere in the business of the 
 table — to remark that Mr. Horace did not 
 eat, and to recommend a particular dish 
 to Miss Susan. Peggy's dialect was rather 
 a remarkable one, and difficult to identify. 
 She was a North-countrywoman by birth, 
 but had lived in many districts of England, 
 and had taken up, with great impartiality 
 and candour of mind, their different manners 
 of speech. But Mr. Scarsdale, who had killed 
 all natural utterance in his children, had no 
 power over Peggy ; he never even tried to 
 restrain her. Her discourse ran on a cheer- 
 ful chorus during the whole solemn period 
 of dinner ; and this it was, more perhaps 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 than anything else, which prevented a posi- 
 tive outbreak between the father and the 
 son. 
 
 *' Young Master Koger, Miss Susan, dear, 
 he's agoin' hoam,'* said Peggy ; " he's got 
 father and mother livin' after all, as I hear 
 say, and none so poorly off neither, for all 
 his goin' off in a despair wi' talk o' 'listin'. 
 Natures a mystery, that^s for certain — to turn 
 off a manchild upon a godfayther, and rather 
 to 'list nor to go hoam ! I dunno know which 
 is worst if ye ask me. Stewed chicken, 
 master, and done perfect, though I say 
 it as should not ; but Tra none so pleased 
 with the peatoes. I'll not have no more 
 from the mill — they're agoin' in the disease. 
 Wine? — this very minute, if I had the 
 keys." 
 
 Mr. Scarsdale brought forth the keys from 
 his pocket ; and, totally regardless of Peggy's 
 monologue, which ran on in further gossip,- 
 broke the silence of the table in his own
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 35 
 
 person — a most portentous and unusual in- 
 cident. He spoke without either addressing 
 or looking at anyone, though it was, in fact, 
 a question which he asked. 
 
 " There is, I believe,'' observed Mr. Scars- 
 dale, *' a spare bedroom in the house?" 
 
 Peggy did not hear for the first moment, 
 being taken aback by the unusual event ; and 
 Susan said, timidly, " Yes, p^a,'' taking the 
 remark to herself. 
 
 ^' The door was open this very day, mas- 
 ter," said Peggy, when she recovered her 
 surprise ; ^* I judge you wur lookin with 
 your own eyes what like it was ; but the 
 good of a spare bedroom in this house I 
 would wish a wise woman to tell to me." 
 
 Mr. Scarsdale made no response, but deli- 
 vered himself of his further intelligence as 
 though he heard her not. " I wish it to be 
 put in order," he said, briefly ; ^^ Colonel 
 Sutherland arrives here on a visit, to-mor- 
 
 row." 
 
 d2
 
 36 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 Even Horace was moved to a momentary 
 start and look of surprise at his father's im- 
 movable countenance, while Susan clasped her 
 hands in spite of herself, and cried — " Oh ! 
 papa, is it my uncle ? '' with the most eager and 
 joyful anxiety suddenly suffusing her face. 
 
 But Susan's voice was drowned in Peggy's 
 more decided accents. " Master Edward ! '' 
 cried Peggy, with a restrained shout of 
 triumph — "• blessings on his honest face ! 
 he never crossed a door but he brought 
 comfort — and as handsome a man as eye 
 could see, and the pleasantest gentleman 
 to speak to that ever said good-morrow. 
 So he's Cornel now I — and well deserves it, 
 I'll be bold to say. Custard, master? — as 
 light as a May breeze — and the very tarts 
 you had in holiday times, when you were 
 a boy. I had a thought of old times, and 
 knew no reason — to be sure, it was for a 
 forewarning of the news ! " 
 
 Mr. Scarsdale thrust the china dish con-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 37 
 
 taining the tarts out of his way with an un- 
 usual expression of impatience. Then, recol- 
 lecting himself, took it up and turned to 
 Horace — that is to say, turned his head to him, 
 without turning his eyes, as was his custom. 
 ** May I have the pleasure of helping you ? " 
 said the father, with a tone of suppressed bitter- 
 ness. Horace put forth his plate immediately ; 
 Peggy's harmless confectionery was evidently 
 vexatious and annoying to Mr. Scarsdale, 
 and his son took pains to express his en- 
 joyment of it, and compliment Peggy on her 
 handiwork. It was as rare an event to hear 
 Horace's voice at dinner as his father's. The 
 approaching event seemed to have loosed 
 the tongues of both. 
 
 This little incident put an end to Peggy's 
 gossip ; she removed the remainder of her 
 tarts with a visible flutter of offence, and 
 set down the wine on the table with double 
 emphasis. When Peggy withdrew, Mr. Scars- 
 dale took a book from his pocket, and set up
 
 38 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 « 
 
 a small folding reading-desk, which had been 
 placed by his hand when the cloth was with- 
 drawn. There he sat, with his glass of purple 
 claret reflected in the shining mahogany, 
 and the two tall, slender candles illuminat- 
 ing a little circle round him, and his head 
 relieved against the dark curtains, which 
 looked almost black in the feeble light. A 
 line of magic drawn round him could not 
 have screened him more completely from the 
 other inmates of the room. Horace thrust 
 his chair away rudely, and leaving it thus 
 at a little distance from the table, went to 
 the window and disappeared behind the cur- 
 tains to look out on the night. Susan stole 
 quietly round to the side of the table, and 
 produced out of her big bag her evening 
 work — an occupation dear to her heart, 
 though it was only a patchwork quilt, the 
 only fancy work that Susan knew ; but before 
 she sat down, withdrew her brother's chair 
 noiselessly to the side of the fire, where it
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 39 
 
 looked human and companionable. Then 
 silence, entire as if these three human crea- 
 tures were statues, fell upon the room, 
 where still Mr. Scarsdale sat at the shining 
 table with its two lines of reflection, with 
 the claret jug at his elbow, and his book 
 supported on the reading-desk, and the glass 
 before him half-full of purple wine. He 
 turned the leaves at regular intervals, and 
 went through them with mechanical gravity ; 
 but his ears were keen to every rustle of the 
 curtain, and with all the virulence of domestic 
 strife the mind of this singular father watched 
 his son. 
 
 As for Susan, her whole mind, as she 
 worked in silence, was full of the wonderful 
 intimation she had just heard. Perhaps by 
 this time you are disposed to think that 
 Susan was very insensible and dull in her 
 feelings not to be miserable about the en- 
 mity which existed between her father and 
 brother; but Susan was accustomed to it.
 
 40 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 and had never seen other fathers and sons, 
 and had seen this go on in the same way so 
 long, that, though she felt it uncomfortable, 
 she entertained no apprehensions about it. 
 As for Horace, if he would remain by himself 
 in the window, looking out upon the black 
 night, Susan could not help it. He was not 
 more miserable there than he would be at the 
 table with his father's austere shadow upon 
 him ; and conversation was tacitly prohibited 
 in those dismal evenings. Susan's was still 
 an unawakened mind ; her brother did not 
 encourage her to think her own influence over 
 him of any importance, nor permitted her to 
 suppose that she had any power to soothe 
 him ; and the trembling, timid, mediatory love, 
 which holds a fearful balance in many a 
 divided household, needs love and softness 
 of some kind, on one side or the other, to 
 keep it alive. Love Susan found none in 
 either of her two nearest relatives. She 
 loved them by nature and custom ; sometimes
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 41 
 
 a terrible impatience of their discord seized 
 her, and a momentary impulse of passion, to 
 do something or say something which should 
 stir this stagnant, stormy calm, or perhaps 
 change the manner of their existence, had 
 possessed her once or twice in her life ; but 
 the tender, anxious, intense love which cruelty 
 cannot kill when it has once developed itself, 
 never can develop itself without the stimulus 
 and creating power of dear love from some 
 one to begin with. Thus it was that Susan 
 beheld with vexation and distress sometimes, 
 but without agony, the unnatural feud beside 
 her, that she took neither side, because either 
 side was equally cold, repulsive, and unaffec- 
 tionate. She did not know life; she knew 
 not even the fictitious life of books. She did 
 not fear when her brother rushed out into the 
 night, as he did often, that Horace would fall 
 into the rude snares of village dissipation, or 
 run in the way of vulgar crime. She was not 
 alarmed for a possible outbreak of violence
 
 ii THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 between the father and son ; such things had 
 never been suggested to her inexperienced 
 mind. 
 
 So she sat in the silence, not resenting 
 it for her own part, content in herself, and 
 making out of that dismal quiet a little 
 circle of domestic tranquillity when she ar- 
 ranged her patches and contrasted her colours, 
 and secretly entertained vague anticipations 
 of unknown pleasure, and a warmth of inex- 
 tinguishable personal happiness, in the very 
 heart of the misery through which her life had 
 grown. 
 
 At eight o'clock to a minute Peggy brought 
 in the tea-tray, and removed the claret-jug, 
 which, though he had only once filled his 
 glass, stood all that time by Mr. Scarsdale's 
 side. Then he took his cup of tea from his 
 daughter's hand without even looking at her, 
 and went on with his reading. Comfort was 
 not to be got out of anything in this house. 
 Horace drank his standing — told his sister
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 43 
 
 it did not rain now, and went off out of the 
 room like a wind. And when Susan looked 
 over her tea-tray to see her father's eyes 
 fixed upon his book, and the door closed 
 upon her brother, and herself compelled to 
 sit formally there till Mr. Scarsdale, sipping 
 it slowly and by intervals, had finished his 
 second cup of tea — a certain forlorn sensa- 
 tion of solitude and discomfort moistened 
 Susan's eyes, and brought an ache to her 
 heart. Then her thoughts went back with 
 a joyful rebound to the promised visitor of 
 to-morrow — her mother's brother, an actual 
 relation, whose love and kindness she had a 
 claim on. She lost herself in wonder what 
 like he would be, and how he would treat 
 his sister's children. To-morrow would solve 
 Susan's long and troubled problem — whether 
 all men were like papa : to-morrow would 
 give her a glimpse into that world of which 
 she knew nothing. Nature was sceptical in 
 Susan's heart : she could not believe that
 
 44 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 papa was the type and impersonation of man. 
 Kindness, unknown and longed for, seemed 
 coming to her in the person of that uncle. 
 She returned to her patches, longing to run 
 into the cheerful kitchen to Peggy, to ask 
 all about the new-comer ; but bound by the 
 customary punctilio of the house to sit there 
 silent and occupied opposite the reading-desk 
 — a bondage which Susan had never felt 
 more oppressive than on this particular night 
 — while Mr. Scarsdale still turned the me- 
 chanical pages, and Horace roamed through 
 the black moor and the falling rain, cursing 
 his fate.
 
 45 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 This same evening, while Susan sat at her 
 patchwork, comforting herself with fancies con- 
 cerning the unknown uncle who was to make 
 so strange and unexpected a break upon their 
 solitude, an old gentleman, carrying his own 
 carpet-bag, went into one of the carriages of 
 the night-trains about to start from Edinburgh 
 for the south. He was not a first-class pas- 
 senger, but the railway people put up in- 
 stinctive fingers to their caps as he addressed 
 them. He was tall, thin, erect — of a sol- 
 dierly bearing, with a grey moustache and 
 gray hair, wearing thin upon the crown. That
 
 46 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 he was a little deaf it was easy to perceive, 
 from the sudden stoop he made when the 
 person sitting next him in the carriage put 
 a question to him unexpectedly ; and that 
 his eyes were touched by years and usage 
 was equally apparent when, unable to find 
 his spectacles, he held his time-bill at arm's 
 length to read it the better. But there was 
 something ingratiating and prepossessing even 
 in the bend which brought his ear to the 
 level of the voice which addressed him, with 
 that instinctive and delicate courtesy which 
 will not treat the most trivial application 
 with carelessness. The good woman who 
 spoke felt flattered — she could not tell how ; 
 it was only to ask when the train would 
 start — a thing which her next neighbour 
 knew no better than she did — but the ready 
 attention, and sincere endeavour which the 
 old soldier instantly made to satisfy her, gave 
 the questioner all the feeling of a personal 
 compliment. When the long line of carriages
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 47 
 
 got under weigh, our friend wrapped himself 
 up in his warm cloak, and leaned back in 
 his unluxurious corner. It was a gloomy, 
 rainy, miserable night ; the little lamp jolting 
 in the roof, and throwing a feeble illumina- 
 tion over four benches full of drowsing night- 
 travellers, was the only light visible in earth 
 and heaven, save when the nocturnal express 
 plunged with ostentatious speed through some 
 little oasis of a station, with faint lamps 
 gleaming through the universal gloom. The 
 old soldier, however, was not easily dis- 
 turbed by the discomforts of his journey ; 
 if there were any special meditatioDS in 
 his mind, he showed no sign of them ; 
 but, with his face half buried in his cloak, 
 kept motionless in his corner — where, in 
 the very midst of the black night, or, to 
 speak more properly, about three o'clock 
 in the winter morning, the guard awaked 
 him. He had reached the end of his 
 journey. The rest of the night he passed
 
 48 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 in the Railway Inn of a country town, 
 from which he set out next morning in a 
 gig, to face the raw February blast for a 
 drive of fourteen miles over an exposed 
 country. Colonel Edward Sutherland, though 
 he had been twenty years in India, had 
 come home still a poor man ; and habits 
 of economy were strong upon the old 
 officer, accustomed all his life, even in 
 the luxurious eastern climate, to spare 
 and restrain unnecessary expenses. He was 
 a solitary man, but he was not a free 
 old bachelor, at liberty to expend his own 
 means on his own pleasure ; wife and 
 many children had been left behind in 
 Indian graves, but he had a boy at Ad- 
 discombe, and one at St. Andrew^s, and 
 consequently not a shilling of his incom^ 
 to sparer so he placed his carpet bag 
 carefully below the seat out of the reach 
 of rain, and tied a travelling-cap over his 
 ears, and muffled his cloak half over his
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 49 
 
 face, and ^o turned his face to the wind 
 for his chilly journey to Lanwoth Moor. 
 
 ^*Ay, sure the wind's in the east — its 
 ever in the east on this road," said the 
 man who drove him. ^^ When t's could 
 as could all the country over, it's double 
 could Lanwoth way. Beg your pardon. 
 Cornel," said the man, touching his cap, 
 " but it's strange for a gen'l'man to goo 
 this gate in ought but a shay." 
 
 *' That is my business, my man," said 
 the traveller, quietly ; ''is it a good 
 road ? " 
 
 ''Bits," said the postboy, shrugging his 
 shoulders ; " and bits the very dyeuce for 
 the poor beasts ; but we never goo this 
 direction. Cornel, not twicest in a year — 
 not all the way. There's Tillington, five 
 mile this side o' Lanwoth, but the road 
 strikes off to the reet — Lord blees you, 
 gen'l'men know better nor to build on a moor- 
 'side. The wind comes down off the fells 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 fit to pull your skin off, Cornel; and 
 ne'er a shelter, and ne'er a tree, but bits 
 o' saplings in the moss. Eain and snow 
 and hail, they sweep a! things before 
 them, rd never set a brute beast, let 
 alone a christian, with its nose to Lan- 
 woth Moor." 
 
 *^ Yet somebody must live there," said 
 the traveller, shivering in spite of him- 
 self within his cloak. 
 
 ^^ Not a soul. Cornel, but the one house," 
 said the driver, eagerly; "not a thatch 
 roof or a clay wall — ^nought but March - 
 main. They say it was built at the rid- 
 ing of the Marches, that's once in the 
 hunderd year, and a' foor strife, foor to 
 part the lands of the twae Allonbys, 
 brothers and foes as should never be seen 
 in God's world. But sure there it stands, 
 
 black as hate, and " — the man made a 
 
 sudden pause, and looked suddenly up in 
 the old officer's face — "Cornel, you're goo- 
 ing there?"
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 51 
 
 " Do you know me, driver ? " said 
 Colonel Sutherland, with a little curiosity. 
 
 The man held down his head with a 
 sly, half-abashed smile, not quite sure whe- 
 ther to pretend knowledge or to confess 
 that he acquired his information from the 
 card on the carpet bag. The result of 
 his deliberations was an equivocal reply. 
 " I know an army genTman when I see 
 him, sir,^' he said, raising his slouching 
 rustic shoulders, and quickening his speech 
 out of its Cumbrian drawl. " My father 
 was an ould 53d, and Cornel Toppe Saw- 
 yer's own man ; and, begging your pardon, 
 Cornel, a blind man could see you had 
 borne command." 
 
 Colonel Sutherland was human ; he was 
 not only human, but a little amiable vanity 
 was one of his foibles. He inclined his ear 
 blandly to this clever compliment, and per- 
 haps thought his driver rather a sensible 
 fellow; but at that moment the blast came 
 
 E 2 
 U. iJt ILL UB.
 
 52 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 wild in their faces — wet, dismal, cold — a 
 wind that cut to the bone, and the chat- 
 tering teeth and shivering frame which 
 owned its influence was not lively enough 
 for conversation. The horse winced, and 
 turned his unfortunate head aside, making 
 a momentary pause. The hills — ^low, gray, 
 and piebald, with their yellow circles of 
 lichen, and brown turrets of rock — were 
 blurred into the dull horizon, which ex- 
 pressed nothing but tliat dismal, penetrat- 
 ing moisture and murderous cold ; and 
 when, by a sudden turn of the road, the 
 hapless traveller found himself suddenly 
 under the shelter of high banks and hedges 
 which intercepted the blast, the sudden con- 
 trast was so grateful that Colonel Suther- 
 land withdrew his cloak from his blue face, 
 and looked about him with a sigh of relief. 
 There was nothing very particular to see ; 
 a common country road descending a slope 
 — for which some necessity of the soil had
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 53 
 
 made a deep cutting expedient — with a vil- 
 lage within sight, and a soft, broad valley ; 
 green fields, dotted with farm-houses and hay- 
 stacks, and leafless trees. The houses were 
 all of the silvery-grey limestone of the dis- 
 trict, and walls of the same stone, more fre- 
 quent than hedge-rows, divided the fields. 
 The old Colonel, drawing breath under the 
 shadow of the bank, thought to himself that 
 under sunshine the prospect would be very 
 pleasant, and was scarcely pleased to find 
 that this, the only comfortable bit of the 
 road, was the one on which their progress 
 was most rapid — and to hear that they were 
 still ten long dreary miles from Marchmain. 
 
 *^ There was talk enow in the country. 
 Cornel," said the driver, resuming his dis- 
 course, " when a strange genTman coom'd to 
 take that 'ouse. Ne'er a sowl in twenty 
 mile but had heard of Marchmain. I reckon 
 you've never been there ? " 
 
 "No," said the traveller, briefly.
 
 54 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 " He's a terrible quiet gen^rman too, as 
 we hear say/' continued the man ; "a great 
 scholard, I do suppose — and ignorant folks 
 have little understanding on the ways of 
 sich. They say strange foot has never crossed 
 the door this nine year. It's a terrible 
 place to bring up children, Cornel, is Lan- 
 woth Moor, and the young genTman and 
 Miss they're kepp as close at hoam as if 
 they were but six-year-olds ; never a gun 
 on young master's shoulder, and the young 
 lady ne'er saw a dance in her born days. 
 Them things come natural to young folks. 
 I'm saying but what I hear: it might be 
 a parcel o' stories for ought I know — but 
 Mr. Scarsdale yonder, he's a very uncom- 
 mon man." 
 
 " Poor children ! " said Colonel Sutherland 
 half aloud, with a sigh. The open air, the 
 rustle of the wind, and the noise of the 
 wheels improved the Colonel's hearing, as it 
 so often does a gentle imperfection of the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 55 
 
 kind. He heard every word of these scat- 
 tered observations, and began to feel more 
 anxiety touching his visit to his morose 
 brother-in-law than he would have thought 
 possible when he started. He knew, it was 
 true, the secret calamity which had driven 
 his sister's husband to the wilderness ; but 
 his own simple, pious, cheery spirit had no 
 understanding of the unwholesome passions 
 of a self-regarding soul. He had blamed 
 himself for years for unconsciously feeling 
 his relative's withdrawal from life to be pu- 
 sillanimous and unworthy of a man ; but 
 nothing had suggested to the practical and 
 innocent-minded soldier a gloomy retreat such 
 as that which began to be revealed to him 
 by hints and suggestions now. He was un- 
 able to conceive how a man with children 
 could make an utter hermit of himself, *^ espe- 
 cially children under their extraordinary cir- 
 cumstances," said the Colonel anxiously, in his 
 own heart. He grew silent, absorbed, trou-
 
 56 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 bled, as thej proceeded on their way. When, 
 immediately after settling himself on his return 
 from India in a home of his own, that home 
 often longed for, to which his sons could 
 come in their holidays, he had volunteered 
 a visit to his brother-in-law — it was the 
 reciprocity of honest affection and kindred 
 which the veteran wished to re-establish be- 
 tween his own family and their nearest 
 relatives. He set out to visit the Scars- 
 dales in the full idea that they too would 
 visit him, and that the father of that 
 household lived like himself in the tender- 
 est friendship with those inheritors of his 
 blood in whom he renewed his own youth ; 
 and with an old man's sentiment of tender 
 gallantry, this old soldier thought of Susan, 
 the only surviving woman of his race, his 
 sister's daughter and representative, his baby- 
 favourite long ago. Perhaps a floating idea 
 of appropriating this only woman of the 
 house had dawned upon his fatherly mind
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 57 
 
 with other matters — for the Addiscombe cadet 
 was a year older than Susan, and boys are 
 so likely to marry when they go to India. 
 At all events, it was a sunny, simple pic- 
 ture of family kindness and comfort which 
 had presented itself to the honest eyes of 
 the old soldier when he set out upon his 
 journey. This prospect began to cloud over 
 sadly now ; he could not understand nor 
 explain these singular circumstances, which 
 must be facts, and visible to the common 
 eye. A lonely house which no one else 
 would live in, a seclusion which no stranger 
 ever broke, young people shut out from the 
 society of their fellows, and gloom and mys- 
 tery upon the whole house ! The Colonel 
 wrapt his face once more in his cloak and 
 subsided into deafness and silence, ponder- 
 ing painfully in his own mind what might 
 be required of himself under such unex- 
 pected circumstances, and what he could 
 do for the relief of Horace and Susan,
 
 58 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 whom in his kind heart he fondly called 
 " the children.'' These deliberations had 
 come to no satisfactory result, when, round- 
 ing a corner of the road, the bare extent 
 of Lanwoth Moor became suddenly visible, 
 stretching to the fells, and the sky to the 
 horizon, blurred with rain, where it was 
 scarcely possible to tell which was hill and 
 which was cloud. 
 
 They drove along in silence, a long half 
 mile, seeing nothing but that same blank 
 expanse traversed by the long, deep cut- 
 tings of an attempted drainage, until at last 
 the driver silently, with a certain sympathy 
 for the silence of his companion, pointed out 
 the solitary walls rising on the edge of the 
 moor. The house was a square, common- 
 place erection of two stories, with no re- 
 markable feature, but that one side was 
 raised a story higher than the other, and 
 stood up square and gray, like the little 
 distinguishing tower of an Italian house.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 59 
 
 Like — yet how unlike ! — the rough, gray 
 limestone, unpolished and savage, the deep 
 walls into which those small windows sank 
 like cavernous eyes, the cold blue slated 
 roof, the cold door coming bare out upon 
 the path, without a morsel of garden or 
 any enclosure, all enclosed and backed by 
 that monotonous mystery of moor, the dis- 
 tant spectral hills, the clouds that carried 
 them out in ghostly ranges, the wind and 
 the rain so blended together that they 
 made but one — and they went to the heart 
 with a chill indescribable, and not to be 
 resisted. 
 
 Colonel Sutherland looked upon all this 
 with a sensation of anguish. It was in- 
 comprehensible to him. That he should 
 find his relatives here, and not in the cheerful 
 village house he had expected, overpowered 
 him with complete wonder. He ceased even 
 to be indignant at the father who sacri- 
 ficed wilfully the happiness of his children
 
 60 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 — he suspended his judgment till he should 
 hear what extraordinary circumstances had 
 fixed them thus. In his unsuspecting heart 
 he felt certain that something which he 
 did not know must have produced this 
 exaggerated and unnatural retirement. The 
 sudden impression produced upon him by 
 the sight of this house made his cheek pale, 
 and added a nervous trembling to the shiver 
 of the cold ; he got down, stumbling at the 
 door, which the driver watched with undis- 
 guised curiosity, as if something unnatural 
 and portentous was about to make its appear- 
 ance — and, in his emotion, let the money 
 fall out of the purse which he took out 
 to pay his conductor. While he stooped to 
 pick it up, the door opened hastily, and 
 Peggy rushed forth and seized the carpet-bag. 
 At sight of her the Colonel recovered a little 
 from his confusion and tremor. 
 
 " Thank God ! " he exclaimed fervently, 
 ** there is some sunshine here at last."
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 61 
 
 The driver opened his eyes somewhat dis- 
 appointed. Peggy was not known at the 
 country town, though Mr. Scarsdale's extra- 
 ordinary life had been heard of there ; and 
 the vigorous servant-woman, who began to 
 scold forthwith between the exclamations of 
 her joyful recognition, reduced the mysterious 
 house to matter-of-fact. The man drove off, 
 not knowing what to make of it ; and fearing 
 to hear of some new misfortune, with his 
 honest heart beating with grief, sympathy, 
 and anxiety to mend the position of his 
 friends, Colonel Sutherland, after twenty 
 years' absence, entered at his brother-in-law's 
 inhospitable door.
 
 62 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The kitchen of Marchmain was built out from 
 the house, and was a long and somewhat 
 narrow apartment, quite unlike the rest of 
 the building. People said it had been a cot- 
 tage standing on the spot before this house 
 was built, and arbitrarily connected with it 
 — and the unceiled roof and large old-fa- 
 shioned chimney favoured the notion. The 
 mud or brick floor had been, however, re- 
 placed by a deal one ; and the roof was now 
 covered, instead of thatch, with the less pic- 
 turesque but safer slates, which gave so cold 
 an aspect to the house. Within, two large
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 63 
 
 articles of furniture filled up half the space, 
 though furniture these fixed encumbrances 
 could scarcely be called. One was a pro- 
 digious press, in which Peggy kept her house- 
 hold linen — the other, a great square box with 
 a sloping lid, which contained the immediate 
 supply of coals, brought from the coal cellar 
 outside. Beneath the window — which was 
 large but high, so that Peggy, though she 
 was tall, could do no more than look out, and 
 Susan could only reach up to it on tiptoe — 
 stood a large deal table, clean to the utmost 
 extent of cleanliness, where Peggy did her 
 ironing — (Peggy was punctilious in her con- 
 cerns, and kept everything in its proper 
 place) — another table in quite another quarter 
 was appropriated to the cooking — and a third, 
 a small round one, stood aside in a comer 
 to be lifted in fi^ont of the fireplace at nights 
 when Peggy's work was over, beside the big 
 old heavy elbow-chair, where Peggy took an 
 evening nap and sipped a fourth cup of tea.
 
 64 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 In this apartment, in the morning of the 
 same day, while Colonel Sutherland drove 
 through the rain, Susan, excited, happy, and 
 restless, fluttered round Peggy at her work. 
 Susan had in her hand the front of one of 
 Master Horace's new shirts, which she pre- 
 tended to be stitching — but everybody knows 
 that stitching is a delicate operation, and 
 not to be performed on foot, or in a state 
 of restlessness. This was the time of the 
 day when Susan was most free to follow her 
 own desires. Horace was out, and Mr. Scars- 
 dale in his study. When this fortunate con- 
 currence of circumstances was secured, Susan 
 came lightly out of the dull dining-room to 
 the bright kitchen, the only place in the 
 house which had an appearance or sentiment 
 of home. Peggy was better company for 
 Susan than a thousand philosophers ; she 
 laughed, she sang, she danced about, she 
 looked like a young living creature, as she 
 was, in Peggy's womanly presence. Her
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 65 
 
 father and her brother were rather hard 
 examples of the rule of man to Susan. 
 Horace exacted endless sympathy — sympathy 
 more bitter than it was in her to bestow — 
 and scorned it when it was given ; but Peggy 
 cherished the girl with an all-indulgent ten- 
 derness — a motherly, uursely, homely love, 
 advising, and interfering, and fretting, which 
 kept her heart and her youth alive. But 
 something more than usual occupied their 
 thoughts to-day. 
 
 " Ay, honey — as if it was yesterday," 
 said Peggy. " E'c'lect him ! — he was not 
 the young man to be forgot, I can tell 
 you! Many a handsome lady would have 
 gone over seas to follow the young sol- 
 dier. He was just the innocentest, brav- 
 est, kindest man I ever looked in the 
 eyer 
 
 **Why in the eye?" said Susan, who was 
 a little matter-of-fact, and liked to under- 
 stand a new phrase. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 " Eh, child ! his heart was in it ! " cried 
 Peggy. "When your mamma was alive, 
 she was a dear, blessed creature, and kept 
 religion and comfort in the house; but 
 when Mr. Edward came, it was pleasure 
 to be about, and the world was changed. 
 He never arguified with a soul, nor set 
 up his opinions, nor took slights nor offences, 
 nor a single mortal thing that a^ persons 
 beside did. He was just right himself and 
 happy himself without thinking upon% and 
 was a happiness to be nigh night and day. 
 The master, so far as I can think, had 
 never a cross word with Mr. Edward. 
 Think you any other man would ever 
 have come, or been let come, to this 
 house ? '' 
 
 "No, indeed," said Susan, gravely; "it 
 is very strange. I wonder how he thought 
 of it at all; one would suppose he must 
 like us, Peggy, to come here — though I don't 
 see how that can be either. Hasn't he been 
 in India all our lives ? "
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 67' 
 
 " Little matter for that ; but you under- 
 stand nothing about friends' feelings ; and 
 how should you, poor forlorn infant ! " said 
 Peggy. ** He likes you, Til warrant ; 
 and he's held you on his knee, Miss 
 Susan — and besides, for your mamma's 
 sake." 
 
 "To be sure, for mamma's sake," said 
 Susan, satisfied; "but surely, other people, 
 when she knew so many, must have loved 
 mamma. Peggy, what can make papa so 
 stiff and hard to strangers, and putting every- 
 body out of the house, and never letting 
 us make any friends — what do you think 
 it can be ? " 
 
 Peggy drew a long breath, which seemed 
 to end in some inward words, said for her 
 own private relief and satisfaction. 
 
 "Your papa has his own reasons. Miss 
 Susan, and that's neither for you nor me ; 
 but you see he lets Mr. Edward come. Who 
 can tell how many more? — for Mr. Edward 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 has the tongue of a nightingale, and steals 
 folks's hearts." 
 
 "I wish he would sing into papa's," 
 said Susan, laughing; "there's never any 
 music at Marchmain, Peggy. Oh, I wonder 
 when Uncle Edward will come ; look out 
 and see if there's anybody in the road ; 
 such a morning! and Horace will come in 
 all muddy and sulky, and not get good- 
 tempered the whole of the day. Peggy," 
 cried Susan, jumping down from the chair 
 she had mounted to look out, "are boys 
 always so dreadfully cross ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Susan, they're little to be 
 trusted," said Peggy, with a grave face of 
 wisdom, prudently refraining from blaming 
 Horace, while she inculcated the moral les- 
 sons supposed to be most advantageous to 
 feminine youth. 
 
 Susan shrugged her shoulders with a pri- 
 vate internal reflection, which perhaps meant, 
 "I should like to judge for myself;" but
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 69 
 
 which said, " I am very glad, then, that we 
 see so little of them." For people don't 
 permit themselves to be very ingenuous, 
 even in their thoughts — at least women and 
 young girls do not. " I suppose, then," she 
 said very demurely aloud, ''there never was 
 but one Uncle Edward in the whole world, 
 
 Peggy-" 
 
 *' Eh, honey ! if there were a hunderd the 
 world would be saved, like the Lord said to 
 Abraham," cried Peggy. " My heart jumped 
 when the master said it last night. I said 
 to myself, * a good man's coming, and a 
 blessing will come with him.' If I saw you 
 out of this, you two unfortunate things, I 
 would be content to go foot foremost the 
 same day to Lanwoth Church." 
 
 " That would be cheerful and pleasant 
 for us, I am sure," cried Susan ; " I won- 
 der how you dare say such a thing, Peggy 
 — all about your own nonsense, and not a 
 word of Uncle Edward ! But, I say, Peggy
 
 70 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 — oh ! tell me — Uncle Edward's not a young 
 man ? " 
 
 Peggy took time to consider, pausing in 
 her work for the purpose, with her hands 
 covered with flour — for it was baking day. 
 ** I'm bound to allow he cannot be young 
 — nay, it's fifteen years since he was home," 
 cried Peggy, with a sigh. '^ Time flies ! — 
 it was the very same year. Miss Susan, that 
 your mamma died." 
 
 Susan paused with a question on her lips, 
 awed by these last words ; for she under- 
 stood dimly that it was in some season of 
 extreme and mysterious calamity that her 
 mother's life concluded. She could not have 
 told how this impression had settled on her 
 mind, but there it certainly was. 
 
 " Peggy," she said suddenly, putting into 
 words the suggestion of the moment, "was 
 it mamma's death that made papa so — 
 so — " — Susan hesitated for a word, and at 
 last, with a natural hypocrisy, substituted
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 71 
 
 one that did not express her meaning for a 
 less dutiful term — "so sad?" 
 
 Peggy made no audible answer, but she 
 screwed her lips into a tight round circle, 
 through which came an invisible, inarticu- 
 late " No," most emphatic and unmistakable 
 though unpronounced, shaking her head vio- 
 lently as she did so. Susan was first frigh- 
 tened, then amused, at the extraordinary pan- 
 tomime. 
 
 " Don't shake your head off, however," she 
 cried, laughing. " But about Uncle Edward 
 — you never will keep to the point, you trou- 
 blesome Peggy ! If he is an old man, what 
 is he ? Has he got any children ? — where 
 does he live? — do you know anything about 
 him at all ? " 
 
 "Not a mortal thing," said Peggy, re- 
 lieving herself by speaking loud. " Who 
 can hear anything here, I would like to 
 know ? Not of my own brother, Miss Susan, 
 let alone your mamma's. But he's coming.
 
 72 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 bless him ! Vm strong in the hope nature 
 will come with him, and something will be 
 done for you two." 
 
 " Peggy, you never spoke of us two before 
 like that,*' said Susan. " Has anything hap- 
 pened to us that we don't know ? " 
 
 "Oh, bless the innocent! — what do you 
 know ? '' cried Peggy. " If I never said it 
 before, it was because I saw no hope; but 
 IVe told your papa my mind, and that I 
 can tell you. Miss Susan ; and Til tell it to 
 Mr. Edward, if Providence spares me, be- 
 fore he's been twelve hours in this unlucky 
 house ! " 
 
 "You are very odd to-day, Peggy," said 
 Susan, looking at her with curiosity. " But I 
 am sure if Uncle Edward gets us permission 
 to see people sometimes, I should be very glad 
 — but then, we have affronted everybody," 
 added Susan, with a little shrug of her 
 shoulders. "However, he is coming him- 
 self — that is the great matter. Peggy,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 73 
 
 what will you have ready if he comes early ? 
 He cannot wait all the time till dinner ! 
 How foolish I was, never to think of it 
 before ! What shall we do ? '* 
 
 "Well have in the lunch, Miss Susan, 
 and as good a lunch as anybody need wish 
 for," said Peggy, in triumph. "Is that all 
 the good Peggy is for, to think upon things 
 at the last moment ? — for as sure as Tm 
 living, there*s a wheel upon the big stones 
 in the road ! " 
 
 Susan sprang up upon the chair, leaped 
 down again, her colour rising, her heart 
 beating. Then she ran breathless towards 
 the door — then paused. " Oh, Peggy ! who 
 must tell papa ? " she cried, in great ex- 
 citement and trepidation. Peggy, without 
 pausing to answer her question, rushed past 
 her and through the hall, to throw the 
 door open and seize upon the carpet-bag, 
 as before related. Peggy was not afraid 
 of papa, and her shriek of joy and wel'
 
 74 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 • 
 
 come, ^* Eyeh, Master Edward ! " penetrated 
 even through the closed windows and doors 
 of the study, where Mr. Scarsdale sat as 
 usual, while Susan stood in the hall, eagerly- 
 bending forward to see the newcomer, and 
 speculating with herself whether it was safe 
 to secure herself the pleasure of her uncle's 
 first greeting, without the dreadful opera- 
 tion of telling papa. The issue was, a 
 sudden spring forward on the part of the 
 excited girl, while her uncle — sad, op- 
 pressed, and wondering — stooped his deaf 
 ear to Peggy, and tremulously bent over 
 his carpet-bag. Susan had no sooner 
 seen his face than the long restrained heart 
 yearned within her — her mother's brother 
 — somebody who loved them ! She sprang 
 forward and clasped his arm with both her 
 hands, and fell a-crying, poor child, as girls 
 use, and looked up in his face, all- con- 
 quering in her wistfulness, and her smiles, 
 and her tears. The old man caught ber
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 75 
 
 in his arms, and read her face as if it 
 had been a picture, with eager wet eyes 
 that, after a moment, could scarcely tell 
 what they gazed on. In that moment the 
 poor lonely girl woke up, by dint of finding 
 it, to discover the love that had been want- 
 ing, the immeasurable lack of her young life. 
 And the old soldier took his sister^s child 
 — the only woman of the family — a new, 
 tender, delicate tie, almost more touching 
 and intimate than any other, into his fa- 
 therly old heart; and, on the instant, took 
 courage about all the unknown troubles of 
 the mysterious house, and was at home and 
 himself again. They went in together to 
 the dull dining-room, where Susan had no 
 desire to remember that papa had not been 
 told, and grew friends in half a minute, 
 saying nothing but the common words that 
 every stranger at the end of a journey 
 hears from his entertainers. But the " Oh, 
 Uncle, I am so glad you are come ! '' —
 
 76 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 the glistening eyes — the joyful young voice 
 — ^the little figure fluttering about him, un- 
 able to rest for anxiety that he should 
 rest, and have exactly what he wanted — 
 spoke more eloquently than volumes of fine 
 words. And Susan's face had already al- 
 most reconciled Uncle Edward to the sa- 
 vage solitude of Marchmain, and the dreary 
 blank of Lanwoth Moor.
 
 77 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 When Colonel Sutherland had been estab- 
 lished for nearly half-an-hour in the an- 
 gular arm-chair, which was the most 
 luxurious seat this room aflforded, where he 
 sat holding Susan's hand and keeping her 
 by his side, it suddenly occurred to him 
 that he had forgotten the other members 
 of the family in his satisfaction with his 
 new-found niece. " But, my dear child, 
 your father ? " he said, hastily ; "he ex- 
 pected me, did he not? — he is surely at 
 home." 
 
 And instantly Susan's countenance fell.
 
 78 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 The old Colonel had begun to recover his 
 spirits about his brother-in-law's house. He 
 saw Susan in blooming health, affectionate, 
 frank, and cheerful, and he began, with 
 natural hopefulness, to impute the dismal 
 house and solitary life to some caprice, 
 and to imagine to himself a loving, united 
 family, who were society enough to them- 
 selves. But it was impossible to mistake 
 the cloud which fell instantly upon Susan's 
 face. *^ Oh ! — I ought to have told papa," 
 she said, with a hesitation and reluctance 
 in her voice which went to her uncle's 
 heart. He drew her still closer to him, 
 and looked in her face anxiously. But 
 Susan knew nothing of that domestic mar- 
 tyrdom which conceals and smiles on the 
 family skeleton. She was not aware how 
 great a skeleton it was — it was simply a 
 thing of course, to her inexperienced spirit. 
 "I should think he must have heard — 
 I should think Peggy must have told him,"
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 79 
 
 said Susan. " He is not so angry when 
 Peggy goes into the study as when I go ; 
 but if you like, I will go and tell him, 
 uncle, now." 
 
 " Never mind, Susan. I daresay your 
 father will come when he chooses. A deaf 
 man would have heard Peggy's shout," said 
 Colonel Sutherland ; ^^and Horace — was there 
 nobody but my little girl who came to see 
 the old uncle — is your brother in the study 
 too ? " 
 
 " In the study ! — he would as soon go 
 down the well or up the chimney," said 
 Susan, with a very short and half-fright- 
 ened laugh. *' No, uncle — Horace is in 
 Faneleigh Woods, or on the Moor. He never 
 minds the weather. I do think at this 
 time of the year he gets wet through 
 three times a-week ; but I am sure Horace 
 will be very glad to see you — as glad as 
 I was — oh, I am quite sure I " 
 
 This expression of conviction, made with
 
 80 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 some heat and anxiety, had a very differ- 
 ent effect from that which Susan intended 
 — it revealed to the Colonel very plainly 
 that Susan was anything but quite sure of 
 Horace's sentiment; and, perhaps. Colonel 
 Sutherland's first sensation thereupon was 
 offence and indignation; and his personal 
 dignity suffered a momentary mortification, 
 from the idea that he had volunteered a 
 visit which was welcome to nobody but 
 this little girl. This personal feeling, how- 
 ever, was but momentary. A deeper pain 
 returned to his heart; he looked anxiously 
 into Susan's blue eyes to find out, if pos- 
 sible, how and why this unnatural state of 
 things existed; or, failing that, what effect 
 upon her the loneliness and the hardness 
 of her life had made. But there were no 
 mysteries in those eyes of Susan's — her 
 girlish, undisturbed heart, clouded by a little 
 terror of her father, which took no deeper 
 form than that of discomfort and uneasi-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 81 
 
 ness, gleamed in them with otherwise un- 
 mingled joy and satisfaction. All the na- 
 tural filial love hitherto denied her had 
 sprung to life in a moment in Susan^s heart. 
 She looked at her uncle with an affectionate 
 pride, which made her breast swell and as- 
 tonished herself. To stand by his side, to 
 feel her hand held in his kind hand, to 
 know by intuition that there was interest 
 for all her little affairs, and sympathy for 
 all her unregarded troubles in this new 
 friend, was a new life to Susan. She felt 
 encouraged and emboldened without know- 
 ing how, as she appropriated, involun- 
 tarily, his affection, his aid, his succour. 
 She kept naming him over and over 
 within herself, with a secret inexplainable 
 swell of pride and comfort. Susan had 
 never been disposed before to use the 
 possessive pronoun in regard to anything 
 more important than pin-cushions and scis- 
 sors ; and now to say, " My uncle ! " was 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 something as new as pleasant. But not- 
 withstanding that reference to her father 
 curbed her tongue and brought a shade 
 of restraint over her thoughts in spite of 
 herself; and Uncle Edward's affectionate 
 questions flagged — he too had something 
 else to think of — the change was apparent 
 to both; and Susan, for the first time in 
 her life, moved to exert herself to seek 
 a less unfortunate subject, immediately re- 
 membered that her uncle must want re- 
 freshment, and proposed to call Peggy to 
 bring in his luncheon. 
 
 ** Suppose we ring," said Colonel Suther- 
 land, putting out his hand with a smile to 
 the unused bell-rope. 
 
 Susan started with terror to prevent 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, uncle, we never ring I " she cried, 
 in an alarmed tone. 
 
 The sound of that bell tinkling through 
 the house might produce Susan could not
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 83 
 
 tell what tragedy in the study. She put 
 out her trembling hand and caught at her 
 uncle's to stop his intended action. When 
 she did so, to Susan's great surprise the 
 Colonel, dropping the bell, turned round 
 upon her suddenly, and put his arm round 
 her. 
 
 " My poor child ! " he exclaimed, with 
 some sudden access of feeling, scarcely in- 
 telligible to Susan, and with tears in his 
 eyes. 
 
 She did not know what it meant, and 
 yet she was very much inclined to cry 
 too. 
 
 At this moment fortunately Peggy came 
 in unsummoned, bringing the tray, but not 
 the dainty dish which her care had pre- 
 pared for Mr. Edward. When she set it 
 down upon the table, she addressed the 
 visitor with the tone and manner of one 
 who has something disagreeable to say. 
 
 "The master's in his study, Mr. Ed- 
 
 g2
 
 84 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 ward: lie never comes out on't at this 
 hour of the day. Will you please to step 
 athwart the hall, and see him there ? " 
 
 '^ Certainly/' said Colonel Sutherland, 
 and rose at once, releasing Susan, who 
 could not help feeling a little tremor for 
 the consequences of his visit to her father. 
 The old Colonel himself stepped solemnly, 
 with a certain melancholy in his whole 
 figure and bearing, as he went out of the 
 room. It went to his heart to see the 
 clouded face with which Susan responded 
 to his mention of her father, and he went 
 to meet him forgetting even the discour- 
 tesy which did not come to meet him — op- 
 pressed, and grieved, and wondering. When 
 he had closed the door behind him he 
 laid his arm on Peggy's arm, detaining 
 her. 
 
 " What does it all mean ? " he asked, 
 with a troubled face, and stooped his deaf 
 ear to Peggy's voice.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 85 
 
 *^ What does't mean ? Mischief and 
 the devil! — and good reason he has to be 
 proud of his handiwork/' cried Peggy, ve- 
 hemently, though in a whisper ; " and oh, 
 Mr. Edward ! before the two unfortunate 
 things are killed and murdered, save him 
 from himself! " 
 
 Perhaps Colonel Sutherland did not per- 
 fectly hear this strange communication; he 
 nodded and went on after her, looking 
 puzzled and distressed — he was not of an 
 intrusive or interfering nature. He had no 
 idea of thrusting into any man's secrets, 
 with the view of doing him good. And 
 then, what influence had he, whom after 
 twenty years absence his host would not 
 come to meet. So he went across the 
 hall, stooping his lofty grizzled head, and 
 with a great confusion of grieved thoughts 
 in his mind — while Susan, left behind, went 
 to the window to look for Horace, and 
 stirred the fire into a flame, and placed
 
 86 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 the tray and the arm-chair in the most 
 comfortahle position possible, and trembled 
 a little, in a vague idea that Uncle Ed- 
 ward might somehow dissolve in that 
 awful study, or come out a different 
 man. » 
 
 In the study, just risen up from his chair, 
 Mr. Scarsdale received his visitor ; he scarcely 
 made a step forward to meet him, but he 
 shook him coldly by the hand. They stood 
 there together, two strangely different men 
 — the recluse standing bolt upright, with 
 his wide dressing gown falling off from his 
 spare figure, and his book open on the 
 table — cold, self-absorbed, in a passion of 
 unnatural stillness ; the soldier, with his 
 tall stooping figure, his deaf ear bending 
 with that benign and kind humility which 
 made the infirmity a grace, and his anxious 
 countenance afraid to lose a word of any- 
 thing that might be said to him. Mr. 
 Scarsdale's greetings were few and hurried ;
 
 TJE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 87 
 
 he asked when he returned, and how he 
 had travelled, and then, reaching a chair 
 which happened to be within arm's length, 
 begged that Colonel Sutherland would sit 
 down, in a tone which plainly signified that 
 the request itself was a favour. Colonel 
 Sutherland did so, looking at him with a 
 strange wistfulness — and then, reseating him- 
 self, his host spoke. 
 
 ^* Since you have come to Marchmain, I 
 have something to say to you at the com- 
 mencement of what I suppose you will 
 call our renewed intercourse. I will deal 
 with you frankly. I should not have ven- 
 tured to invite, if you had left it to me, 
 a man of your tastes and feelings here." 
 
 "I can guess as much," said Colonel Suther- 
 land, with a passing, angry blush. 
 
 " I should not," said Mr. Scarsdale, coldly ; 
 "because ray establishment is very limited. 
 I live in great seclusion, and I remember 
 that you &re a lover of society, and what
 
 88 THE HOUSE ON THE MOQR. 
 
 is called cheerfulness. But you have come, 
 and yours is th^ responsibility if our life 
 oppresses you. And one thing I would say ; 
 I do not fear your discretion, having warned 
 you. You are aware of the very peculiar 
 circumstances under which I stand — ^you 
 know, in short, the blight of my life. Pshaw ! 
 why speak of it, or give it a name? — you 
 know, of course, thanks to your sister's frank- 
 ness, exactly what I mean. Now this, I 
 beg you to observe, is totally unknown to 
 my children : my son is not aware of his ad- 
 vantage over his father. I do not mean 
 that he shall be, until," added Mr. Scars- 
 dale, with a ghastly smile, "until the time 
 of his triumph approaches ; but, in the mean- 
 time, I have to request that you will not 
 think of extending to these young people 
 a confidence which I do not wish them to 
 possess." 
 
 ' A flood of painful feelings rose during 
 this speech over the Coloners face*, of which
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 89 
 
 kindness misconstrued and personal dignity 
 wounded were the least and lightest. He 
 looked with an amazed, grieved, uncompre- 
 hending wonder in the face of his brother- 
 in-law, and was silent for a few minutes, 
 while the first pangs of indignant pain were 
 subsiding, though he involuntarily rose to 
 his feet, an action which Mr. Scarsdale fol- 
 lowed. Perhaps this last rudeness might 
 have roused the warlike blood of the old 
 soldier, had not his eye at the moment lighted 
 upon that portrait in the shadow of the cur- 
 tain. That touch of old love and sorrow 
 moved him in the midst of his resentment 
 almost to tears. He had to pause before he 
 could speak as calmly as he wished to speak. 
 "I have never thought it my duty," 
 said Colonel Sutherland, " to interfere in 
 any man's house : I will not begin in yours 
 — nor would I remain in it even for a 
 night, but for recollections which neither 
 you nor I can efface by any measure of
 
 90 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 hard words. But, for heaven's sake, Eohert 
 Scarsdale, why is all this ? — why do you 
 meet me after this extraordinary fashion ? 
 — why do you shut yourself out from hu- 
 man sympathy ? — why refuse yourself the 
 comfort of your own children ? As for 
 myself, I am neither an enemy nor a 
 stranger. Old ties and kindness have never 
 died out of my recollection through all the 
 sorrows and labours of my life, which have 
 not been few. Why have they passed out 
 of yours ? We are relations — not anta- 
 gonists/' 
 
 *'We were relatives," said Mr. Scarsdale, 
 stiffly. 
 
 " Were! And my dear sister — your good 
 wife — do you count her, then, only among 
 the things that were f " 
 
 " I beg your pardon : a man is generally 
 the best judge of the goodness of his wife ; 
 but there is no question at present of the 
 virtues of the late Mrs. Scarsdale," said
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 91 
 
 the recluse. "I can see no benefit to re- 
 sult from discussing past circumstances. 
 You are welcome to my house, such as it 
 is ; but, knowing my position as you do, I 
 think myself quite justified in requesting 
 your silence on this matter. It was not 
 my will, certainly, which made you aware 
 of it at first." 
 
 Colonel Sutherland stood before his brother- 
 in-law in a flush of unusual and inexpres- 
 sible passion. He could not give utterance 
 to the indignant, mortified, impatient sur- 
 prise with which he heard these words. 
 But what can any one say ? It is hard 
 for the voice of kindred to praise a poor 
 woman — even when she is dead — while her 
 husband looks on blankly, and is the best 
 judge whether his wife has been a good 
 wife or not. So he is, of course : there- 
 fore, be silent, brother of the dead — say 
 nothing about her — she is judged elsewhere, 
 and beyond human criticism now. But the
 
 92 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 old soldier stood listening, with the pang 
 of wonder, almost stronger than that of 
 anger and indignation, at his heart. He 
 was so much surprised, that he was speech- 
 less. This unexpected sentiment shook him 
 suddenly in his supposed position, and turned 
 all his previous ideas into folly. He was 
 not the brother of a wife beloved, the uncle 
 of children who cherished their mother's 
 memory, but an intruder, presuming upon 
 a past relationship. A flush of deep mor- 
 tification came upon his face : he made a 
 stately, ceremonious bow to his ungracious 
 host — 
 
 " In that case — as things are," stammered 
 the Colonel, " I will make no encroachments 
 upon your hospitality. Pray, don't say 
 anything — it is unnecessary. I — I shall 
 take care to pay due respect to your de- 
 sires so far as your children are concerned. 
 In short, I beg you to understand that 
 your secret is, and has always been, with
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 93 
 
 me as though I knew it not; but/^ said 
 Colonel Sutherland, pausing in his haste, and 
 steadying his voice, " it was, as you are 
 well enough aware, known to half, at least, 
 of your former friends, and that by no — 
 no indiscretion on the part of — my sister 
 — and it is open at this day, or any day, 
 to the most indifferent stranger who chooses 
 to pay a fee at Doctors' Commons. What 
 you can mean, in these circumstances, by 
 a precaution so — by such precautions, I 
 cannot tell. Is it not better your son 
 should learn this from his father, than 
 from any ill-disposed companion whom the 
 young man may pick up ? But that is 
 certainly not my business. I presume that 
 I may, without objection on your part, see 
 my niece and nephew sometimes during the 
 few days 1 remain in the nearest village ? 
 The children must acknowledge a certain 
 relationship with their mother's brother." 
 ^' Oh ! " said Mr. Scarsdale, with a slight
 
 94 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 blush of shame on his cheek, " I shall be 
 glad to have you remain here." 
 
 Gladl the word was out of keeping en- 
 tirely with his aspect and that of the scene ; 
 it looked like a piece of mockery. Colonel 
 Sutherland bowed again with still more 
 ceremony. 
 
 ^* It is too late," he said, quietly. 
 
 " Your room is prepared — you have been 
 expected," said Scarsdale, awaking, not 
 only to the reproach of sending a stran- 
 ger away, which, distant as he was from 
 the opinions of the world, touched him still, 
 but to the vexation of being resisted. " My 
 daughter, so far as looks can express it, has 
 been expecting you eagerly. I beg you to re- 
 consider your decision — nay, I entreat, I in- 
 sist that you should remain." 
 
 " Too late for that," said the Colonel, 
 with a smile and a bow ; *^ but I will not 
 detain you from your studies. Susan, I 
 believe, has some refreshment ready for her
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 95 
 
 old uncle. I will not carry a punctilio of 
 welcome so far as not to break bread in your 
 house ; but I will bid you now, and finally, 
 good-bye." 
 
 So saying, the old soldier made a superb 
 bow, and, without lifting his eyes again 
 to his churlish host to see how he took 
 it, turned round on his heel and left the 
 room. 
 
 In the hall he encountered Peggy wait- 
 ing for him, who, familiar in her anxiety, 
 laid her hand upon his sleeve, and stretched 
 up on tiptoe to whisper her anxious interroga- 
 tion into the Colonel's deaf ear. He waved 
 his hand to her with an assumed carelessness, 
 which he was far from feeling. 
 
 " We should not 'gree, Peggy, if I stayed 
 a day," he said, familiarly, and with a smile. 
 " You must direct me to the next village, 
 where I can get a bed and a dinner— for I 
 will not leave the quarter till I know my 
 sister's bairns."
 
 96 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 " But ye'll not forsake them ; say youll 
 never go away till he promises their 
 rights/' cried Peggy, in a whispered 
 shriek. 
 
 The Colonel shook his head, and put her 
 aside with his hand. 
 
 " If I can do anything for them, I will," 
 he said briefly ; and so went into the din- 
 ing-room, where Susan waited, trembling for 
 the issue of this scene: while Peggy, re- 
 tiring to her kitchen in fierce disappoint- 
 ment and mortification, threw her apron 
 over her head and wept a sudden torrent 
 of hot tears; then comforting herself, re- 
 peated over his words, wiped her tears, and 
 carried in the luncheon. She would not 
 lose faith in her favourite with so short a 
 trial. Daylight, good sense, common affec- 
 tion did but need to breathe into this 
 morbid house, and all might yet be 
 right. 
 
 #►
 
 97 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 When Peggy re-entered the dining-room, 
 she found poor Susan struggling to restrain 
 the sudden sobs of her distress and disap- 
 pointment in finding that her uncle was not 
 to remain at Marchmain. He bad not 
 meant to tell her at once, and even now 
 he told her cheerfully, and without offence, 
 as if he had changed his intention for 
 his own convenience solely. He had just 
 opened the carpet-bag, of which he had 
 been so careful on the journey, and was 
 taking out a parcel very carefully and ela- 
 borately packed up, which he proceeded 
 at once to uncover. Susan looked on, a 
 
 VOL. I. "^ H
 
 98 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 little curious, but not much interested; 
 she had no conception what it was, or that 
 she had any connection with it ; and when at 
 last it was all unfolded, and spread out before 
 her, she looked on rather more interested, 
 but no less wondering. What might Uncle 
 Edward be going to do with those snowy- 
 lengths of India muslin, the fragile foun- 
 dation of which was scarcely sufficient to 
 bear the wreaths of embroidery, which Susan 
 had never seen anything like in her life, 
 and instantly longed, with a girlish instinct, 
 to copy and emulate — pretty collars, too, and 
 cuffs, feminine articles which the Colonel could 
 have no possible use for ; and wrapped up with 
 these one or two unknown articles, rich with 
 that wonderful tiny mosaic work which em- 
 bellishes the card-cases and blotting-books 
 of people who are fortunate enough to have 
 friends in India. Susan had a vague idea 
 that one of these was a card-case; it cer- 
 tainly was like something of her mother's
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 99 
 
 which Peggy preserved as a relic, and had 
 promised to make over to her young mis- 
 tress when she was old enough to pay 
 visits — an impossible age, which Susan 
 laughed to think of ever attaining at March- 
 main. When he had opened them all out 
 upon the shining uncovered table, which 
 reflected the spotless whiteness of the mus- 
 lin, the Colonel looked down at Susan with 
 a smile, bending his ear towards her, and 
 looking for gratification and pleasure in a 
 face which was only admiring and puzzled. 
 " Are you pleased with them ? ^' said Uncle 
 Edward. " I puzzled my old brains to 
 think what you would like, and there you 
 have the results of my cogitations — not 
 anything very extraordinary, but bought a 
 good many thousand miles off for you, 
 when the only recollection I had of you 
 was that of a baby. I had to count the 
 years very carefully, I assure you, and was 
 near committing myself, and losing credit 
 
 h2
 
 100 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 for ever by bringing you a little frock." 
 "But, uncle, do you mean they are for 
 me f " cried Susan, in amazement. 
 
 " Eh ? Precisely — for you,'' said the 
 Colonel, who had not quite heard her ques- 
 tion, but understood her look. " There is 
 but one woman in the family, ray dear 
 child: you don't suppose that my boy Ned 
 could wear muslin, or that Tom knows how 
 to use a fan? But eh? — what's happened? 
 Have I vexed you without knowing it, for a 
 blundering old blockhead ? What's the mat- 
 ter, Susan ? I'll toss them all into the 
 fire rather than make you cry." 
 
 "Oh, uncle, I can't help crying — then, I 
 like to cry ! " exclaimed Susan, finding the 
 old Colonel really concerned, and disposed 
 to carry out his threat. " To think they 
 should be for me — to think you should have 
 thought of me in India I Do you suppose 
 I could just say, * Thank you ? ' Nobody 
 ever gave me anything all my life before
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 101 
 
 — and oh, uncle, to take the trouble of 
 thinking of me ! '' 
 
 "If that is a troublesome operation, I 
 have taken a great deal of trouble about 
 you, one time and another, Susan," said 
 Colonel Sutherland. *^Xow, dry your eyes, 
 my love, and tell me if you approve of my 
 taste. They are nothing extraordinary, you 
 little goose — you will make me ashamed of 
 my bundle. Why, everybody brings such 
 things from India, and bring them very often 
 to people they care much less about than I 
 do about my little niece. If I had been 
 richer, you should have seen what we can 
 do in the East; but I just managed, you 
 perceive, to get you one shawl." 
 
 Which shawl the Colonel extricated ac- 
 cordingly, as he spoke. Poor Susan, afraid 
 he might think her foolish, managed to stop 
 her crying, and gazed — half with dismay, 
 half with admiration — at all the pretty 
 things before her. What could she do with
 
 102 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 them ? Colonel Sutherland, it was true, 
 knew that she never was allowed to see 
 anybody, or to make any friends, but a fact 
 which is alien to nature makes no impres- 
 sion upon a natural mind. He could not 
 remember or suppose that a young girl had 
 no possible use for the pretty, simple dress 
 he had brought, and looked on with a pleased 
 face to see the effect of his gifts, as Susan 
 began to examine them. Peggy, going back- 
 ward and forward, saw it was now time 
 enough for her to interpose, and, with a 
 genuine woman's interest, plunged into the 
 delightful investigation, which Susan — flushed 
 and agitated quite out of her wont, and 
 tremulous with many new sensations — had 
 just concluded, when Horace entered the 
 room. 
 
 That room, all its life, had never looked 
 so homelike, and the reason was not ex- 
 plainable ; for, except in the heap of litter 
 at one end of the table, and the old man
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 103 
 
 eating his luncheon hard bj, there was ab- 
 solutely no change upon the apartment. 
 That soldier's face, weatherworn and brown, 
 full of command yet full of tenderness, with 
 grizzled hair and moustache, and erect sol- 
 dierly pose, was not by any means a com- 
 mon-place countenance, or one which could 
 have passed unnoted anywhere ; but it was 
 not even that which made the charm. It 
 was the bright, pleased look which the 
 Colonel, as he sat, lifted upon the girl 
 before him — the amused, kind, tender smile 
 which went over all his face like sunshine 
 — the kindly, homely inclination towards her 
 of that deaf ear — the care he took to hear 
 all she said — the interest and indulgent 
 regard with which he followed her move- 
 ments and listened to her words. There 
 was no criticism in those kind eyes — they 
 were eyes accustomed to give a genial 
 interpretation of everything — and the light 
 of them changed the aspect of this dismal
 
 104 THS HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 room. It did not even look so dark or 
 so stifling — the very mahogany brightened, 
 and hearty blazes awoke in the once- 
 smouldering fire. Everything seemed to 
 have become aware, somehow, that living 
 human love and kindness, indulgence, ten- 
 derness were there. 
 
 Yes, indulgence — though, to be sure, it 
 is very bad to spoil our children ; but what 
 would not one give, when one grows old, 
 for that dear, lost indulgence of our youth, 
 which will never come back to us — that 
 consciousness that there is one at least who 
 will see everything we do in the best light, 
 and put the kindest construction upon our 
 failings, and think us cleverer and better, 
 and fairer and pleasanter, than we are and 
 can be ! Youth cannot thrive at all without 
 this sunshine ; but heaven help us, how it 
 dies and disappears out of the noon of life ! 
 Susan had never once felt it before — the 
 feeling came upon her, as she met her
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 105 
 
 uncle's eyes, that she had never really lived 
 before — that . she was only awaking to find 
 out what she herself was, and what were 
 the people around her. Somehow the dawn- 
 ing of a happiness unthought of brought 
 with it the sudden revelation of miseries 
 which had not struck her in all her past 
 experience. Fathers, it became visible to her 
 in a moment, were not all like her father 
 — homes were diflferent from this home — 
 even Uncle Edward's presents helped that 
 enlightenment. These pretty things were 
 common to girls of her own age, and in 
 ordinary use among them. Her uncle was 
 even puzzled that she should look at them 
 as she did, and think them so beautiful, 
 so wonderful, so much " too fine for me!'^ 
 And as Susan came to comprehend this, 
 between the pleasure and the pain, her 
 cheeks flushed, her young limbs trembled, 
 her heart beat loud with strange emotion. 
 Even that excitement helped the effect of
 
 106 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 Uncle Edward's kind face in the room. 
 This very confusion and commotion was 
 life. 
 
 When Horace appeared, wet as Susan 
 had predicted he would be, and sulky 
 as he always was, the sudden gleam of 
 warmth in the familiar apartment pene- 
 trated even into his sullen heart. Its first 
 result was the natural one of making him 
 feel more unhappy ; but in another moment, 
 and with reflection, a change came upon 
 Horace. He did not desire or care for the 
 kindness of his uncle. He was not a domes- 
 tic creature ! — he longed to escape from home, 
 and was exceedingly indifferent as to what 
 he should have there, if he could but attain 
 that desirable end. And Colonel Suther- 
 land appeared a very likely assistant to 
 Horace — as, his deaf uncle not having heard 
 him enter, he stood for a moment looking 
 at him before he advanced. The young 
 man, in his hard wisdom, perceived the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 107 
 
 simplicity of the old man who sat uncon- 
 scious before him. As far as he could 
 comprehend a spirit so different from his own, 
 he read his nature in the Coloners face, 
 and took up his part accordingly with 
 cleverness and dexterity. He advanced quickly 
 to his uncle and held out his hand, Susan 
 watching him with an unusual anxiety which 
 she could not explain to herself. 
 
 " Uncle ! — I need not ask who it is — 
 uncle, welcome ! " cried Horace, with a 
 heartiness unknown to him heretofore, and 
 perhaps more reality in the expression than 
 he himself could have thought possible. 
 
 The Colonel rose with a little stumble of 
 haste, putting his hand to his ear. For 
 the moment he was perplexed, and thought 
 it a stranger; but catching the sound of 
 uncle, hailed his nephew with all the affec- 
 tionate sincerity of his unsuspicious heart. 
 He shook both his hands as Horace's hands 
 had never been touched before ; he looked iu
 
 108 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 his face, too, as in Susan^s, to trace the 
 lineaments of their mother, ^nd called him 
 ^* my dear boy ; '* and shook his hands again 
 with an effusion of satisfaction and kindness. 
 For Horace, so far as features went, was 
 somewhat like his mother, and, with his smile 
 and his smoothed-out brow, looked a very 
 different person from the Horace of every- 
 day use and wont. " But will he perse- 
 vere ? " said Susan to herself, with an ache 
 of delight in her heart ; and " How to keep 
 it up ? " said Horace within his own satur- 
 nine spirit. The uncle knew nothing of these 
 secret questions — did not suspect for a mo- 
 ment that the young man who met him so 
 joyfully had changed his manners for the 
 occasion, and congratulated himself in his 
 simple heart that both the children had 
 kept their hearts and feelings warm in their 
 solitude. The old man grew quite radiant 
 and talkative. He who had intended to 
 leave Marchmain directly, sat still, opening
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 109 
 
 out his honest heart to the young people like 
 a long absent father. He told them first 
 and principally about his boys, their cousins, 
 whom they must know — about the house he 
 had got, which was exactly what he wanted, 
 and where he only wished he could have 
 Susan to be " mistress and mair ! " as he 
 broke out joyfully in his Scotch — about India, 
 where almost all his life had been spent, 
 and which, with Edinburgh, and a peep of 
 London, made up the world to the veteran. 
 And the light had actually begun to wane in 
 the short afternoon, when it suddenly occurred 
 to Uncle Edward that he was forgetting him- 
 self, and that he must face the blast again 
 to find his inn. A momentary austerity 
 came into his face as he recollected this, and, 
 rising hastily, begged of Horace to show him 
 or to tell him the way to the nearest village. 
 The nearest village worthy the name was 
 five miles off; there was a miserable little 
 hamlet nearer, with a miserable little public
 
 110 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 house, but that Uncle Edward shrugged his 
 shoulders at. 
 
 " Can Susan walk five miles in , a good 
 day ? '' said the Colonel, smiling. " Then 
 come along, my boy — we'll go there.''
 
 Ill 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A WALK of five miles on that dismal 
 February afternoon was not a pleasure 
 excursion ; nor was it pleasant to look back 
 upon poor Susan's face at the window — 
 flushed, tearful, ashamed, mortified, Susan 
 had not experienced an equal vexation in 
 the whole course of her life. To think of 
 Uncle Edward having to go away through 
 the damp and twilight five miles off to 
 find a lodging ! Uncle Edward, who had 
 come closer to Susan's heart in half-an- 
 hour than all the rest of the world in 
 all her life! When they were out of sight
 
 112 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 she subsided into the arm-chair and had a 
 good cry over it, and then went to talk 
 to Peggy, who was actively furious, reliev- 
 ing herself by incomprehensible ejaculations. 
 Still somehow, mortified and vexed as she 
 was, there was all the promise of a new 
 life remaining for Susan. Uncle Ed- 
 ward would return to-morrow ; so long as 
 he stayed he would see them every day 
 — and the idea disturbed the stagnant at- 
 mosphere, and diffused an indescribable 
 cheerfulness through the house. Even 
 Peggy, though she fumed, was exhilarated 
 by the thought — perhaps on the whole, it 
 was even better that the Colonel's tender, 
 honest heart should not be grieved by the 
 sight of the ghost of family life existing 
 here. So long as he did not see it to make 
 himself wretched with the view, Uncle Ed- 
 ward's sweet and healthful imagination could 
 conceive of no such scene as Mr. Scars- 
 dale's dinner, or the evening hours which
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 113 
 
 followed it. And then he was coming back 
 to-morrow ! 
 
 So Susan took her presents upstairs, and 
 fell wondering and dreaming over them, 
 making impossible fancy scenes of cheerful 
 rooms and pleasant people, and smiles, and 
 flowers, and kindness unknown. Somehow 
 whispers of all these delightful things seemed 
 to breathe out of that pretty muslin, with 
 its graceful wreaths of embroidery. The 
 horizon opened to her awakened girlish 
 fancy, far off, and almost inconceivable, yet 
 with a vague brightness of possibility — 
 and Susan spent an hour arranging her new 
 riches in the drawer, which was the only fecene 
 they were likely to enlighten at present, and 
 making herself happy with her novel thoughts. 
 
 While in the meantime the Colonel and 
 his nephew trudged onward across the moor. 
 The rain had ceased, but the sky was 
 low and the air damp — and evening 
 darkened round the vast blurred circle of 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 the horizon, dropping down among the 
 hills. The scene was dismal enough for 
 anything: the exposed path across the 
 moor — the black furze bushes and withered 
 crackling heather — the slender saplings cow- 
 ering together here and there in a little 
 circle, where attempts had been made to 
 naturalize them — and the great, monotonous, 
 unbroken stretch of desert soil around, in- 
 spected from the lower heights by gaunt 
 clumps of fir-trees, savage and melancholy 
 anchorites, debarred from the change and 
 variety, the autumn and the spring of com- 
 mon nature. Colonel Sutherland threw a 
 shivering glance round him, and drew his 
 cloak close about his throat. We will 
 not say that even at that moment, when 
 his thoughts were occupied with more im- 
 portant things, an involuntary patriotic com- 
 parison did not occur to the old soldier, 
 who was native to the rich fields of 
 Lothian, and might be disposed to wonder 
 complacently whether this were indeed the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 115 
 
 sunnier south. He had, however, a more 
 immediate subject of observation in Ho- 
 race, who trudged beside him with the 
 stoop and slouch, and heavy irregular step, 
 of a neglected and moody youth. He 
 was well-looking enough, and not deficient 
 in any bodily quality, but the lad^s phy- 
 sique had been totally unattended to, and 
 he had never been in circumstances which 
 could have led himself to perceive his faults 
 of bearing and carriage. The Colonel's 
 soldierly eye could not help regarding him 
 with manifest dissatisfaction. We will not 
 take it upon us to affirm that Colonel 
 Sutherland at the head of his regiment 
 might not be something of a martinet, or 
 the least thing in the world particular 
 about stocks and cross-belts. He looked at 
 Horace, and could not help looking at 
 him as he might have done at an awk- 
 ward recruit. How he held his sullen 
 head down against the wind, as if he 
 butted at an invisible enemy ; how he swung 
 
 i2
 
 116 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 his hands in the pockets of his shooting- 
 coat; how he dragged his heavy feet as if 
 there was a clod at each heel. The Colo- 
 nel did not quite understand how it was 
 that his nephew's person inspired him with 
 a vague distrust, and, somehow, contra- 
 dicted his nephew's face ; hut the fact was 
 that Horace could change the expression of 
 his countenance when he had sufficient mo- 
 tive, but could not alter the habits into 
 which neglect, and indolence, and sullen 
 temper had thrown his outer man. And 
 he himself was entirely unconscious of the 
 clownish walk and ungracious demeanour 
 which gave the old officer so much annoy- 
 ance. Colonel Sutherland respected every- 
 body's amour pro'pre. He could scarcely 
 find it in his heart to wound any one, on 
 the virtuous principle of doing them good; 
 but, between professional sentiment, and that 
 family pride which is wounded by being 
 obliged to admit the imperfections of those 
 it is interested in, he never exercised more
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 117 
 
 self-denial in his life than that which he 
 showed during this walk, in restraining an 
 exhortation to his nephew in respect to his 
 bearing and deportment ; while his kind 
 imagination went to work directly, to con- 
 trive expedients, and inducements, and hints 
 for Horace's benefit, to lead hira to perceive 
 his own deficiencies and adopt means to 
 correct them, without wounding his feelings 
 or his pride. 
 
 While Colonel Sutherland occupied himself 
 with these reflections, Horace, totally uncon- 
 scious of criticisms upon himself, which would 
 have stung his self-love deeply, pondered, 
 in his turn, the best means of bringing his 
 uncle over to the length of helping him, 
 by any means or in any way, to escape 
 from Marchmain. The most palpable mode 
 of entering on the subject — that of lament- 
 ing his father's want of hospitality — had 
 been made impracticable by Colonel Suther- 
 land, who laid all the weight of the arrange- 
 ment upon his own convenience ; and his
 
 118 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 simplicity and straightforwardness made a 
 sidelong approach to it equally out of the 
 question. Horace was compelled, accord- 
 ingly, to bring in his subject all at once, 
 and without introduction. Colonel Suther- 
 land, without meaning it, said something half 
 consciously about the dreary country, and his 
 nephew seized upon the chance. 
 
 " Dreary, indeed ! — and nothing else do 
 we see, uncle, from yearns end to year's end !" 
 cried Horace. "Is it not enough to kill a 
 man? — without a human face to break it, 
 either; and here am I, strong and young, 
 condemned to this life, and kept from any 
 information — any advice — which can direct 
 me what to do. Uncle, you are the only 
 friend I have been able to see with free- 
 dom and confidence, and I am almost glad 
 you don't stay at Marchmain — for there is 
 no freedom there. Tell me, I beg of you, 
 what can I do ? " 
 
 " My dear boy ! " cried the Colonel, grasp- 
 ing his nephew's hand in sudden sympathy,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 119 
 
 and with a little gasp of earnest atten- 
 tion — "you take away my breath. Soli- 
 tude has not diminished your energy, at 
 all events. Do ? Why, to be sure, a boy 
 like you can do anything. We must look 
 for an opening, that is all — but you should 
 have begun before now." 
 
 "My father,'' said Horace, with uncon- 
 scious bitterness, "has stopped that. I 
 don't know anything about the world, except 
 this paltry little world here, of gamekeepers 
 and poachers, and sporting farmers' sons — 
 for gentlemen, of course, don't associate 
 with me. What are we, uncle ? — nobodies ? 
 I can't tell — my father keeps up habits 
 which look like the relics of a better 
 time — and at the same time I know we're 
 poor; but he throws no light upon our un- 
 happy circumstances. He keeps me shut up 
 in this horrible house, till I think all sorts 
 of horrors : that he's a returned convict, or 
 something like that — that our name's a dis- 
 grace. What is it ? — of course there must be
 
 ] 20 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 soitie cause for this seclusion — and you must 
 know." 
 
 Colonel Sutherland was much embarrassed. 
 He fumbled with his cloak in the first place 
 to gain time, and then, finding no other re- 
 source, fell back upon the shelter of his 
 deafness. 
 
 '* Fm a little hard of hearing," said the 
 Colonel. " I partly lost your last observation 
 — but what's that about the poachers and 
 gamekeepers ? Bad company, Horace ! — unfit 
 associates, except in the way of sport, for 
 any gentleman. IVe known lads of good 
 family ruined just by an inclination that 
 way. Not that they meant ill to begin with ; 
 but what's mere fun at first comes to be liking 
 before long — and a gentleman's son of course 
 is flattered and courted among them. It's a 
 pernicious thing, Horace — attend to me ! — it's 
 been the ruin of many a man." 
 
 "What is ruin, uncle ?" shouted Horace, 
 with a wild and bitter smile, which somehow 
 mingling congenially with the wind and the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 121 
 
 chill, carried into the Coloners mind a sin- 
 gular identification of that landscape and 
 scene which gained their climax in this mo- 
 ment. He was startled, he could not explain 
 how. He turned round to look into his 
 nephew's face, with a sudden consciousness 
 of depths in the heart and in the life of 
 Horace undecipherable and mysterious to 
 himself. 
 
 "My dear boy," he said, with a little 
 tremble in his voice, " ruin is such a de- 
 struction as can be accomplished only by a 
 man himself." 
 
 Horace made no answer. His face sub- 
 sided gradually, out of that self-revelation, 
 into the assumed good-humour which he had 
 put on for his uncle's benefit. Colonel 
 Sutherland, however, continued to regard 
 him with concern and apprehension. The 
 Coloners mind was not enlightened up to 
 the pitch of modern times. When his ima- 
 gination uncomfortably pictured Horace 
 seated, perhaps, in the alehouse they had
 
 122 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 passed, with the gamekeeper or sporting 
 men of the village, it was not the know- 
 ledge of life which the young man might 
 acquire, but the old-fashioned horror of 
 " bad society,'' which moved the thoughts 
 of the uncle, who secretly in his own mind 
 began to attribute something of the slouch- 
 ing gait and unsatisfactory bearing of his 
 nephew to his unsuitable companions. He 
 could not give up the subject, but partly 
 in natural anxiety, and partly to evade 
 the youth's troublesome questions, recurred 
 to it immediately again. 
 
 "I am your oldest relation except your 
 father, Horace," said the Colonel. " I 
 have some experience in life. You know 
 what the proverb says : ' A man is known 
 by the company he keeps.'" 
 
 " Had he better keep no company ? " 
 said Horace ; " very possibly ; but then I 
 can't help being young, poor devil that I 
 am. I can't make a woman of myself, or 
 be a child all my life. I must have some-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 123 
 
 thing out of my prison — and you are not 
 the man to blame me, uncle. The fellows 
 you blame are those who have society in 
 their favour. As for those country block- 
 heads, whom I see in the woods or in the 
 alehouses, do you think I care for them ? 
 Do you care for a set of dancing dogs or 
 a wandering monkey? Tou laugh at them. 
 If you have nothing else to think of, they 
 amuse you for the moment. I despise the 
 louts ! — they are no more than bears on 
 exhibition to me ! " 
 
 Once more Colonel Sutherland looked at 
 his young companion. It was not in his 
 kindly human heart, which despised no- 
 body, to like this manner of expression; but 
 somehow the force with which it was ut- 
 tered, and the implied superiority of tone, 
 had a certain effect on the simple-hearted 
 old man. He still retained his uneasiness, his 
 want of comprehension ; but he began to 
 change his ideas of Horace, and to think 
 him intellectual and clever — not a youth
 
 124 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 dangerously falling into " bad company," 
 but a man whose talents were lost to the 
 world for want of *^ opportunities." He 
 fixed his gaze anxiously upon his nephew, 
 and longed for the candid eyes which told 
 all Susan's sentiments and emotions ; but 
 that doubtful face said nothing of itself. 
 There might be "talent," but there was no 
 candour in the countenance of Horace — 
 what the lips might say, was the only 
 index to what the head conceived or the 
 heart felt. Colonel Sutherland turned away 
 from him again with a little sigh. He 
 was interested, his curiosity was awakened, 
 and his paternal anxieties in full exercise ; 
 but somehow under all his heart whispered 
 hesitations and inarticulate warnings to him. 
 He had no experience in this unknown de- 
 velopment of human nature. His own in- 
 stincts said as much. But a man does not 
 always give attention to those instinctive 
 intimations. Colonel Sutherland was accus- 
 tomed to believe that he had rather a
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 125 
 
 natural gift for the guidance of young men 
 — his sympathies with youth were warm — 
 his heart young — his kindness unbounded. 
 Many a youth ere now, charmed by the 
 natural benignity and freshness of his cha- 
 racter, had opened his soul to the old 
 Colonel, and given to him that full, youth- 
 ful confidence seldom bestowed by halves, 
 which harsher fathers had failed to gain — 
 with great advantage to themselves ; for the 
 old man was wise, as old men come to be 
 who are not clever, but only humble, can- 
 did, religious, fearing God, and slow to 
 make themselves judges of men. The habit 
 of counsel, of assistance, of kindly atten- 
 tion, and ■ regard to the self- revelations 
 of his young companions, was accordingly 
 strong upon Colonel Sutherland — yet, though 
 he would scarcely acknowledge it to himself, 
 a certain conviction of being out of his 
 depths, and in a world altogether new to 
 him — among elements which he was unable 
 to handle — was present with him now.
 
 126 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 *' I am glad you have no inclination to- 
 wards such society," he said, in his per- 
 plexed tone ; " but, Horace, my boy, even 
 for sport you must not continue it. It 
 sticks to a man in spite of himself; and, 
 indeed, the young fellows now are very 
 different from what they were in my time. 
 I don't bid you despise your fellow-crea- 
 tures — there's a long distance between de- 
 spising them and preferring their society — 
 a man of your condition should do neither 
 the one nor the other, as you will learn 
 when you come to know life." 
 
 " What is my condition, uncle?" asked 
 Horace, suddenly, interrupting the slow and 
 hesitating general sentiments, which were the 
 only things which the perplexed Colonel could 
 find ready to his hand in this embarrassing 
 case. It is to be feared that Colonel Suther- 
 land heard this- question, which was asked in 
 a high tone, for his face became gradually 
 flushed over with a painful heat and colour; 
 but once more he put his hand to his ear.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 127 
 
 "Yes; what are your own inclinations? — 
 that is really the question, Horace — if we 
 knew that, we could look out for you. There 
 are many openings now to honourable am- 
 bition; but what do you wish yourself for 
 your manner of life ? " 
 
 " Uncle," said Horace, with a force 
 which would be heard, " I have no incli- 
 nations, thanks to my manner of life hitherto 
 — I have only one wish, and that is, to 
 escape from Marchmain. Get me away from 
 that wretched house. I don't care if I 
 turn a shoe-black or a scavenger — get me 
 away from here ! " 
 
 The Colonel once more looked at his 
 nephew, but with less respect — *^ On these 
 terms, could you not get yourself away ? 
 You are not confined by locks and bars," said 
 Colonel Sutherland, disapprovingly ; " why 
 have you no inclinations? That dear child 
 yonder, who has nobody in the world to 
 speak to, has kept her heart as fresh as 
 a May flower."
 
 128 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 " Susan ? " said Horace, growing red ; 
 '* you don't compare me with Susan? — Susan's 
 a girl — she's content — she's very well off, 
 so far as I can see — she's in her natural 
 vocation. Would you have me put on 
 petticoats and sit down to patchwork ? — 
 As well do that as compare a man with a 
 girl!" 
 
 " Susan," said the Colonel, with a little 
 hauteur and heat which became him, " is 
 the only woman of the family. You are 
 not aware, I daresay, of the indulgences 
 and pleasures that are natural to girls 
 of her years. I don't wonder so much 
 either that you think of yourself first — 
 but why have you no inclinations ? — she 
 has, and you think yourself her superior, 
 I perceive." 
 
 " Don't be displeased, uncle," said Horace, 
 changing his tone, and suffering only a 
 little impatience, to testify to the fury with 
 which he heard himself reproved. " You 
 know better than I do, that women are
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 129 
 
 tame creatures, and content themselves 
 easily in their own sphere, when they don't 
 know any better. Susan has leisure to form 
 little plans and fancies, I believe. I have 
 no such thing — the pain of years has 
 brought me to one point of desperation. 
 I know nothing of the world: I don't know 
 what I am — my position — my prospects — 
 my birth, are all a mist to me. My mind 
 is not sufficiently disengaged to form pro- 
 jects; therefore I say I have no inclina- 
 tions — the air stifles me — I must get out 
 into the world, where there is room to 
 breathe ! " 
 
 " Then, why," said the Colonel, " have 
 you not gone away before ? " 
 
 Horace was silenced — he fumed with silent 
 rage within himself, wounded in the ten- 
 derest point of his self-love and pride — it 
 was, perhaps, the only suggestion which 
 could have made him feel a pang of humi- 
 liation. It was one which Susan herself, in 
 her simple and practical intelligence, had 
 
 YOL. I. K
 
 130 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 made more than once. Why had he borne 
 and brooded over his wretchedness? Why 
 had he not gone away ? 
 
 " Many young men/' said Colonel Suther- 
 land, '* have left home of their own accord on 
 a less argument than that of desperation. I 
 don't mean to say I approve of it — but — there 
 are some things that one could not advise, 
 which, at the same time, being done, cut a 
 difficulty which might be hard to solve. I 
 say all this, my dear boy," added the Colonel, 
 moved by Horace's gloomy face, " to show you 
 that it is foolish to use such strong expres- 
 sions : if your desperation had been so great 
 as to deprive you of all choice or inclination, 
 depend upon it you would have gone away." 
 
 And having delivered himself of this kindly 
 bit of logic, totally inapplicable as it was to 
 the person whom he addressed, and attributing 
 the silence of his nephew to the natural con- 
 fusion of a young man detected in the use of 
 undue heroical expressions, the Colonel was 
 himself again.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 131 
 
 "And this, I suppose, is my resting-place 
 for the night," he said, as a church-spire and 
 the roofs of a village became dimly visible 
 before them at the end of the road. " I will 
 remain here three or four days, and during 
 that time, Horace, you must find out your in- 
 clinations, my boy, and let us discuss them 
 and see what is to be done. You must stay 
 and dine with me in the first place, and be 
 with me as much as possible while I am here 
 — that is to say, unless your father makes any 
 positive claim upon you during the time." 
 
 " Positive claim ! I wish you had dined 
 with us one day, uncle, to see what these 
 claims are ! " cried Horace, with a laugh of 
 bitterness; but the Colonel, who had been 
 thinking of something else for the moment, 
 inclined his ear towards him with a little 
 start and a smile, before which bitterness fled. 
 Horace could no more comprehend his uncle 
 than his uncle could understand him. This 
 smile discomforted him strangely — he could 
 not stand against that kind prompt attention, 
 
 k2
 
 132 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 the ear so solicitous to catch what he said, 
 and the face so guileless and benign. The 
 young man was of a crafty intelligence, and 
 could have detected wiles — but this sunshiny 
 simplicity put him out. It went deep into 
 the primitive truth, sincerity, and honesty of 
 nature — things which Horace Scarsdale had 
 small acquaintance with in the secret spring 
 and fountain of his life.
 
 133 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 That evening was an epoch in the life of 
 Horace. The people in the little country 
 inn to which he took his uncle were not 
 unacquainted with the young man. For a 
 year or two past, ever since the bitter inde- 
 pendence of manhood had begun to possess 
 him, he had spent much of his waste unoccu- 
 pied time in this and the other humble houses 
 of entertainment of the district. With a 
 sensation of superiority, which he owed princi- 
 pally to his natural temper — for there was in 
 reality very little distinction of breeding or 
 character between himself and the society he 
 frequented — he held a scornful dictatorial
 
 134 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 place among the humbler convives of the vil- 
 lages, and observed and amused himself 
 with the peculiarities he saw, very much as 
 if he had been a man of the world, trained to 
 that odious criticism which is dignified by- 
 being called " the study of mankind." The 
 coarse enjoyments of the public-house com- 
 pany did not tempt him — he threw his violent 
 decisions into the hum of drowsy talk when 
 it suited him, and at other times looked on, 
 noting, with contemptuous amusement, the 
 dull jollity of the place. His father's sin- 
 gular solitude imposed a certain respect 
 upon the imagination of the district ; and 
 between Horace and the country lads 
 around there remained always that inex- 
 plainable, undefinable difference which, inde- 
 pendent of education, wealth, and every 
 tangible advantage, separates those who are 
 born in different classes of society, especially 
 in rural places. He had accordingly a 
 strange kind of popularity in the district — 
 not the popularity of common love and
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 135 
 
 esteem, but an attraction perhaps more 
 remarkable ; his careless rudeness, his bitter 
 humour, the harsh philosophy which con- 
 trasted with his youth and inexperience, 
 gave him a certain singular hold upon the 
 imagination of his companions. The very 
 certainty that he did not care a single straw 
 for them attached the little crowd to his 
 footsteps. Dominant and imperious self- 
 regard, like all other regnant qualities, has 
 a wonderful influence upon the common 
 mind. No other person within the immediate 
 knowledge of this rural community assumed 
 the same tone, or showed the same spirit — 
 and the vehement and forcible language, 
 more refined than their own, the utterance 
 of a gentleman, which Horace had acquired 
 involuntarily, the arrogant sentiments he 
 expressed, the unconcealed consciousness of 
 superiority which belonged to him, united 
 to impose a certain allegiance upon the in- 
 experienced minds, which found him unique 
 and singular, the sole development known
 
 136 ■ THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 to them of a kind of intelligence and a man- 
 ner of man widely differing from their own. 
 
 But this night everything was changed. 
 The landlady of the inn, amazed into a 
 flutter of perturbation, appeared herself, at 
 the astounding information that young Mr. 
 Hory, as he was called, had arrived with 
 a gentleman. The good woman supposed 
 it must be his mysterious father, and has- 
 tened with all the speed of curiosity to 
 receive them — but lost in amazement to 
 find " the gentleman '' a stranger, who re- 
 quired the best accommodation of her 
 house for a few days, and desired to dine 
 as soon as that was practicable — found it 
 only possible to curtsey and retire, more 
 curious than ever, without being able to 
 show her previous acquaintance and fa- 
 miliarity with Mr. Hory, who turned his face 
 with an arrogant blank of unrecognition full 
 upon her, and added to his uncle's orders 
 a request that some one might be sent to 
 Marchmain immediately for the carpet-bag.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 137 
 
 " Sometliing's agoing to happen," said 
 the landlady, as she returned to her own 
 domain. " A strange gentleman as wants 
 the best o* everything — an ould sodger lord 
 with musstaches — egh, lad ! — a lord TU 
 warrant, at the very least o' him — and 
 I'll lay you a sixpence he's coom to set a' 
 things straight ; for yonder's Mr. Hory, 
 he looks me in the face as broad as I 
 look at you, and says, says he, * Send a 
 man to Marchmain for a carpet-bag im- 
 mediantly,' as if he never set eyes on 
 me in his born days afore. Like him ! I 
 would ne'er goo starving to his door in 
 hopes o' meat." 
 
 Great preparations ensued for the hasty 
 dinner, which was to be ready in an hour ; 
 but even the landlady's conviction that her 
 guest could not be less than a lord was 
 not sufficient to work impossibilities. While 
 it was getting ready. Colonel Sutherland 
 and Horace sat together over the new 
 kindled fire. The best room of the inn,
 
 138 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 which did not receive a guest twice in a 
 year, was a dingy parlour hung with old 
 portraits of famous horses, winners of the 
 cups of antiquity, with a county map, and 
 a print of George IV. to vary the em- 
 bellishments, and two small windows look- 
 ing out upon the village street. The 
 Colonel placed himself as close as pos- 
 sible to the fire, not without dreadful 
 apprehensions of the rheumatism, which 
 already sent flying twinges into his spare 
 limbs, and made him wince ; and thought 
 with a little natural indignation of his 
 repelled kindness, and the cold reception 
 which had forced him to seek this place, 
 and substituted the accommodation of a poor 
 little country inn for the hospitality he 
 had expected. Silence and these recollec- 
 tions, and the startling twinges of his rheu- 
 matism, changed the expression of his face 
 almost into sternness, and seemed to de- 
 velop in him another phase of character. 
 Horace watched him in the doubtful light,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 139 
 
 more and more puzzled. The indulgent, 
 tender kindness and forbearance of the fa- 
 therly old man had disappeared with the 
 animation of their talk and intercourse — 
 the whole face had a loftier and more rigid 
 expression. Horace, drawing back his chair 
 out of the firelight, gazed and pondered 
 with knitted brows. He began to think 
 more elaborate approaches were necessary, 
 and plans better laid. He had not found 
 it possible hitherto to get much informa- 
 tion from this kind old uncle touching 
 the family secret, if there was one. "VTas 
 Colonel Sutherland a kind old uncle merely? 
 Horace began to suspect he must be some- 
 thing more, and that the task of persuad- 
 ing him and winning him over to his own 
 interests might not be so very easy after all. 
 The Colonel sat long in meditation, as 
 if he were in full consideration of the whole 
 knotty subject; when he made a little stir 
 in his chair as if about to speak, a sudden 
 burst of anxiety ran over Horace. " I
 
 140 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 wonder," said the Colonel, with the gravest 
 face, " how long it is since a fire was 
 lighted in this room before. Speak of 
 England, Horace ! I don't believe there is 
 anything so dismal from Berwick to John 
 o' Groats as that moor of yours, and no 
 attempt at cultivation or improvement, so 
 far as I can perceive. You should see our 
 high farming in Lothian ! I have not felt 
 the cold so severe since I came home." 
 
 Horace had almost laughed aloud in his 
 sudden relief and contempt. These were 
 the thoughts, so deeply ruminated, which 
 had brought gravity to Colonel Sutherland's 
 face. The young man, who now less than 
 ever comprehended the old man, went to 
 stand at the window, not without a cer- 
 tain satisfaction in being seen there by the 
 evening frequenters of the place, who were 
 sure to hear of his companion, and of the 
 different position he occupied for this night 
 at least; and passed another half hour of 
 waiting before the dinner appeared, in
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 141 
 
 strange calculations, at once cunning and 
 foolish — the wiles of a suhtle mind, and 
 the inexperience of a young one — thinking 
 with himself how long his uncle's simpli- 
 city could withstand his attacks — how soon 
 he should be able to worm all the secrets 
 of the family out of him, and how easily 
 he could work the old man to do what 
 he would. Then, if such a man as Colonel 
 Sutherland had reached to a respectable 
 position and command, what might not such 
 a man as Horace Scarsdale do? The young 
 man's spirits rose — he imagined himself 
 making a stepping-stone of his uncle, to 
 
 push his way into the arena — and then . 
 
 Considering the height and imaginative 
 character of this ambition, which at the 
 outset gave it a certain refinement, it was 
 astonishing, notwithstanding, to perceive 
 into what almost vulgar elation his spirits 
 rose during that dinner. It was no great 
 things of a dinner, being too ambitious by 
 far for the occasion; but it was perhaps
 
 142 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 the very first meal in his life, at least 
 since he came to years of self-knowledge, 
 which Horace had eaten with freedom and 
 pleasure. He thought of Marchmain, and 
 the scene in the dining-room at that mo- 
 ment, where Peggy, in the ordinary course 
 of events, would be about removing the 
 cloth and setting on the table his father's 
 solitary glass and jug of claret, and smiled 
 to think of Mr. Scarsdale's silent rage at 
 seeing his vacant place He was pleased 
 and flattered by the respectful manner of 
 the landlord who waited on them, and could 
 not refrain from talking rather big to his 
 uncle, and assuming a confidence and frank- 
 ness quite unusual to him, and foreign 
 to his nature, for the advantage of that 
 individual. He was too young to conceal 
 this first gratification, and betrayed him- 
 self unawares. Simple and unsuspecting 
 though the Colonel was, he perceived 
 this. However, it was natural, and instead 
 of a hard laugh at it, Uncle Edward smiled
 
 THE HOUSE OX THE MOOR. 143 
 
 and grew kinder, and loved Horace better 
 and trusted him the more for his weak- 
 ness' sake. They seemed growing friends 
 gradually and surely — the old man be- 
 lieved they were, and rejoiced in it, 
 and could not have believed, had any- 
 body told him that the cold passion of 
 self-regard, to the entire exclusion of 
 warmer feelings, filled his nephew's heart. 
 
 When they were left alone, Horace, a 
 little stimulated by the wine he had 
 taken, commenced his attack with boldness : — 
 
 " Uncle," he said, " you miist think of 
 me — you must help me. I have never 
 been able to speak my mind before to a 
 single individual who could comprehend 
 or assist me. I must know what are our 
 circumstances. It is needless to say that 
 my father's past life does not afifect me. It 
 does affect me — everything affects me that 
 I am kept in ignorance of. What are we? 
 — what is he ? — why are we here ? " 
 
 Horace had hit by chance and unawares
 
 144 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 upon the means really most likely to attain 
 his end. Colonel Sutherland could not 
 return anything but a true answer to a 
 plain and straightforward question ; and 
 evasion was so strange to him that he 
 managed it in the clumsiest manner. He 
 retired on his deafness in the first place — a 
 defence from which Horace drove him out 
 triumphantly by a repetition of the ques- 
 tion in tones that could not be mistaken. 
 Then he faltered over it a little, with com- 
 monplaces of hesitation too palpable to 
 deceive anybody. 
 
 " Your true circumstances — your father's 
 past life? Your father's past life has 
 always been virtuous and honourable," said 
 the Colonel. " What is he ? You ought 
 surely to know better than I do, who 
 have not seen him for fifteen years. He is, 
 if you wish my opinion, a man of very 
 peculiar temper. Horace, I do not wonder 
 that you find him rather hard to get on 
 with sometimes, but he is your father;
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 145 
 
 and therefore, my dear boy, whatever 
 others may do, impatience and a harsh 
 judgment do not become you." 
 
 Horace shook his head. 
 
 " This is not what I want to know. 
 You know it is not," he said, with a 
 rising colour. "Say no, if you will, but 
 don't treat me like a child. Look here, 
 uncle : I am assured there is a secret — I 
 know it, no matter how — tell me what it 
 is." 
 
 Horace put the whole force of his 
 voice and mind into the question. He 
 made it not as one who asks, but as one 
 who demands what he has a right to 
 know, feeling convinced that his gentle re- 
 lative could not now evade him, and had 
 no strength to resist ; and with this convic- 
 tion strong upon him, the young man 
 stared into the ColoneFs eyes, with the 
 thought of overawing him and compelling 
 his answer thus. 
 
 Colonel Sutherland looked at him steadily, 
 
 VOL I. L
 
 146 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 withdrew his eyes a moment, looked 
 again, and at last spoke. 
 
 *^ If you think," said the Colonel, coldly, 
 " that by this persistence and demand 
 you can persuade any man of honour to 
 betray to you a secret with which another 
 has entrusted him, you show only your 
 ignorance of gentlemen and want of belief 
 in your fellow- creatures. If there is a 
 secret in your family circumstances — though, 
 mind you, I do not admit that there is — 
 can you suppose that I will tell you any- 
 thing which it is your father's desire that 
 you should not know ? " 
 
 Horace shrunk for a moment in mingled 
 rage and amazement from the tone. It was 
 inconceivable to him that anybody could 
 feel even an instant's contempt for him ; 
 but the feeling was momentary. 
 
 "Then he does desire that I should not 
 know it ! " he exclaimed, with a certain 
 triumph — and set his teeth over the ad- 
 mission, as if this at least was something gained.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 147 
 
 *'I did not say so," said the Colonel, 
 with some embarrassment. ** I said if — 
 No, Horace, if you wish to investigate 
 into all the secrets of your family, go to 
 your father, and ask him — he is the pro- 
 per judge of what should or should not 
 be told you. At least, if you don't admit 
 that, he is at least the most proper per- 
 son to be asked ; and till he has refused 
 to satisfy you, you have no right to apply 
 to any one else. Take my advice — be 
 honest and straightforward — it is the short- 
 est way and the clearest : ask himself." 
 
 "Ask himself! Do you know the terms 
 we are on, uncle?" said Horace, with a smile. 
 
 " So much the worse for you both — 
 and long enough that has lasted, surely," 
 said the Colonel. "The past is no man's, 
 the future is every man's : I say to you 
 again, that has lasted long enough I Ask 
 himself, and let the mystery and the strife 
 end together. It is the only honest way 
 to clear your difficulties up." 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 Once more Horace smiled — a smile of 
 disappointment and anger — baffled and fu- 
 rious ; while the Colonel went on with his 
 honest, simple advice, exhorting the young 
 man to candour and openness — he might 
 as well have exhorted him to be Prime 
 Minister — while Horace, for his part, kept 
 silent, perceiving, once for all, that whe- 
 ther it was from mere foolishness, or some 
 principle of character unknown to him, his 
 uncle was impracticable, and that the only 
 way to find anything out from him was 
 to lie in wait for the unguarded admis- 
 sions which, in spite of himself, might fall 
 from his lips. 
 
 " After all,'' said Colonel Sutherland, 
 when he had concluded his good, honest 
 advice to his own satisfaction, " what has 
 all this to do with it ? You are tired 
 of inactivity and quiet, as a young man 
 ought to be ; you want to set out upon 
 the world. Of course, your father can- 
 not object to this; and as for me, all that
 
 w 
 
 #■ 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 149 
 
 I can do to forward it I will, heartily. 
 But, Horace, setting out on the world does 
 not mean anything vague, my lad. It 
 means doing, or aiming at, some special 
 thing — some one special thing, my dear boy. 
 We can't go out to conquer the world 
 now-a-days — it must be a profession, or 
 business, or a place, or something ; so Til 
 tell you what to do. Think it well over 
 — what you said to me about having no in- 
 clinations. Sit down by yourself, and find 
 out if there is not a special turn one way 
 or other in some corner of your heart, 
 and let us hear what it is. After that the 
 way will be clear ; we must look for an 
 opening for you, and," added Colonel Suth- 
 erland, after a little pause, and speaking 
 with hesitation, *^if you should then — wish 
 for — my services with your father, why 
 then, Horace — though we are not the best 
 friends in the world — I'll try my best." 
 
 '^ Thank you," said Horace, with sullen- 
 ness, which he tried vainly to repress —
 
 150 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 "thank you, uncle. I will do as you say." 
 The conversation then came to an end, 
 Horace fuming over it secretly as a failure 
 — and the young man had so high an idea 
 of his own powers, that the thought galled 
 him deeply. Then, after an unsatisfactory 
 interval of indefinite conversation, which 
 Horace could not keep up, and which the 
 Colonel — tired, disheartened, and perplexed — 
 sustained but dully, the young man got 
 up and bade him " good night." Colonel 
 Sutherland went down to the door of the 
 inn, half with a simple precaution to see 
 him safely out of the " temptation " of that 
 " low company " which Horace had owned 
 to seeking, and half by suggestion of that 
 kindness which could not bear to see any 
 one discouraged. " Think it well over," 
 urged the Colonel once more, " and expect me 
 to-morrow ; and be cheerful, and keep up your 
 heart, Horace. There's plenty of room for you 
 in the world, and plenty of force in yourself. 
 Good night, my dear boy — good night."
 
 151 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 When Horace Scarsdale left the lights of 
 the village behind him, and took his way- 
 through the black roads towards March- 
 main, he carried with him a burden of 
 thoughts rather different from those which 
 accompanied him here. Though his was 
 neither a noble nor a sweet development 
 of youth, still youth was in him, as in 
 others, heroical and absolute. It is im- 
 possible to reduce to description the kind 
 of fortune he had planned for himself; for, 
 indeed, he had planned nothing, except a 
 general self-glorification and domination over 
 the world. 
 
 His uncle's advice to him, to ascer-
 
 152 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 tain how his likings inclined, and make 
 choice of some profession or employment 
 precise and definite, humiliated and offended 
 him unawares. His fancies had not con- 
 descended to any such particularity. He 
 had an impression on his mind, how ac- 
 quired he could not tell, that his father 
 wronged him, and that it was only neces- 
 sary for him to be aware of their true 
 circumstances to set him at once beyond 
 the common necessities of life. This con- 
 viction, however, he had never betrayed to 
 any one ; and Colonel Sutherland's recom- 
 mendation, which implied the restraints of 
 labour and something to do, was not over- 
 palatable to the young man brought up in 
 idleness. 
 
 He was too old to begin the study 
 of a profession, and when he thought 
 of the laborious days and confined exist- 
 ence of men who have their own way to 
 make in the world, secret rage and mortifi- 
 cation took possession of Horace. Was this
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 153 
 
 all that remained for him? — was this the 
 life which he must look forward to? — was 
 there nothing better in the future than 
 this? He had no desire to choose his 
 means of living, his manner of work — his 
 thoughts eluded the subject when it was 
 presented to him — it was easier to brood 
 over a mysterious wrong, and dream of 
 sudden revelations which should change 
 everything in a moment. At the same 
 time, his intellect was sufficiently clear to 
 show him that contempt was likely to 
 follow any exhibition of these feelings of 
 his — he himself, as he reflected on it, 
 fumed at himself with silent disgust. 
 
 Then he had failed to influence Colonel 
 Sutherland as he expected — everything had 
 failed in the absolute fashion — he could 
 no longer carry matters, even to himself, 
 with the high hand of dominant youthful un- 
 reason and disregard of things and men : — 
 even things that pleased him took a defi- 
 nite, particular, and limited form, and came
 
 154 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 under conditions which made them distaste- 
 ful. Already he began to perceive that the 
 language and manner, which did very well 
 for his alehouse companions, was not prac- 
 ticable in such society as that of his uncle; 
 and unaware as yet how to acquire a 
 more successful tone, fell into deep and 
 angry mortification on the subject. He 
 had not impressed upon Colonel Sutherland 
 a high idea of his spirit, his energy, and 
 his intellect, as Horace had intended to do; 
 but had only conveyed the idea of a pre- 
 sumptuous and ignorant youth to the mind 
 of his uncle. He felt this with a humilia- 
 tion out of which he drew no humility. 
 It was not so easy as he supposed, to see 
 through and dominate over even so simple 
 a character as that of Colonel Sutherland. 
 
 But it did not occur to Horace that 
 his uncle's plain simplicity and truthful- 
 ness was, in fact, the only thing in the 
 world which could not be dominated over 
 by the most splendid superiority of intel-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 155 
 
 lect. He supposed it was only his own 
 ignorance, and inexperience, and want of 
 address — deficiencies mortifying enough to 
 acknowledge certainly, but not so mortify- 
 ing as the entire incapacity either to com- 
 prehend or to influence. He had time 
 enough to think over all these things, as 
 he made his way through the lonely, dreary 
 country roads, and across the moor. 
 
 This day, and this meeting, and the open- 
 ing of his close heart even so far, had 
 flashed into life the smouldering fire in the 
 mind of Horace. He strode on with long, 
 rapid steps, thinking it scarcely possible 
 that he could contain himself within the 
 miserable hermitage of Marchmain, even for 
 a night. He went along pondering schemes 
 to surprise the secret from his uncle, in 
 spite of this first failure ; and, intoxicated 
 by the first realization of freedom, to ima- 
 gine himself altogether free, his own master, 
 triumphing over the world. But among 
 these fancies there mingled neither a desire
 
 156 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 nor any attempt to ascertain, as Colonel 
 Sutherland said, "his own inclinations," or 
 to decide upon what he should do. He 
 said quite truly, when he reported of him- 
 self, that he had no inclinations which con- 
 cerned labour or a profession, and even in 
 his own thoughts he evaded that question. 
 He could think closely, when the matter 
 was to find out, from his uncle's unsus- 
 picious temper, his father's secret ; but not 
 when the thing to determine was the 
 needful labour of his own life. 
 
 Meanwhile, Susan sat silent in her fa- 
 ther's presence, longing for the return of 
 Horace, picturing him to herself seated 
 opposite to her uncle, free to say what 
 he woidd, opening his heart under those 
 genial looks, bringing home kind thoughts 
 and kind messages, sunned and mellowed 
 by that unsuspected love which had de- 
 veloped all the wonderful possibilities of a 
 new life to herself Even Susan could not 
 sit still to-night — her patchwork had lost
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 157 
 
 its attraction for her — ^her thoughts rose too 
 fast, and were too numerous, to make her 
 ordinary quiet possible. In spite of her- 
 self, and even unawares to herself, she was 
 no longer the noiseless girl who sat hushed 
 for hours, opposite to that rigid figure with 
 the little reading-desk and open book. To 
 her own amazement, she caught herself once 
 humming an incipient tune as she sat over 
 her work; and after a while found it im- 
 possible to sit still, and moved about with an 
 involuntary restlessness, finding little mat- 
 ters to arrange in all the corners of the 
 room, chairs to place differently, the cur- 
 tains to be drawn closer, the fire to be 
 ^ stirred, something to keep her in motion, 
 \aEd express, by that only means permitted 
 to her, the unaccustomed stir and com- 
 motion in her own heart. And what was 
 even more remarkable, Mr. Scarsdale him- 
 self seemed to have an instinctive per- 
 ception of this, and to be somehow moved 
 in his own calm. A close observer might
 
 158 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 have perceived that he no longer travelled 
 by mechanical accuracy from beginning to 
 end of his page — that the leaves were 
 turned less regularly, and that his eyes 
 were fixed upon the upper margin of his 
 book, sometimes for half an hour together, 
 while he watched, without looking at her, 
 his daughter's movements, and heard the 
 faint rustle of her hushed motion about 
 the room. He divined the cause, and knew 
 the emotion in her heart, with a strange 
 and bitter certainty. He was aware by 
 intuition that all the afiection, and con- 
 fidence, and filial warmth which he had 
 never sought, had sprung up in an in- 
 stant to meet the touch of another who 
 had not the same natural claim as he; 
 and the forlorn man grew more forlorn by 
 the knowledge, and perhaps even once for 
 an instant hesitated whether he should not, 
 at this last moment, open his heart to his 
 child, his wife's daughter, the only woman 
 of the family. Somehow these words re^
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 159 
 
 turned to him unawares. Mr. Scarsdale 
 was not of the kind of man who is much 
 influenced by women. Sympathy was an 
 offence rather than a pleasure to hira — he 
 had none to bestow and he sought none. 
 Consolations of affection he scarcely distin- 
 guished from intrusions of impertinence, 
 and there was no soil on which tender- 
 ness could grow in his rocky nature. But 
 if he had little affection, he had a peren- 
 nial envy in his heart. He could not bear 
 that another man should obtain anything 
 which seemed by right to belong to him- 
 self. The idea that his wife's brother had 
 already possessed himself of Susan's heart, 
 more than he, her father, had done during 
 her whole life, galled him bitterly; so much, 
 that in that moment of indecision, while he 
 held his book in his hands as though he 
 would have closed it, the impulse had 
 actually come upon him to put confi- 
 dence in Susan, and so win her over, 
 once for all, to his side, and shut out
 
 160 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 the less legitimate claimant on her affection. 
 The only woman of the family ! It was 
 his daughter whom Edward Sutherland made 
 this claim of affection on — if was a piece 
 of his property which the new comer ap- 
 propriated; and Mr. Scarsdale had almost 
 been moved out of himself to secure the 
 filial heart which he cared not for, yet 
 which it galled him to see claimed by any 
 other. But nature conquered the sudden 
 thought ; he set his book once more steadily 
 open upon his little desk — he made his heart 
 bitter and hard — a forced and painful smile 
 came upon his lip ; within himself he re- 
 called, half unawares, some of those words 
 of contemptuous sarcasm against women, 
 by which some men revenge themselves 
 for some woman's misdeeds. But it made 
 him colder, harder, more forlorn and soli- 
 tary, in spite of himself. His son, whom 
 he had always treated as an enemy, was 
 with his brother-in-law ; his daughter, though 
 here in bodily presence, was with that in-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 161 
 
 truder also in her heart. He was alone, 
 alone — always alone ; a jealous, envious, 
 morhid rage deepened the shade upon his 
 face; the love was nothing to him — but he 
 gnashed his teeth to see it enjoyed by another. 
 
 When Horace returned — and they could 
 hear his summons at the door, and Peggy's 
 tardy opening — he did not come into the 
 dining-room, but went upstairs at once ; 
 sending a message to Susan, to her great 
 disappointment, that he was tired with his 
 walk from Tillington, and was going to 
 rest. Mr. Scarsdale did not retire till a 
 much later hour than usual that night ; 
 and when he did, made Susan precede him 
 by a few minutes, that he might see her 
 shut up in her own room, and prevent all 
 communication with her brother. He per- 
 suaded himself that they were in a conspiracy 
 against him, and roused his temper with 
 the thought ; he spoke more harshly to 
 Susan than he had ever done before in 
 her recollection, and sent her to her own 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 room in tears. Tears !— miserable woman's 
 play of pretended suffering ! — at least he 
 was beyond the weakness of being deceived 
 by it ; and he smiled bitterly to himself, 
 as he went to his own comfortless rest, 
 thinking on the smiles which would greet 
 her uncle. Unjust fate! unnatural nature ! 
 — ^for these smiles were his, and belonged 
 to him — yet he could not prevent the 
 kind looks of a stranger from stealing this 
 property away. 
 
 And Susan cried herself to sleep, with 
 hopes and happy anticipations taking the 
 bitterness out of the tears ; and Horace 
 sat in his room, where he had hastily ex- 
 tinguished his candle on hearing approach- 
 ing footsteps — as little inclined to see 
 Susan as his father was that he should ; 
 pondering his wiles for overcoming his uncle. 
 Only last night the house had been undis- 
 turbed in its unchanging life ; now every- 
 thing was commotion, disturbance, new efforts 
 and hopes, a changed aspect of existence ;
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 163 
 
 and all from the advent of that guileless 
 old soldier, who, waking in the night with 
 his twinges of rheumatism, his fears that 
 his bed had not been aired, and his deeper 
 perplexity and pain about his sister^s child- 
 ren, mixed these different troubles altogether, 
 with a hazy mist of oppression and dis- 
 tress in his mind as he turned his head 
 towards the wall, and sank into a heavy 
 sleep. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Colonel Sutherland was out of doors early- 
 next morning, as was his wont. The weather 
 had improved, the sun was shining, the fells 
 rose dewy and fresh through the air and 
 distance, the whole face of the country was 
 changed. The Colonel strayed along the 
 country road, with his unusual burden on 
 his mind, yet making such minute, half- 
 conscious observations of external nature as 
 were usual to him ; pausing to examine the 
 hedges, to pinch a bud upon a branch, 
 and make involuntary comparison between 
 the progress of the spring at home and 
 here ; noting the primrose-tufts which began
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 165 
 
 to appear in the hedgeside herbage, soft 
 green leaves still curled up in their downy- 
 roll ; and making unconscious memoran- 
 dums in his mind of the early notes of 
 birds already to be heard among the 
 branches. Everything was early this year, 
 he thought to himself, as with a calm 
 and placid pleasure he enjoyed the air, 
 the light, and the cold yet dewy and 
 sparkling freshness of the morning. In the 
 calm of his age this old man had re- 
 covered the sweet sensations and suscepti- 
 bilities of childhood ; life with its passions 
 and struggles was over for him, or seemed 
 so ; all was well with his boys ; and the 
 many and sharp sorrows of his manhood 
 had left upon him that feeling of happi- 
 ness in the mere freedom from acute and 
 immediate pain, which only those who have 
 suffered deeply can feel. The sunshine ' 
 warmed and cheered him to the heart. 
 It was true that trouble, anxiety, and doubt 
 were in that innocent and tender soul; a
 
 166 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 strong desire to help and deliver his young 
 relatives, with still no perception of the 
 means for doing so ; but this was no 
 urgent distress, enough to break in upon 
 that sacramental morning hour. There 
 might be difficulty, but everything was 
 hopeful ; and the Colonel wandered along 
 the lonely rural road, where the wet grass 
 sparkled in the sunshine, and the buds on the 
 hawthorn-hedge basked with a secret growth 
 and invisible expansion in the tender warmth 
 and light; and in his age, and the quiet 
 of his soul, was glad as they. 
 
 As he approached the corner of an in- 
 tersecting road, voices came to the ear of 
 the Colonel, or rather one voice, which 
 seemed familiar to him. The speaker was 
 addressing some one who made little reply; 
 and Colonel Sutherland heard, to his great 
 astonishment, a glowing description of the 
 advantages and pleasures of a soldier's life 
 in India, splendidly set forth by the odd, 
 familiar accents of this voice, as he ap-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 167 
 
 proached. Half amused, half amazed, he 
 listened — the words being, evidently, not of 
 any private importance, and delivered in a 
 tone too loud for confidential communica- 
 tions. He thought to himself that it must 
 be some old soldier beguiling the innocence 
 of some rustic lad, whom want of em- 
 ployment or youthful disappointment had 
 prompted to try the expedient of "soldier- 
 ing," and went forward with a wrinkle 
 on his forehead, but a smile on his lip — 
 divided between sympathy for the supposed 
 victim, and a professional reluctance to balk 
 the voluntary recruiter, if the recruit should 
 chance to be a promising one. But, to his 
 surprise, when he had gained the corner of 
 the road, instead of a young ploughman or 
 country bumpkin, his eye fell upon a young 
 man of extremely prepossessing appearance, 
 with all the look of a gentleman, who 
 listened with dilated nostrils and eyes fixed 
 upon the distant hills — ^listened as a man 
 listens whose thoughts are already too many
 
 168 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 for Mm, and who has but little attention 
 to spare for what is said — but who, never- 
 theless, has a serious intention of hearing 
 what is addressed to him. The Colonel 
 was so much startled by this, that he 
 scarcely observed the other person present, 
 till an astonished exclamation of his own 
 name, and the sudden motion of a military 
 obeisance, aroused him. Then the smile re- 
 turned, though with a difference, to his lip. 
 The speaker was a sergeant of his own 
 regiment, a veteran nearly as old as him- 
 self, who now stood before him, between 
 joy and reluctance, eager to make himself 
 known, yet not perfectly satisfied to be found 
 in this exercise of his vocation ; with confusion 
 in his face, and his mouth full of excuses. 
 
 " What, Kennedy ! '^ cried the Colonel ; 
 "my good fellow, what brings you here?" 
 "It^s far enough out of the way, to be 
 sure. Cornel," said the sergeant, rather 
 sheepishly ; " and neyther my oun place, 
 nor like it. Sure it's a bit of a flirt of
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 169 
 
 a girl's brought me, that's come to be 
 married here." 
 
 " Married ! What, you ? You old block- 
 head ! " cried the Colonel, inclining his 
 deaf ear towards the voice, " what do you 
 want with such nonsense at your age ? " 
 
 ." Na, Cornel, ne'er a bit of me — the 
 Lord forbid ! " said the old soldier ; " but 
 a daughter it is, brought up within five 
 mile of ould Derry, but seed a lad o' the 
 fells as took her heart; and sure she's all 
 in wan, as ye may say, the whole stock o' 
 me familly ; and according. Cornel, I'm here." 
 
 "And at your old trade, I perceive," 
 said Colonel Sutherland — " hey, Kennedy ? 
 — you will never forget your cockade and 
 bunch of ribbons ; but I rather think you're 
 out a little here." 
 
 "Ay, sir, ay — I said as much myseF 
 wan moment afore. The young master, 
 Cornel, he's aboove my hand," said the 
 sergeant, promptly; "but youth, sir, youth 
 will not hearken to a good advice. So I
 
 170 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 bid to tell him as he desired; he's all for 
 the cap and the feather, Cornel, and it's 
 not for an ould sodger to balk a gentle- 
 man, in especial as it was information Mr, 
 Eoger sought ; and I well rec'klet, Cornel, 
 that ye aye liked a lad of spirit yourseV." 
 
 "This is a mistake, however," said the 
 young man, hurriedly; "I'm not a gentle- 
 man seeking information. Go on, Kennedy ; 
 I want pay and bread — don't be afraid, 
 sir, there's nobody belonging to me to break 
 their hearts if I enlist. Let him say out 
 what he has to say." 
 
 The Colonel cast kindly eyes upon the 
 young man, and saw his nervous haste of 
 manner, and the impatient way in which 
 he roused himself out of his half abstraction 
 to deny the inferences of the sergeant — 
 which, indeed, were entirely foreign to the 
 address which Kennedy had just been de- 
 livering; and his benevolent heart was in- 
 terested. " I also am an old soldier," he 
 said, with his kind stoop forward, and his
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 171 
 
 smile ; " perhaps I am a safer adviser for 
 a young man of your appearance than 
 Kennedy. Eh ? Do you prefer the ser- 
 geant ? Very well ! But you must under- 
 stand that the good fellow romances, and 
 that rising from the ranks, even in India, 
 is not so easy as he would have you sup- 
 pose. Very true, I have nothing to do 
 with it; but don't be persuaded to enlist 
 with such an idea. I wish you good morning, 
 young gentleman. You can come to me, 
 sergeant, at the inn in an hour or so. I 
 am here only for a few days." 
 
 And Colonel Sutherland had turned away, 
 and was once more descending the road, 
 wondering a little, perhaps, that the young 
 fellow did not eagerly seek his offered ad- 
 vice on a subject which he knew so much 
 better than the sergeant, when he heard 
 himself called from behind, and, looking 
 back, found the youth following. As he 
 came up, the Colonel remarked him more 
 closely. He was of brown complexion and
 
 172 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 athletic form, though only about twenty — 
 already a powerful though so young a man. 
 He was dressed entirely in black — a some- 
 what formal suit, which almost suggested 
 the clerical profession, though, in fact, it 
 meant only mourning, and had a mingled 
 look in his face of grief and mortification, 
 sincere sorrow, and a certain affronted, in- 
 dignant, resentful aspect, which raised a 
 little curiosity in the mind of the Colonel. 
 He came up with a bold, firm, straightfor- 
 ward step, which Colonel Sutherland could 
 not help contrasting unawares with that of 
 Horace, and with the colour varying on his 
 cheek. 
 
 " I ought at least to thank you, sir, 
 for the offer of your advice," he said hur- 
 riedly; then came to a pause; and then, 
 as if vainly seeking for some explanation of 
 the reason why he rejected it ; "I am, how- 
 ever, only a recruit for the sergeant, not 
 for the Colonel," he added, with sudden 
 confusion. "It is because of this that I
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 1 73 
 
 appear churlish and ungrateful in declining 
 your offer. My dress is a deception. I 
 have no right to be treated as a gentleman.'^ 
 
 " These are strong words," said the Colo- 
 nel. " I presume, then, that you have done 
 something by which you forfeit your natural 
 rank?" 
 
 A violent colour rushed to the young 
 man's face — "No! — No! — twenty times No!" 
 — ^he cried, with a sudden effusion of feel- 
 ing, half made up of anger, and half of 
 the grief which lay in wait for him to 
 catch him unawares; "and will not, if I 
 should starve or die ! " 
 
 "It seems to me," said Colonel Suther- 
 land, looking round in vain for Kennedy, 
 who had taken the favourable moment to 
 escape, " that you are in a very excited 
 condition of mind ; if you will take my 
 advice, you will not do anything in your 
 present state of feeling, and, above all, 
 don't enlist. Kennedy's story is the com- 
 mon recruiting fable, dressed up to suit
 
 174 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 your particular palate. The old fellow can- 
 not forget his old successes in that way^ 
 I suppose. It is as foolish to 'list in haste 
 as to marry in haste, my young friend. 
 It is a thing much easier to do than to 
 undo. Keep yourself out of temptation, 
 and consult your friends." 
 
 Having said so much, the Colonel gave a 
 slight kindly bow to his companion, and was 
 about to pass on, but, looking at him again, 
 waited to see if he had anything to say. 
 
 "Is it better to take the plough-stilts 
 than the shilling ? " exclaimed the young 
 man ; " you know nothing about me — but 
 you look at my distress with a kind face. 
 You know the world and life as they really 
 are, and not as they appear to us here, 
 becalmed on the shores of the sea. I have 
 no friends to consult, no one to be grieved 
 for me whatever I do. I have not much 
 wit, and less education; I have only what 
 the brutes have — strength. What shall I do 
 with it. Is it best to be a ploughman or
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 175 
 
 a soldier? — I will abide by your decision — 
 which shall it be ? " 
 
 "Walk down with me to my inn," said 
 Colonel Sutherland, " and tell me who you 
 are, and how this has happened to you." 
 
 The young man turned with an implicit, 
 instantaneous obedience. He made no pre- 
 face, no explanation. He had reached to 
 that extreme agitation of mind in which a 
 listener, interested and friendly, is salvation 
 to the self-consuming spirit, when that spirit 
 is of the kind which can disclose itself ; as in 
 this case it happened to be. 
 
 " My name is Roger Musgrave," he said ; 
 " I have been brought up as heir to my 
 godfather, a man supposed rich. With him I 
 have lived most of my life — we two. He was 
 more than a father to me : but he is dead, 
 and died poor. There is nothing left of the 
 supposed inheritance — worse than that ; but 
 that is all that relates to me," he cried, 
 suddenly pausing with a gasp of restrained 
 grief "The people here exhaust their kind
 
 176 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 feelings to me in reproaches upon him who 
 has left me unprovided for. False reproaches! 
 — insults to me as much as to him ! He 
 is gone, and all control of me, all love 
 for me, have died in his grave. I have 
 myself to support, and his honour to reclaim. 
 I ask you how I am to do it best — must 
 it be as a labourer at home, or as a soldier 
 abroad ? " 
 
 "But you have given me no reason why 
 your choice should be limited to these two 
 trades," said Colonel Sutherland ; " there are 
 many things besides which such a young man 
 as yourself can do better than either. Come, 
 you are very young — you are arbitrary and 
 impatient. The profession of arms can only 
 carry a man on and forward in time of 
 war. You are thinking of Napoleon's sol- 
 diers, those men who might possibly carry a 
 marshal's baton in their knapsacks ; but you 
 forget that the first thing required is not 
 the soldiers, but the Napoleon — and things 
 were never so in the English army, my
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 177 
 
 young friend. Even in times of war, not 
 one man in a thousand rises from the 
 ranks — no, not even in India — not in 
 the Company's service. Don't deceive your- 
 self. Don't you know that even the old 
 women in the village break their hearts 
 when their sons enlist, and declare that any- 
 thing would be better? I don't say that 
 I am a soldier myself ; but they are nearer 
 the truth than you." 
 
 " Is it then only the alternative of despair ?" 
 cried the young man. 
 
 Colonel Sutherland curved his hand over 
 his deaf ear, and begged his pardon, and had 
 not heard him. The excellent Colonel was at 
 home in his capacity of adviser : he could 
 understand this lad who came with h's heart 
 on his lips ten times better than he could 
 understand Horace, and took up his case with 
 lively zeal and interest. He took him to 
 the inn with himself, and made him sit by 
 while he breakfasted, and grew into friendship 
 with the young stranger almost against his 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOK. 
 
 will. On the whole, the encounter pleased 
 the Colonel : he made Roger promise to come 
 to him in the evening, when they could talk 
 over his affairs at leisure, and warned him 
 with fatherly kindness to do nothing rashly, 
 and to entertain no further thought of en- 
 listment. Perhaps it was very foolish of 
 the Colonel to comfort the youth's heart 
 after this rash fashion ; perhaps it was 
 " raising expectations which could never be 
 justified." The old man never thought of 
 that : he had kindness to give, and good 
 counsel, and some knowledge of the world. 
 He said to himself that this was all an old 
 man was good for, and so shook hands with 
 poor Roger Musgrave as if he had known 
 him all his life, and occupied himself on the 
 road to Marchmain with contrivances for 
 serving him. It was his "way"; there are 
 people who have a worse " way " to be met 
 with in this world.
 
 179 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Before Colonel Sutherland left the inn on 
 his expedition to Marchmain, he had another 
 visitor in the sergeant, who took care, how- 
 ever, to make sure that Musgrave was 
 gone before making his appearance. He 
 was not unlike the Colonel himself in his 
 outer man ; tall, spare, and brown, with a 
 weather-beaten face and a grizzled moustache, 
 Kennedy had at least sufficient resemblance 
 to his old Colonel to mark their connection 
 as comrades in arms. But the sergeant was 
 neither deaf nor to any remarkable extent 
 benevolent ; abstract kindness did not influ- 
 ence him much ; he flattered himself that he 
 " knew what he was about " under all cir- 
 
 n2
 
 180 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 cumstances, and was somewhat pragmatical 
 and dogmatic on most matters. His exten- 
 sive experience and knowledge of the world 
 had made him the cock of the village for 
 a year or two past, where everybody believed 
 his big stories, and most people were dis- 
 posed to indorse his own opinion of himself. 
 He was from the north of Ireland ; a violent 
 Protestant and Orangeman — tendencies suf- 
 ficiently innocent in him ; but the place of 
 his birth, mingling a little of the fire and 
 vehemence of the Milesian with all the 
 obstinacy, dogmatism, and self-opinion of 
 Scotland, had sufficient influence on his cha- 
 racter to be noted. He was a rigid Pres- 
 byterian — one of the pillars of one of 
 those little churches which, lingering near 
 the border, prove that the national faith of 
 Scotland has pushed her colonies more 
 efiectively into the sister country than Eng- 
 land has been able to do in return ; but this 
 did not prevent Kennedy from making him- 
 self the oracle of the village ale-house,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 181 
 
 where he might be seen three or four nights 
 a-week, sometimes in a very lofty and 
 dignified state of haziness, freely bestowing 
 the most grave advice upon everybody, and 
 disposed to take rather a melancholy view of 
 the degradation of the times, and of things in 
 general. But this was the worst that anyone 
 could say against him. He was fond of his 
 little grandchildren, and was always busy 
 with something for their amusement; good 
 to his daughter, whom he often helped out 
 of his own little funds ; and in general 
 friendly and serviceable. He presented 
 himself to his old commander with a little 
 awkwardness, fully expecting, as it seemed, 
 to be taken to task for his morning's ex- 
 ploits ; and his expectations were not dis- 
 appointed. Colonel Sutherland was too much 
 given to advising youth himself to have any 
 patience with the advice of the sergeant. 
 It was an invasion of his own domain which 
 he could not forgive. 
 
 " I am glad to hear you are so com-
 
 182 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 fortable," said the Colonel, ^^ and that you 
 manage to live in peace with your son-in- 
 law, which, I confess to you, I would have 
 thought rather doubtful; for I know you're 
 rather strong in your opinions — eh ! is it 
 your daughter that keeps the peace?" 
 
 " Na, Cornel, na," said the sergeant; "Fm 
 no so onexperienced as that; faothers and 
 moothers are best in their oun place. I 
 have a cot to myseF, and a' my traps 
 about me — next house to Mary, poor thing I 
 — and she's kept a' goin' since I've come, 
 and the childer they keep back and for- 
 ard ; and so far as the husband goes, it 
 never was said, among a' slanders, that I 
 was ought but a peaceable man — " 
 
 " Oh ! a very peaceable man," said Colonel 
 Sutherland, with a smile. " That, to be sure, 
 is the last thing one could think of doubting ; 
 but come, you have your faults, my good 
 fellow — what do you say to me, now, for 
 such an account as I heard your giving, 
 this morning, to the young man?"
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 183 
 
 " Well, Cornel ! " exclaimed the culprit, 
 keeping up his boldness, though a little 
 abashed — 
 
 ^* Well ! It does not appear to me to be 
 well at all," said the Colonel; "how often 
 have I told you, when on recruiting duty, to 
 tell the truth ? You pour a parcel of lies 
 into a poor blockhead's head, and blow up 
 his pride with thoughts of what's going to 
 happen to him ; and you expect, when he has 
 found out that it's all lies, as he must do, that 
 he will believe the rest of what you say to 
 him ! That's bad enough ; but to go into it 
 con amove — I mean for pure love of ro- 
 mancing — when there was neither necessity 
 nor business in it — I admit to you that's 
 something that beats me." 
 
 " Ay, Cornel, it's easy for the like of you," 
 said Kennedy, " that have your pensions and 
 commands ; but what's a man to say to the 
 poor devils ? Hard service and poor wages, 
 barracks and boiled beef, and sixpence a-day ! 
 Truth's a grand thing for the army. Cornel,
 
 184 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 but it does not bring in no recruits ; and 
 Where's the harm done? If Johnny Kaw is 
 deceived wance in a way, it's soon tooken out 
 on him. At the worst, did I ever tell a man 
 he could rise to be Cornel but by a steedy 
 life and doing his duty ? Sure, and if he 
 minds himself, he can come to be sergeant, 
 and that's next best ; but the biggest lot of 
 them, Cornel, as you know as well as me, 
 never try, and get no honour at all, at all, 
 as may well be proved ; for them that strive 
 not, win not on, as I've told them till I was 
 hoarse myself, many's the day." 
 
 " You never wanted an excuse," said the 
 Colonel, shaking his head ; " however, we'll 
 leave the general question ; did you ever 
 know a man in the 100th rise from the 
 ranks ? — did you ever hear of a sergeant 
 sent on a political mission ? — and how 
 could you venture to begin the day, 
 you old sinner, with such a pack of 
 lies?" 
 
 "Well, well, Cornel — aisy, sir," said the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOE. 185 
 
 sergeant ; " sure he was a gentleman, and 
 know'd what was what as well as me ! " 
 
 Colonel Sutherland laughed in spite of 
 himself at this original excuse, on seeing 
 which Kennedy recovered his courage, and 
 took a higher tone.- 
 
 "And if ye'll believe me, the best thing 
 for him yonder is just to 'list. Cornel. If 
 he wance 'lists, friends '11 come in and buy 
 his commission ; for sure they are well off 
 and in plenty, Yorkshire ways — and the dis- 
 grace, sir, the disgrace, that's what will 
 make them draw their purse-strings. I 
 would not desire a prettier man, either for 
 parade or battle-field. He's a soldier born ! " 
 
 " They ! who are they ? " said Colonel 
 Sutherland; ^^he has no friends." 
 
 "Maybe, Cornel, maybe — I say little 
 of friends — friendship's neither here nor 
 there," said the sergeant, waving his hand; 
 "but the faother and moother I can 
 speak to. Them that heeds not love, 
 heeds shame."
 
 186 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 "You are oracular, Sergeant Kennedy/' 
 said the Colonel, with a very little pee- 
 vishness ; *^ but I tell you the lad told 
 me he had no friends/' 
 
 " Faother and moother. Cornel, as I say," 
 answered the persistent sergeant, with a 
 little nod of his dogmatical head. 
 
 Colonel Sutherland got up and fell to 
 pacing the room with great annoyance and 
 agitation. After a little while, being some- 
 what obstinate himself, he seized Kennedy 
 by the shoulder and shook him. 
 
 "You're deaf!" said the Colonel, with a 
 whimsical, half-angry transference of his 
 own defect to the other; "you're hard of 
 hearing! I tell you the lad says he has 
 no friends." 
 
 " And I tell you. Cornel, he has fao- 
 ther and moother, if it was my last word ! " 
 said the sergeant once again. 
 
 "Your last word! — ay, you will always 
 have the last word," cried Colonel Su- 
 therland, this time indeed hearing imper-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 187 
 
 fectly; "there must be some mistake, I 
 suppose. Never mind, we^ll inquire into 
 it later. You must see me again, ser- 
 geant — I am going now to my young 
 people. Good morning to you, my friend 
 — ask for me here to-morrow." 
 
 "Are the young gentlemen in these parts, 
 Cornel ? " said Kennedy, rising with a little 
 reluctance; "I said to mysel' the Cornel 
 behooved to have his own occasions here.'' 
 
 "Not my boys — my niece and nephew, 
 people you never heard of," said the 
 Colonel, quickly. "Now, my man, good 
 morning — I am pushed for time — you'll 
 come again to-morrow." 
 
 Thus urged, Kennedy had no resource 
 but to obey, which he did, however, very 
 slowly, running over in his mind imme- 
 diately all the " gentlemens' families " of 
 the district, with which he had any ac- 
 quaintance, in a vain endeavour to ascer- 
 tain who could be the niece and nephew 
 of his " old Cornel." Kennedy, as it hap-
 
 188 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 pened, had not been at his usual post in 
 the public room of the little inn on the 
 previous night, and had consequently no 
 intimation of any dawn of new fortune on 
 Mr. Horry, whom he knew perfectly well, 
 and at whose hands he had suffered con- 
 tradiction enough to give him some in- 
 terest in the young man's fate. This in- 
 formation, however, he would have been 
 pretty sure to receive, but that Colonel 
 Sutherland had already sent for the land- 
 lady to give her his orders for the day. 
 
 The Colonel was extremely frugal, almost 
 parsimonious so far as his own manner of 
 living was concerned, but having set him- 
 self to devise some pleasure for poor Susan, 
 shut up all her life in Marchmain, the 
 extremest liberality which the circumstances 
 would allow, was not too much for his 
 inclinations. The only vehicle possessed by 
 the little inn at Tillington was a double 
 gig, a very homely conveyance, which the 
 Colonel had already ordered, and in which he
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 189 
 
 proposed to take Susan " somewhere," bring- 
 ing her back to lunch with him. The kind 
 old man entered into the most minute 
 directions about this lunch. He put ela- 
 borate leading questions, in order to as- 
 certain what the cuisine was capable of, 
 and consulted over puddings and tarts 
 with the zeal of a connoisseur. A sen- 
 timental French chef who would have en- 
 tered into the sentiment of the occasion, 
 would have delighted the Colonel. He 
 wanted a dainty meal of pretty little dishes, 
 sweet and savoury, as much in honour of 
 Susan, as to please her youthful palate, 
 and endeavoured so earnestly to impress 
 his wishes upon the homely innkeeper, that 
 the idea of some secret grandeur belonging 
 to Mr. Horry and his sister impressed itself 
 more and more deeply upon that good 
 woman's mind. She promised to do her 
 very best; with the greatest awe and im- 
 pressment she left the innocent and too 
 trustful Colonel to study her cookery-book
 
 190 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 with devotion, and to conceive impossible 
 triumphs of culinary art. But art, even 
 in the kitchen, avenges itself upon those 
 who neglect it. Poor Mrs. Gilsland lost 
 three or four hours of valuable time, and 
 her temper — which wa3 still more valuable 
 — over trifle which sunk dead into the bot- 
 tom of her dish, and cream which would 
 not " whip ; '' and dratted the Colonel at 
 the conclusion of it with hearty good will 
 and much vexation. While the innocent 
 Colonel, secure of having done all that man 
 could do to procure a satisfactory collation 
 for Susan, drove the innkeeper's steady old 
 horse across the moorland road, and com- 
 bated manfully the vexation which rose 
 stronger and stronger in his mind, as he 
 recollected the discrepancy between young 
 Musgrave's account of himself and that 
 given by Kennedy. 
 
 The Colonel had a little pride in his own 
 discernment, and could not bear to be taken 
 in ; but besides that, was grieved in his kind
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 191 
 
 old heart at the thought of finding his new 
 protege unworthy; and yet his manner was 
 so sincere, his face so honest and candid ! 
 Would that Horace had as clear a counte- 
 nance ! Colonel Sutherland touched the 
 horse with his whip, and went forward 
 with a little start, as if he would rather 
 escape from that last thought, and so dis- 
 missed young Musgrave from his mind as 
 best he could, and began to think with 
 simple pleasure of Susan and the unusual 
 holiday which he was bringing to her. He 
 had ascertained that it was possible this fine 
 morning to drive her to the little country 
 town, where it was market-day, and where 
 the little stir and bustle of life would be 
 new to her. The idea of the pleasure she 
 would have exhilarated himself, as he ap- 
 proached nearer to the house. He meant 
 to buy her some books, and anything 
 else that might amuse her in her soli- 
 tude, and smiled to himself, with a tender 
 and simple satisfaction, as he tried to an-
 
 192 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 ticipate her likings and wishes. Thus think- 
 ing, and thus smiling, he came in sight of 
 the solitary house upon which at the 
 moment the sun shone. 
 
 There it stood in its dark reserve, with 
 the windows buried deep in the wall, 
 sending no responsive glimmer to the light 
 which shone full upon the blank gable, and 
 slanted along the front of the house. There 
 was no projecting point to make a break of 
 shadow in the featureless brightness, nothing 
 but the dull wall and the cold slate-roof; 
 and all around the black moor, without a 
 tree, intersected by long deep cuttings full 
 of black water. Colonel Sutherland pulled 
 up in spite of himself, both in his pace and 
 his thoughts, and went softly over the re- 
 maining way. Could he hope to penetrate 
 when the very sun was baffled? A chill 
 of disgust, a throb of impatience, the into- 
 lerance of a fresh and upright nature for 
 this unnatural mystery and gloom, possessed 
 him in spite of himself. He said to him-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 193 
 
 self that it was contemptible, that he had 
 no patience with it. It needed all the 
 smiles of Susan looking out from the win- 
 dow to restore him to his pleasanter thoughts, 
 and to throw the least light of feasibility 
 upon his simple expedients for softening and 
 healing the harms of this unnatural life. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 • 194 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 Susan had been at the window for nearly 
 two hours, though it was still only eleven 
 o^clock. She said to herself that Uncle Ed- 
 ward would not certainly come before the 
 middle of the day, but still could not leave 
 the window in case she might possibly lose 
 the first glimpse of him on the road. When 
 she had satisfied herself, to her great dis- 
 appointment, that the homely country vehicle 
 which she saw approaching contained him, 
 poor Susan nearly cried with vexation. There 
 was not even anybody in the gig with 
 him to take charge of it. It appeared that 
 he must only mean to remain a moment,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 195 
 
 and Susan withdrew from the window in 
 the first shock of her disappointment, feel- 
 ing that Uncle Edward had deceived her, 
 and that there was no longer anything to be 
 depended on in the world. 
 
 At that instant Horace, who had no 
 desire to subject himself to the inquiries 
 of Susan, and had hitherto kept rathep out 
 of her way, entered the room abruptly. 
 
 *^ Here is my uncle ! '' he exclaimed. 
 *^ What ! you don't care for him to-day, 
 don't you? He's no novelty now? — that's 
 famous, certainly ! But, do you hear, Susan, 
 I want something of you. While he's here, 
 make him talk all you can ; ask him about 
 my mother ; how they used to live when 
 we were babies ; what happened about the 
 time she died ; everything you can think 
 of. I want to hear what he says, and 
 of course all that's very interesting to you ; 
 you want to know." 
 
 " Don't you want to know, Horace ? " 
 asked Susan, half alarmed by his tone, 
 
 2
 
 196 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 and yet half pleased with the idea that he 
 was becoming interested about their dead 
 mother, and the life which was connected 
 with her. She looked at him with dubious, 
 uncertain looks ; she did not know what 
 to make of him. She could not compre- 
 hend any secondary or evil motive which 
 he could have, and yet he did not seem 
 to speak quite honestly, or in good faith. 
 
 ^' To be sure ; why else should I bid you 
 ask ? " said Horace, throwing a book down 
 on the table and seating himself by it, as if 
 he had been pursuing his morning studies there. 
 
 And indeed Susan had said the same 
 thing to herself. She ran to the window 
 again as the wheels began to approach 
 audibly, and could no longer feel disap- 
 pointed when she met Uncle Edward^s smile, 
 and saw him uncover his grey head in the 
 sunshine, in his antique affectionate gallantry. 
 Susan was quite unaccustomed to the com- 
 mon tokens of respect which belonged to her 
 womanhood. The salutation made her blush,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 197 
 
 and yet pleased her wonderfully; she could 
 no longer believe that her uncle was coming 
 only to call as if they had been strangers. 
 She stood smiling and waving her hand to 
 him till he was quite near, and then ran 
 to the door. John Gilsland's mare was the 
 soberest beast in the district — she stood still 
 as a statue when the Colonel descended, 
 and looked so perfectly trustworthy, that 
 he did not hesitate to leave her to herself 
 for a few minutes. He took both Susan's 
 hands in his and kissed her forehead with 
 a fatherly grace, then drew her arm into 
 his own to lead her back to the dining- 
 room. His whole manner, with its protect- 
 ing, tender, indulgent kindness for her youth, 
 and its chivalrous respect for her woman- 
 hood, had in it the most exquisite sensa- 
 tion of novelty for Susan. She laughed to 
 herself secretly, yet with tears coming to 
 her eyes — she felt a new pride, a tender 
 humility in her own heart. She was flattered, 
 and touched, and stimulated at the same
 
 198 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 moment. Wonderful was this love, this new 
 influence, this unknown soul of life ; it might 
 have been more romantic had it dawned upon 
 her through a young man instead of an old 
 one — a lover rather than an uncle ; but in 
 that case the revelation would have been 
 very different, and perhaps the revolution 
 scarcely so complete. 
 
 ^' Call Peggy, my dear child," said Uncle 
 Edward, " and put on your bonnet, I want 
 you to go with me as far as Kenlisle — not 
 too far for a drive this fine morning; it is 
 cold to be sure, but bright and pleasant ; 
 tell Peggy you must have on your warmest 
 wraps; tell her I want you to see some- 
 thing else than the moor, for one day at 
 least — tell her — ah, here she is herself ! 
 Peggy, I want my niece to drive with me 
 to-day to Kenlisle — will there be any ob- 
 jections, do you think ? " 
 
 *^ The master never sets eyes on Miss 
 Susan, from ten o'clock in the day till six 
 at night," said Peggy. " He can scarce
 
 THE HOUSE OX THE MOOR. 199 
 
 complain, and as for me I give my con- 
 sent willing. Ay, honey ! you may look, 
 with your eyes dancing in your head — I 
 said new times was coming. Would you 
 keep the Colonel waiting ? and the mare at 
 the door like a douse wife, taking great 
 notice on the bits of green grass agrowing 
 amidst of the stones. There, Colonel, she's 
 off like a hare athwart the moor — the poor 
 child ! from a baby, she's ne'er had a holi- 
 day before." 
 
 And Peggy hastened up-stairs after 
 Susan, who, gazing from one to another for 
 a moment of bewildered and doubtful de- 
 light, had at last burst from the room, 
 seeing that nobody opposed the extraordinary, 
 delightful suggestion, to get ready for her 
 drive. When the old woman disappeared 
 following her, the Colonel turned to Horace, 
 who had listened with a good deal of dis- 
 comfiture, resentment, and contempt, unable 
 to comprehend the bad taste which could 
 contrive pleasures for Susan, to the neglect
 
 200 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 of himself. It gave Horace a worse opinion 
 of his uncle than he had yet entertained. 
 He could scarcely help sneering at him, 
 and calling him an old woman to his face. 
 
 " Will you walk over to Tillington and 
 meet us, Horace?" said Colonel Sutherland, 
 who, for his part, exhilarated by the sight 
 of Susan's delight and wonder, was now 
 full of smiles and satisfaction ; "I have 
 ordered some luncheon between two and 
 three, which will leave you time to bring 
 your sister home. You will come? — you 
 look a little pale, my boy — you have been 
 thinking too much over-night ! " 
 
 "It is possible — I have not slept since I 
 saw you, uncle,'' said the young man. 
 
 " Too much — too much," said Colonel 
 Sutherland, resting his hand kindly upon 
 his nephew's shoulder. " Important as the 
 question is, I am sorry you lost your sleep 
 — it is only old people who can do that 
 with safety. And you have come to a 
 good conclusion, Horace ? — that is right !
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 201 
 
 Already, I am sure you feel the pleasure 
 of decision. But I will not ask you what you 
 have resolved on now. Eh, Susan? — what, 
 not dressed yet, you fairy ? — what is it now ? " 
 
 *^ Oh, uncle ! — I only wanted to ask, if 
 you won't be angry," cried Susan, out of 
 breath, " whether I should be too grand if 
 I wore my shawl ? " 
 
 The old man's face brightened, and ex- 
 panded all over with the simplest pleasure. 
 
 " Too grand ! — you don't drive with me 
 every day, do you ? " he said with a laugh, 
 as he patted her cheek. "No — I should 
 be quite mortified if I did not see you in 
 your shawl; but make haste — think of the 
 mare, and in a winter s day remember there 
 is no daylight to lose." 
 
 Susan ran off again with flying feet, and 
 the Colonel turned once more to his ne- 
 phew. He could not help recognizing then 
 something of the amazement, contempt, and 
 derision which filled the mind of Ho- 
 race. Uncle Edward was a little struck by
 
 202 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 his look — perhaps, even a little offended. 
 He paused unconsciously to defend himself. 
 
 "You think that very trivial — eh, Horace? " 
 said the Colonel. " Ah, my boy ! one is 
 heroical when one is young— one feels it 
 grand to be superior, and despise the smaller 
 matters of life ; but at my age one learns that 
 happiness itself is made up of trivial things." 
 
 Horace's eyes fell under his uncle's look ; 
 he was half ashamed — not of his sentiments, 
 but of having betrayed them. 
 
 " I am sure it is very good of you to take 
 so much trouble for Susan," he said, with his 
 uncomprehending, half-resentful voice. 
 
 Colonel Sutherland supposed Horace to be 
 jealous, and was a little pained, but yet 
 acknowledged a certain amount of nature in 
 the feeling. He had no conception of the 
 true state of the case — of the entire contempt 
 his nephew felt for himself, and the angry and 
 derisive wonder with which he perceived the 
 importance given to Susan. It was not 
 jealousy : Horace only could not comprehend
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 203 
 
 how any man in his senses could resign his 
 conversation and society for that of his sister 
 — Susan ! a girl ! who knew nothing, hoped 
 nothing, desired nothing — a tame, contented 
 woman ! He found it hard to restrain himself 
 under these circumstances, and called his 
 uncle an old fool and an old trifler in his 
 secret heart. Then Susan came downstairs, 
 smiling and happy — her India shawl con- 
 trasting, perhaps, rather too strongly with her 
 simple honnet and dark merino gown, stand- 
 ing before her uncle to be admired, and 
 turning round that he might see his present 
 in all possible aspects. What trifling ! what 
 folly ! what miserable vanity ! But it pleased 
 the two wonderfully, who stood there making 
 a little sun-bright group of their own, the old 
 man stooping over the girl, with his tender, 
 indulgent smile, and the girl looking up to 
 him in her unusual flutter of happy spirits. 
 Perhaps it is true, after all, that common, 
 every-day happiness — that dear solace of com- 
 mon life, which comes, when it does come,
 
 204 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOK. 
 
 without asking — is made up of very trivial 
 things; at all events, it was much more agree- 
 able to look at them than at Horace, who 
 loured behind them like a dark cloud, and 
 t urned away his head in disgust, and felt that 
 it was all he could do to keep the sneer of 
 scorn from his lip. In much the same condi- 
 tion he attended them to the door, and saw 
 them drive away. Susan, wrapped up and 
 covered over with shawls and cloaks of every 
 description by her nucleus careful hands, and 
 with Peggy's great black veil, embroidered 
 with great flowers, like gigantic beetles, fas- 
 tened over her bonnet ; from the midst of all 
 which unusual coverings the pretty face, 
 smiling and blushing, radiant with pleasure 
 and gratitude, looked out in its sweet colour 
 and expression, with a simplicity of happiness 
 quite beyond Horace's frown to stifle or pre- 
 vent. Somehow his sister's face disgusted 
 him that day : he stood looking after them, 
 suffering his sneer to take form and remain, 
 long after they were out of sight. He rose
 
 THE HOUSE ON TDE MOOR. 205 
 
 over them in his own mind with a con- 
 temptuous superiority, yet felt himself hum- 
 bled and envious at sight of the happiness 
 with which he had no sympathy, and which 
 he did not understand. He did not wish to 
 share it — it was something beneath his level. 
 Yet the very power of being exhilarated 
 by such trifles, and finding pleasure so 
 independent of reasonable grounds, filled the 
 young man with a certain envy, and humiliated 
 his pride. Susan's happiness did not give 
 him a single throb of pleasure, yet it bright- 
 ened his uncle's face into quite a kindred 
 light : it was altogether incomprehensible to 
 Horace. He took refuge in silent contempt 
 and sneers of unacknowledged mortification, 
 disdaining the pleasure, yet galled in him- 
 self not to comprehend how it was.
 
 206 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Meanwhile Colonel Sutherland and his niece 
 drove along the bare and exposed moor- 
 land road with very different sentiments. 
 Susan could not feel any cold, could not 
 allow herself to suppose that any landscape 
 more delightful or weather more entirely 
 satisfactory was to be found anywhere in 
 the world. She pitied the poor people shut 
 up in a close carriage, whom they passed 
 at a little distance from Marchmain. She 
 appealed to her uncle if a gig was not of 
 all other kinds of conveyance the most de- 
 lightful. She listened to his stories of travel 
 in India, with all its elephants and camels,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 207 
 
 and of the still more miraculous railway at 
 home, with equal admiration and wonder, 
 as things equally unlikely to come under 
 her own observation, and enjoyed her pre- 
 sent extraordinary felicity all the more from 
 thinking how unlikely it was to occur again. 
 Everything concurred to put Susan in 
 the highest spirits — her freedom, her kind 
 protector, the novelty of her position, the 
 wondering looks cast at her from the cot- 
 tages they passed, the involuntary respect 
 excited by her companion, the air, the sun- 
 shine — even the fine shawl, though it was 
 entirely covered by her other wrappings 
 and nobody could see it — all contributed 
 towards the full and joyous satisfaction of 
 her young mind. She put Peggy's great 
 old-fashioned veil, with its big beetles, up 
 from her face — she was not afraid of the 
 wind, or of taking cold, or of anything else 
 in the world ; and as the horizon gradually 
 ^videned, and the road extended out of the 
 immediate vicinity of her home, Susan's
 
 208 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 delight increased. She declared the hills 
 went faster than they did, and kept con- 
 tinually receding, and every new opening 
 of the landscape increased her pleasure. 
 The Colonel listened to all her admiring 
 exclamations with a smiling face ; he told 
 her of his own neighbourhood, a fairer and 
 richer country. He spoke of the visit she 
 must make him shortly, and of all the 
 places he should take her to. The wind 
 blew cold in their faces, with by no means 
 a balmy or genial breath ; but then their 
 hearts were so fortified with warm affections 
 and honest happiness, that the cold did 
 not hurt them. Little by little they fell 
 into more particular conversation. Colonel 
 Sutherland was interested and concerned 
 about Horace, anxious to know how to 
 help him ; but he was not and could not 
 be confidential with his nephew, whereas 
 his heart flew open to Susan as at a touch 
 of magic. He could not help speaking 
 of everything which moved when he had
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 209 
 
 gained her ear, and had her to himself 
 alone. He had told her all about young 
 Roger Musgrave before he was aware, and 
 about Kennedy's story, and his own vexa- 
 tion and annoyance to find that the young 
 stranger had not dealt quite truly by him. 
 
 " But, uncle ! — oh, Peggy knows all 
 about him," said Susan ; '^ Peggy did not 
 know he had any friends till just the other 
 day. Perhaps he did not know himself — 
 perhaps — I think, Uncle Edward, I would 
 not believe he was wrong till he told you 
 of it himself." 
 
 *'But if he is in the wrong, Susan, will 
 he tell me of it himself? " 
 
 "Some people would not," said Susan, 
 gravely, " I know that ; but yes, uncle, oh, 
 yes, I am not afraid." 
 
 " Perhaps you know him better than I do, 
 my love," said Uncle Edward, observing with 
 a little curiosity the expression of Susan's face. 
 
 " Yes, I think I saw him once," said Susan. 
 Then she added, with a little laugh — " I was 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 very much frightened — I am afraid it was very 
 wrong of him — he was actually fighting, uncle.'^ 
 
 " Fighting? — it was certainly very wrong/' 
 said the Colonel; "but you laugh, you wicked 
 little fairy — what was it about ? " 
 
 " It was not SO much fighting either," said 
 Susan — " it was ^punishing. It was gipsies, 
 uncle — what the people here call muggers, you 
 know. One of them was driving his little 
 cart along the road with a poor wretched 
 donkey, lashing it like a savage, and his 
 poor wife came trudging after him, with her 
 baby tied in a shawl on her back — and twice 
 over he gave her a cut with his whip, to make 
 her go faster. I could have beaten him my- 
 self — the great beast ! " cried Susan. " Roger 
 Musgrave was coming down the road ; and, 
 just as he met the muggers, that fellow 
 pushed his wife out of the way so rudely, 
 that she fell down, poor creature, and hurt 
 herself. Mr. Roger had been watching them 
 like me — he came up just then with a spring, 
 and caught the mugger by his collar and his
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 211 
 
 waist like this ; and, before he had time to 
 say a word, tossed him over the hedge — 
 right over — where he rolled head-over-heels 
 on the grass. You should have seen his 
 face when he got up ! I clapped my hands 
 — I was so pleased. And Mr. Eoger took 
 off his hat to me/* said Susan, after a little 
 pause, with a rising colour, "as you did, 
 uncle, to-day." 
 
 " It was very well done, I don't doubt," 
 said Colonel Sutherland ; " but, my dear 
 child, that was not fighting." 
 
 "Oh, no ^ not that! — but I liked it 
 better than what came after," said Susan. 
 " The mugger scrambled through the hedge, 
 and swore at Mr. Eoger ; and he took off 
 his coat in a moment, and told him not 
 to be a coward, to flog women and beasts, 
 but to come on — and I was very much 
 frightened ; then the mugger's wife, she came 
 forward and swore too, and it was all very 
 dreadful. I did not want to see them fight, 
 and ran into a cottage — I rather think they 
 
 p2
 
 212 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 did not fight at all, for the mugger was 
 frightened too j but, however, that was the 
 only time I ever saw Roger Musgrave; the 
 people in the cottage told me who he was, 
 and I liked him for punishing the man/' 
 
 *^ I daresay the fellow punished his wife 
 and the donkey all the more, when they were 
 out of sight,'* said the Colonel ; " but I con- 
 fess I should have done it myself. Very 
 well ! I will put down in my books — my 
 little Susan in favour of young Musgrave 
 versus Sergeant Kennedy against. And so 
 you only saw him that one time? Do you 
 know anybody at all, you poor child ? — have 
 you ever had a companion in your life ? " 
 
 " Not a companion," said Susan ; " but " 
 — and she looked up in her uncle's face — 
 ''you wont be angry, I know, uncle. Peggy 
 goes to the meeting, and sometimes in the 
 morning, when papa does not go out, I go with 
 her. It is dreary to go to church all alone." 
 
 " So it is/' said the sympathetic uncle ; 
 "and what then?"
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 213 
 
 '* Then," said Susan, blushing a little more, 
 and looking up shyly in his face — " I am sure 
 I do not know how we got acquainted. We 
 used to look at each other, and then we 
 nodded, and then, at last, one day we spoke ; 
 and now, sometimes, we meet when we are 
 out walking, uncle — and once I have been in 
 their house — only once. I did not mean it — 
 I was there before I knew what I was about." 
 
 "But you have not told me yet who 
 this mysterious person is," said the Colonel, 
 a little disappointed and troubled, if the truth 
 must be told, at the thought of some young 
 and no doubt perfectly unsuitable lover who 
 met his little girl in clandestine walks, and 
 whose house even, the inexperience of Susan 
 had been persuaded into visiting. He said 
 the words rather coldly, in spite of him- 
 self — he was mortified to find the virginal 
 quiet of her mind already thus disturbed. 
 
 " Uncle, are you displeased ? " said 
 Susan, with a little fright and surprise. 
 " Oh, I never thought you would be angry ;
 
 214 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 for even Peggy said that to be friends 
 with Letty would be for my good. She 
 is the minister's daughter at the meeting, 
 and the only child; and she has learned 
 so much, and knows a hundred things that 
 I know nothing of; and, uncle, sometimes I 
 want somebody to speak to — oh, so much I " 
 
 "My dear child, forgive me! I wish 
 you knew a dozen Letties," cried the re- 
 pentant Colonel ; " that you should have 
 to blush over an innocent friendship, my 
 poor dear little girl ; but your confusion, 
 Susan, made me think it something very 
 different. Why should you be ashamed of 
 knowing Letty ? I am very glad to hear 
 it, for my part.'' 
 
 Susan did not answer just immediately. 
 She said to herself, with a little quickening 
 of her breath: — 
 
 "I wonder what was the something very 
 different that Uncle Edward thought of," 
 and a little inclination to laughter seized 
 the little girl. Who could tell why? She
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 215 
 
 did not know herself, but felt it all the same. 
 
 "Does Horace spend much of his time 
 with you, Susan ? " said Uncle Edward ; 
 *' does he tell you what he is thinking 
 about? Do you know that your brother is 
 tired of an idle life, and wants to be employed, 
 and to make his own way in the world ? '* 
 
 With that question Susan was brought back 
 to her home, and separated as if by magic 
 in a moment from all her individual invo- 
 luntary girlish happinesses ; she shrank a 
 little into herself and felt chilled and con- 
 tracted, without knowing how. She could 
 not even be so frank as she would have 
 been a little while ago — Uncle Edward's love 
 had opened the eyes of the neglected girl, 
 and developed all at once in her heart the 
 natural instincts of " the only woman in the 
 family." She could not bear to convey an un- 
 favourable impression of Horace to her uncle ; 
 but, unskilled in her new craft, she betrayed 
 herself even by her reticences and reserves. 
 
 " I know he wants to go away," she said,
 
 216 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 faltering a little ; " and I am sure you would 
 not be surprised, if you lived with us only 
 for a day ; — for," added Susan, blushing and 
 correcting herself, "it is very dull at March- 
 main, and boys cannot put up with that as 
 we can. Horace has always felt it a great 
 deal more than I have.'* 
 
 " I am not surprised," said Colonel Suth- 
 erland; "if Marchmain was the happiest 
 home in the world, still the young man 
 must go away — it is in his nature. He 
 must make his own way in the world." 
 
 "Must he, uncle?" said Susan, looking 
 up with a little surprise into his face. 
 
 " I was only sixteen, my love, when I 
 first went to India," said the Colonel ; 
 "the boys, as you call them, must not 
 stay at home all their lives — they must 
 do something. My Ned will be on his 
 way to India, if all is well, in a year 
 or two. The sooner a young man gets 
 into his work the better — and now Horace 
 would set about it too."
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 217 
 
 " But he cannot do anything, uncle," 
 said Susan, seriously ; " what is he going 
 to do?" 
 
 " Has he never told you?" asked Uncle 
 Edward. 
 
 The question seemed to imply blame, 
 and Susan was troubled. 
 
 " Horace is not like you, uncle," she 
 said, recovering a little boldness; *^he does 
 not tell me things ; he knows a great deal 
 more than I do — he has almost learned 
 German — and he thinks a great deal more. 
 I am afraid I do not always understand 
 him when he does speak to me. It is my 
 fault; so he thinks over everything all the 
 more, and I am afraid sometimes gets angry 
 in his heart, because no one can understand 
 him at Marchmain ! " 
 
 Colonel Sutherland shook his head, but 
 did not say anything. He began to tell 
 Susan what he did when he was a lad. 
 
 " There were a great many of us at 
 home, to be sure," said the Colonel; "but
 
 218 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 we were all scattered before the youngest 
 was fifteen — the sisters married, and the 
 brothers making their own career. They 
 are all dead, Susan, every one — but you 
 have quantities of cousins, my dear, in 
 India and elsewhere, whom you never heard 
 of, I daresay. Your Uncle William was 
 puisne Judge of the Saraflat, John was Eesi- 
 dent at Cangalore, both of them very much 
 respected. I was the youngest but one. I 
 could not bear the thought that all my 
 brothers were independent but myself. I 
 gave them no peace at home till I got my 
 cadetship. Unless one has the good fortune 
 to get an appointment, it is quite as hard 
 work getting on in India as at home, my 
 dear ; and all our influence had been used up 
 for my elder brothers, and exhausted before 
 it, came to my turn. I was but a subal- 
 tern when I married, Susan. Your aunt 
 was — ah, I can't describe her, my love. I 
 am very happy on the whole and contented, 
 but sometimes I think on what might have
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 219 
 
 been, and make myself wretched, which is 
 very sinful, considering how much I have 
 to thank God for. Yes, Susan, I was a 
 rich man once. I had wife and daughters, 
 and my house full. We had not very much 
 money, but we were very happy; and now, 
 my dear child, you are the only woman of 
 the family — that is, here,^' 
 
 Susan could not have spoken a word to 
 save her life — she sobbed silently under her 
 heap of warm wrappings, looking with a 
 wistful, youthful sympathy into the grave 
 face beside her. The Colonel shed no tears ; 
 — he guided his horse with the same quiet 
 caution as before, turning the animal aside 
 from a sudden obstacle in the way, with a 
 steady promptitude, which showed his per- 
 fect attention to what he was about, even 
 in the midst of these recollections; yet he 
 was not looking at the road, nor at her, 
 nor at anything; but had his eyes fixed on 
 the far-away horizon, which yet he did not 
 see. Susan sat beside him in silence, won-
 
 220 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 dering with youthful awe and reverence over 
 the indescribable yearning, with which some 
 instinct told her this brave old heart longed 
 for the heaven which held his departed ; 
 but she could not say anything — she would 
 have felt it sacrilege. 
 
 However, they shortly approached the 
 town, which recalled Colonel Sutherland from 
 his graver thoughts. It was a comfortable 
 country town, pleasantly placed at the open- 
 ing of a valley, with the gray fells ranging 
 themselves on either side, and the great 
 gray tower of the old Abbey church reign- 
 ing over the little crowd of houses. The 
 market-place was still busy and bright, 
 though the more serious merchandize of 
 the morning was over ; cosy country-women, 
 in cloth pelisses, made promenades round the 
 open square, where the best shops in the town 
 displayed their riches, to see " how things 
 were wore," and make stray purchase of a 
 kerchief or ribbon ; and still the notable 
 housewives of the town bought vegetables,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 221 
 
 and rabbits, and country eggs, and chickens, 
 from the remaining stalls in the market-place. 
 And still heaps of dark-gl-een vegetables — 
 winter greens and savoys, purple flowers of 
 broccoli, and tiny red lines of carrots, illus- 
 trated some boards, close to the white eggs and 
 yellow butter, the hapless decapitated poultry, 
 and butter-milk pails of the others. Susan and 
 her uncle walked through the throng, attract- 
 ing no small degree of observation ; for there 
 were not many such cavaliers as Colonel 
 Sutherland in Kenlisle, and very few such 
 shawls as that one which, relieved of all 
 her other wraps, Susan displayed upon her 
 shoulders with no small degree of pride. The 
 scene was quite extraordinary in its animation 
 to her eyes. She looked at the ruddy winter 
 apples and crisp greens with the most perfect 
 interest. She longed, with a natural house- 
 wifely instinct, to make purchases herself, to 
 the confusion and amazement of Peggy. She 
 could scarcely conceal her unbecoming curi- 
 osity about the booths of toys and sweetmeats.
 
 222 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 the cases of coarse ornaments, brooches, and 
 rings, and ear-rings, which Susan could not 
 believe to be paltry and worthless. The 
 glamour of her ignorance brightened every- 
 thing ; and when her eyes, as she looked up 
 unconsciously, fell upon the gray mass of the 
 Abbey tower withdrawn into a street which 
 led off from this busy space, Susan felt awed 
 and ashamed to think of her own vanity and 
 extreme regard for "the things of this 
 world." But she could not school herself 
 into righteous indifference ; above all, when 
 Uncle Edward, indifferent to her morals, took 
 her into shop after shop, buying a little 
 parcel of books in one place, some pretty 
 ribbons in another, a cap for Peggy, which 
 captivated the old man in a window; and, 
 last of all, patterns and materials for work 
 of various kinds, canvas and Berlin wool, 
 and an embroidery-frame. This last purchase 
 raised Susan into a paradisiacal condition, 
 for which it is to be hoped nobody will 
 despise her. She was not very intellectual,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 223 
 
 it is true — ^it might very well happen that 
 she preferred her needlework to her book 
 sometimes. She saw herself rendered com- 
 pletely independent, as she supposed, of 
 ennui and domestic weariness by that ecstatic 
 parcel. She longed to take it in her arms, 
 and run all the way home with it, that 
 Peggy might see, and half regretted for a 
 moment the luncheon at Tillington, which, 
 however, would give her still another hour 
 or two of her uncle's company. Then Susan 
 looked at that uncle with a great compunc- 
 tion, thinking of what he had told her; but 
 Colonel Sutherland was happy in her hap- 
 piness, delighted to see her so delighted, 
 and entered with fresh, natural pleasure into 
 the scene for his own part. It was quite a 
 work of art to pack the gig with all the 
 parcels, and wrap Susan up again into all 
 her cloaks. Then they went off at a great 
 pace to Tillington. So far it had been a 
 most successful day.
 
 224 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Horace had been waiting some time in the 
 little inn before Colonel Sutherland and 
 Susan arrived. This had not much im- 
 proved the young man's temper; but the 
 result of his cogitations on the way here, 
 and while he waited, had been, that it was 
 necessary to be no longer critical, but that 
 he must assume the virtue which he had 
 not, and secure his uncle's assistance in 
 his own way. Horace had settled at last 
 to his own satisfaction upon his version 
 of his uncle's character. He concluded the 
 Colonel to be a well-meaning, superficial 
 old man, most at home among women and 
 children, finding pleasure in trifles, strongly
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 225 
 
 prejudiced in favour of some old-fashioned 
 virtues, which he recommended not so much 
 from conviction as from custom. Industry 
 and honesty, and straightforwardness, a 
 homespun and sober interpretation of all 
 human laws — Horace decided that his uncle 
 lauded and urged these virtues on others 
 just as he might recommend cod-liver 
 oil or Morison's pills, and that he was 
 unable to comprehend anything higher 
 than that old code of respectability. But 
 granting this, it was all the more wise to hu- 
 mour and yield to the old man, and per- 
 mit him to maunder on in his own way. 
 Horace resolved to profess himself ready 
 and anxious for employment, the choice of 
 which he meant dutifully to leave to his 
 uncle ; and having thus settled summarily 
 the more important issue, set himself with 
 all his might to observe and entrap the 
 unsuspicious Colonel in his confidential and 
 unguarded talk. It suited him a great 
 deal better to do this, than to consider 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 honestly how he should provide for his 
 own life, and establish his individual posi- 
 tion in the world; and it was significant 
 of his character that he dismissed the 
 former question at once, but lingered with 
 inclination and zeal upon the crafts of the 
 other, laying his ambuscade with all the 
 cunning and precaution possible. 
 
 He sat by the fire in the inn parlour, while 
 the maid and mistress bustled in and out 
 laying the cloth and preparing for the Colo- 
 nel's arrival. Mrs. Gilsland having recovered 
 her temper, and remembering the embel- 
 lishments of her master's table, in the days 
 when she professed herself a cook, had been 
 at pains to gather a handful of laurusti- 
 nus, with dim, pinky, half-opened blossoms, 
 to adorn the table, upon which sparkled 
 the best glass and whitest linen of the es- 
 tablishment. The worthy woman would 
 fain have insinuated herself into the con- 
 fidence of Horace as he sat by the fire, 
 and wanted only the very smallest enco'u-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 227 
 
 ragement to break forth in praises of the 
 Colonel, and to hint her fear that they 
 would not see much of the young gentle- 
 man at Tillington now that " his grand 
 friends had turned up at last, and he was 
 nigh coom to his fortune." But Horace 
 did not give the slightest opening to any 
 such familiarity. He kept possession of the 
 room with an insolent unconsciousness of 
 the landlady's presence and her , hesitating 
 glances at him, which enraged and yet awed 
 her. It was Mr. Horry's "way," and this 
 arrogance imposed upon the village people 
 even while it offended them ; but it was 
 very different from "the Cornel." Mrs. 
 Gilsland, who had been much disappointed at 
 first to learn that her guest was no lord, and 
 had not the shadow of a title, was by this 
 time entirely captivated by the old man, and 
 zealous to serve him ; but still she turned 
 to Mr. Horry with the interest which attaches 
 to mystery. He took no more notice of 
 her than if she had been a piece of furni- 
 
 q2
 
 228 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 ture. She was angry but reverential — there 
 was " a power o' thought '* in the young man. 
 When the gig arrived with the two tra- 
 vellers, Horace hastened to the door to meet 
 them with a novel amiability. He lifted 
 Susan down, and gathered her parcels to- 
 gether with a good-nature that astounded 
 her. They were all equally pleased, it seemed, 
 as they went in together and met Mrs. Gils- 
 land, curtseying and cordial, ready — half 
 from goodwill and half from curiosity — to 
 attend Susan herself, and help her to take 
 off her bonnet. Then Susan carried a pass- 
 port to respect wherever she went in that 
 wonderful shawl ; the landlady touched it 
 with reverential ignorance, knowing only that 
 it was ^' Indae," and ready to believe in any 
 fabulous estimate of its value. Then, for 
 the first time, Mrs. Gilsland remembered her 
 unlucky trifle, with, not anger, but a pang of 
 mortification. The wearer of such a shawl 
 did certainly deserve something better than 
 apples and custards, to which familiar dainties
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 229 
 
 she had fallen back in despair. However, 
 the luncheon was so far satisfactory, that it 
 was eaten in perfect freedom, with a lively 
 flow of conversation on all sides, which ex- 
 hilarated even Horace, and raised Susan into 
 a little paradise. What a difference it made 
 to the common table, when Uncle Edward 
 sat at the head instead of papa ! — what an 
 extraordinary revolution life would undergo, 
 if the bread of every day were sweetened by 
 such domestic intercourse as this ! While 
 her brother rose into a certain glow of per- 
 sonal exultation in the freedom he experienced, 
 Susan, thinking less of herself, and feeling 
 more deeply, found herself, unawares, sur- 
 prised by the sudden mortification of a com- 
 parison. Involuntarily tears came into her 
 eyes, and as she grew more grateful and af- 
 fectionate towards her uncle, her heart ached 
 more and more for her father. She saw now 
 all the unnatural misery of their life. Why 
 was it ? But these thoughts did not take 
 possession of the girl — they only came over
 
 230 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 her mind in a sudden, painful overflow as 
 the tears came to her eyes; and then she 
 thought of Horace's instructions to her ; and, 
 moved by strong curiosity and anxiety of her 
 own — of a very different kind from her 
 brother's — proceeded to obey him. 
 
 " Uncle," said Susan, with an honest, en- 
 quiring look, " did you see very much of 
 mamma after she was married ? But ah, I 
 forgot — you went to India so soon.V 
 
 " I saw her only when I returned, my 
 love," said Uncle Edward — " when you were 
 a baby, and Horace a bold boy of five — yes, 
 and before that, when I had to come home 
 on business, when your other uncles in India 
 made me their commissioner to look after the 
 family affairs. At that time I lived with my 
 sister ; that is five-and-twenty years ago." 
 
 *'And where did we live then, uncle 
 asked Susan. Horace did not say a word ; 
 he did not look at his uncle, but preserved 
 such a total stillness from all motion, almost 
 from breath, that a suspicious observer must
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 231 
 
 have been alarmed by it. He was listening 
 not for words only, but for tones, inflections 
 — all those unconscious betrayals by which 
 people, who do not suppose themselves 
 watched, naturally disclose a certain amount 
 of feeling with the facts they tell. 
 
 But Uncle Edward did not hear — he 
 stooped over towards his niece, and put his 
 hand to his ear. Then he laughed, and 
 patted her hand upon the table. " Nowhere, 
 so far as I am aware," said the Colonel ; 
 '^ there was no word of you, in those days, 
 for all such important grown-up people as 
 you are. My sister was little more than a 
 bride ; a gay young wife, full of spirits, pretty, 
 much sought after, and loved everywhere. 
 We were a large family, you know, and had 
 been accustomed to a good deal of society at 
 home. She was a happy young creature, and 
 did not deny herself natural pleasures. Poor 
 Mary ! — it did not last very long !" 
 
 ** Why did it not last very long, uncle ? " 
 cried Susan.
 
 232 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 ^' Did you say it never lasts very long, 
 my dear ? '' said Colonel Sutherland, who 
 perhaps did not hear exactly what she said. 
 " That is a very wise observation for you, 
 Susan ; and it is quite true to be sure, for 
 when one begins to have a family, you know, 
 one prefers happiness to pleasure — so that, 
 after all, what the wiseacres say about the 
 change from youth to sober age is true; 
 and it isn't true like most things in this 
 world, for it is by no means a melancholy 
 change. When I came back fifteen years 
 ago there was a great difference. I think 
 she must have been ill of her last illness 
 then, though we did not know of it. She 
 had lost her pleasant spirits, and her pretty 
 colour, and was anxious and desponding, as 
 sick people grow. That made all the house 
 melancholy. I daresay Peggy has told 
 you as much as that." 
 
 '*0h! Uncle," said Susan, ^'when Peggy 
 has told me there has always seemed to 
 be something which she did not tell me.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 233 
 
 1 always fancy something dreadful had just 
 happened — some misfortune, or something 
 wrong, or — I cannot tell what — but she 
 never would say any more. Did mamma 
 break her heart ? " 
 
 The colour rose in Colonel Sutherland's 
 cheek in spite of himself. Horace watching 
 him, though he never looked at him, and 
 though at this present moment he seemed 
 intent on balancing a fork upon his finger, 
 to the exclusion of all other concerns, 
 found, or fancied he found, a certain irre- 
 pressible resentment mingled with his re- 
 luctance to answer. The Colonel spoke 
 shortly, and with an embarrassed tone: — 
 
 " She was leaving her children young, 
 without a mother ; she did not know 
 what might happen to you ; she died 
 anxious, troubled about you. I don't know 
 this for certain, Susan, but I can believe 
 it. It is hard to die in the middle of 
 life, my dear child — yes, harder than in 
 youth, for one's children seem to have
 
 234 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR, 
 
 SO much need of one. I have no doubt 
 
 before all was over, the Lord showed her 
 something of his purpose in it, and comforted 
 her soul; but I don't wonder she seemed 
 heart-broken. We will not speak any more 
 of this, Susan. Horace is silent, you see, 
 and is not interested, like you. He is 
 thinking of his own concerns, as is natu- 
 ral to a young man — and all that is far 
 and long past." 
 
 "On the contrary, I am very much in- 
 terested, uncle,'' said Horace. 
 
 "I have no doubt of it, my dear boy, 
 at a more suitable time. Of course I don't 
 suppose you to be indifferent about your 
 mother," said the Colonel ; " but I under- 
 stand your feelings perfectly. It is not 
 selfish nor egotistic, as you fear, but simply 
 natural; you must think of your own plans 
 and intentions ; you would be to blame if 
 you did not." 
 
 If the Colonel could have known how 
 far astray he was! If anything could have
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 235 
 
 made him comprehend how little place in 
 Horace's thoughts these same plans and 
 intentions bore, and with what a stealthy 
 watchfulness his nephew had been "interested'' 
 in his own recollections ! But Uncle Ed- 
 ward comprehended his nephew quite as 
 little as his nephew comprehended him; 
 and the old soldier was not without a 
 little strategical talent of his own ; he found 
 himself getting on dangerous ground ; he 
 feared saying too much, a thing which, if 
 he allowed himself to get excited, he was 
 only too likely to do — and Horace's plans 
 were a famous diversion. Disappointed thus 
 again, just at the very point of the story 
 which seemed most likely to elicit something, 
 Horace could scarcely be otherwise than 
 sulky ; but once more he put force on himself. 
 "I have decided, uncle," he said— "but 
 only that it is you who must decide. You 
 know the world, you know life. I am un- 
 acquainted with everything that could guide 
 me. I have made up my mind to leave it
 
 236 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 in your hands. I must provide for myself, 
 it appears,'' said Horace, sliding into these 
 two words an involuntary interjection of 
 bitterness, in a tone too low for his uncle 
 to hear. "Take it into your consideration, 
 and I will adopt whatever you decide upon. 
 You know a hundred times better than I." 
 
 Colonel Sutherland was partly gratified, 
 partly annoyed, for this was not at all what 
 he wished. When at that moment the land- 
 lord came in to announce that the gig was at 
 the door again, ready to take the young 
 people home. Susan went away immediately 
 to get her bonnet : then Uncle Edward had 
 leisure to express his sentiments : — 
 
 *'I daresay it is very probable that I know 
 life better than you do,'' he said ; " but, my. 
 boy, I don't know your inclinations, nor your 
 tastes, nor your particular abilities, half, or a 
 hundred part, so well. I'll consider the matter 
 as long as you like, but how shall I be able 
 to determine what you will like best ? " 
 
 " Unele, don't be annoyed," cried Horace,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 237 
 
 starting up — '^can / have inclinations? — do 
 you think it is possible ? Do you suppose I 
 don't understand what it means, all that you 
 have said, and all that you have not said, 
 about my mother ? I would not grieve Susan 
 with such words, but / know, as well as if 
 you had spoken it, that it was my father who 
 broke her heart." 
 
 " No, no, no ! " cried the Colonel, rising 
 likewise, and lifting his hand in earnest depre- 
 cation. " No, it is a mistake — no, you are 
 unjust to him, Horace ! I cannot excuse him 
 to you as I might, but beware how you think 
 ill of him. There are excuses — ^there are 
 reasons. Listen to me, Horace Scarsdale : 
 your father is a man as much to be pitied as 
 blamed." 
 
 " And why?" said Horace, with a sceptical 
 smile. 
 
 ^' My dear boy, sometime you will see all 
 these circumstances more clearly," said the 
 Colonel, a little agitated ; "take it for 
 granted in the meantime, and remember that
 
 238 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 he is your father — and really this has little to 
 do with the question after all. You must like 
 something : he has not been kind, I grant ; 
 but even where the most perfect love exists 
 between parents and children, a father is 
 never all in all, either for good or evil, to 
 his son." 
 
 " No, uncle, but constant hate and enmity 
 may kill the heart out of a man," said 
 Horace. " I am not a fool ; I could learn any- 
 thing if I set myself to it : do you decide 
 for me." 
 
 " I will then, my dear boy ; and you will come 
 to me to-morrow ? " said the Colonel, falter- 
 ing a little. "Come early, and I will walk 
 back to Marchmain with you. Here is Susan 
 ready. Are all the parcels safe ? And you 
 have spent a pleasant day, you fairy ? 
 Take care, Horace, that she does not catch 
 cold." 
 
 ^^ Pleasant day? Oh, uncle, the very 
 happiest day of all my life ! " said Susan. 
 
 The old man led her out well pleased,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 239 
 
 involuntarily solacing himself, after her 
 troublesome brother, with the sight of her 
 fresh face. And Susan's happiest day was 
 quite over when she caught the last glimpse 
 of his gray, uncovered head bowing to her 
 from the inn-door. Horace had no kind 
 talk or affectionate cares for his sister. The 
 wind blew cold, and the evening began to 
 gather damp over the fells. The two young 
 people fell into perfect silence as they pur- 
 sued the monotonous road, and there was 
 no great comfort to be had in the idea of 
 the welcome which waited them at home."
 
 240 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 When Horace and Susan had left Tillington, 
 the Colonel wrapt his great cloak round him, 
 and went out to take a pondering, medita- 
 tive walk, and think over all these concerns. 
 This last conversation he felt had rather 
 complicated his position, and changed a 
 little the posture of affairs. It was now 
 he who had to take the initiative — he who 
 seemed to be sending Horace away, and de- 
 ciding that it was his duty to follow a path 
 of his own, and make his own career. This 
 idea was the last which had occurred to 
 him, when he met his nephew's passionate 
 complaints with his own good, sober, kind 
 advice. Horace had, however, completely
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 241 
 
 turned the tables upon him. He was no 
 longer engaged to give merely a friendly 
 assistance to the young man's exertions, to 
 help him by representing the case to his 
 father, or by using such influence as he 
 possessed to further his nephew's wishes. 
 Horace had skilfully managed to make it 
 appear, even to Colonel Sutherland himself, 
 that it was he who had suggested the neces- 
 sity for leaving home — that it was he who 
 must decide the manner of doing so, and that 
 the whole responsibility of the matter would 
 lie upon his shoulders. This was far from 
 pleasant to the Colonel ; he thought over the 
 whole matter with a very troubled brow : 
 why should he draw upon himself all the 
 trouble and blame of such a proceeding? 
 — undertake the painful task of an inter- 
 view with Mr. Scarsdale — most likely fail 
 to satisfy Horace himself, and possibly meet 
 with severer reproach hereafter, when the 
 young man came to know that secret which 
 he made vain inquiries after now ? The 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 Colonel did not relish his position as he 
 thought over it. It was not of his making. 
 He had but replied, as his kindly nature 
 could not help doing, by offers of assist- 
 ance to the outcry of Horace's impatience ; 
 and behold here was the result. 
 
 The very fact that something did exist 
 which he knew, and which Horace did not 
 knoW; embarrassed and straitened him further. 
 But, at the same time, he had promised. 
 Nothing but the agitation into which the 
 young man had thrown him, by his sudden 
 suggestion that the Colonel meant to ac- 
 cuse his father with breaking his mother's 
 heart, could have led Colonel Sutherland 
 to make so rash an engagement. He had 
 no reason to believe that this was the 
 cause of Mrs. Scarsdale's death. He knew 
 she had been restrained, overruled, and 
 chidden — but he knew also that to the 
 end she loved, and made no complaint 
 beside. For his own part, the circumstances 
 of his sister's death, which followed very
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 243 
 
 quickly upon a singular misfortune to her 
 husband, had filled Edward Sutherland with 
 the deepest compassion and sympathy for 
 his brother-in-law ; and accordingly he was 
 more shocked than he could explain by 
 Horace's sudden supposition, that it was 
 Mr. Scarsdale's unkindness which had killed 
 his wife; and in the eager anxiety with 
 which he entreated the youth to believe 
 that this was not the case, he consented 
 unawares to make himself the arbitrator of 
 Horace's fate — so far, at least, as that 
 could be determined by its beginning. He 
 had promised — that was indisputable ; yet 
 what right had he to take the first step 
 in such a matter, or to urge upon a young 
 man, in the very peculiar circumstances of 
 Horace, the same personal labour which 
 was necessary to his own sons ? When the 
 Colonel had come so far in his thoughts he 
 paused with a sudden effort, and resolutely 
 turned to the other side of the question. 
 "Ought I to stand by for fear of re- 
 
 r2
 
 244 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 sponsibility, or for the sake of my own 
 pride, or for the risk of ingratitude, and 
 see my sister's son sink into ignorance 
 and debasement, and end in being the 
 autocrat of an ale-house ? " he said to 
 himself, and did all that was possible 
 to change the current of his own 
 thoughts. But it was not much easier 
 to choose a profession for Horace, or to fix 
 on what he ought to be. Colonel Suth- 
 erland had come to perceive that he did 
 not understand his nephew, and that not 
 a single feature of resemblance existed be- 
 tween them. He marched on upon the 
 road with his steady soldier's step, not 
 perceiving how far he was going, nor how 
 the night darkened — marching gradually into 
 a more and more bewildering mist of thought. 
 The village lay sheltered in a shallow valley, 
 with low slopes ascending on every side to- 
 wards a higher level of country, slopes 
 much too gentle and gradual to have 
 much affinity with the distant fells. Co-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 24:5 
 
 lonel Sutherland had nearly reached the 
 top of one of these banks, when the 
 toil of the ascent, which just there was 
 steep, awakened him to a consciousness of 
 where he was. He might have wandered 
 for miles over the open country, but for 
 the failure of wind and sensation of fa- 
 tigue which seized him upon that brae. 
 When he came to himself, wheeling about 
 suddenly, he saw the lights of the village 
 twinkling into the twilight a long way 
 beneath him, and perceived, for the first 
 time, how far he had come. 
 
 "The wind being on my back all the 
 time," he said, with a kind of involuntary 
 apology to himself half-aloud, as he com- 
 menced his return. 
 
 The Colonel's ears were sharper out of 
 doors than in. He recognized that some- 
 where near, somebody had made a sudden 
 start at the sound of his voice. There 
 was no one to be seen — the Colonel beat 
 the hedgerows with his stick, and called
 
 246 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 " Who's there ? " with soldierly prompti- 
 tude. He had no idea of being attacked 
 from behind, in case a highwayman lurked 
 behind those bare thorns. After a little in- 
 terval, during which Colonel Sutherland con- 
 tinued his examination minutely, a voice gruff 
 but subdued, answered somewhat peevishly — 
 
 "Cornel, it's me." 
 
 And the gaunt figure of Kennedy came 
 crushing through a gap of the hedge to 
 the Colonel's side. 
 
 " You ! — why, what the deuce are you 
 after here?" said the Colonel, his extreme 
 amazement forcing that mysterious adjuration 
 from his lips, he could not tell how. 
 
 "Weel, Cornel, watching the sport o' 
 them living craetures," said Kennedy, with 
 a little hesitation. "I seed the rabbits 
 whisking in and out as I took my walk, 
 and says I to myself — they're as divert- 
 ing as childer, I'll take a look at them. 
 And that's how it was — I'm rael fond of
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 247 
 
 dumb craetures, Cornel, and there's sich a 
 spirit in thae wild things/' 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me, you old 
 humbug, that you could see rabbits, or 
 any other moving thing, at this time of 
 the night?" said the Colonel. "If I 
 did not know you to be an Orangeman 
 I would think you were a Jesuit, Ken- 
 nedy, with a dispensation for telling lies. 
 Man, do you ever speak the truth ? '* 
 
 " Oh, ay. Cornel — always when it's to 
 any person's advantage," said Kennedy; 
 " and as for the Papishers, I hate the 
 very name to my last drop of blood, as 
 is nat'ral for a man of Derry born. I'm 
 none ashamed of my lodge, nor my principles 
 nouther. When I was a young lad, Cornel, 
 the great Castlereagh, sir, he belounged to 
 the same — and as for my eyes, a better sight, 
 barring for the small print, does not beloung 
 to a man of my years within twenty mile." 
 
 " I've seen the day," said Colonel Suther- 
 land, softening unconsciously towards his old
 
 248 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 fellow-soldier, " when neither small print nor 
 half-light would have bothered either you or 
 me ; but we're getting old, Kennedy, and 
 Providence has given us both rest, and com- 
 fort, and leisure to think before our end 
 comes — a blessing that falls to but few/' 
 
 "Ay, Cornel, that's just what I say," 
 echoed the ready sergeant; "not that I 
 would even myself with my commanding 
 officer, but a man that has seen the world 
 is a great advantage to the young and 
 onexperienced. Begging your pardon. Cornel, 
 but I knowe your nephew, sir — I knowe 
 Mr. Horry well." 
 
 " And what do you know of him, pray ? " 
 cried the Colonel, turning sharp round upon 
 his companion, who, startled by the sudden 
 movement and sharpness of the tone, swerved 
 aside a little, and in doing so made visible for 
 a moment a mysterious something, hitherto 
 concealed with great skill, which he swung 
 from his further hand. 
 
 "Eh? — what was it you were saying,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 249 
 
 Cornel?" said Kennedy, with confusion, 
 drawing back his hand. " What do I knowe 
 of him? — a fine young lad, sir, and very 
 affable when he's in the humour, and a dale 
 of judgment, and an oncommon reliance on 
 himsel'. Many's the time. Cornel, he's said 
 * No ' in my face, as bould as a lion, with no 
 more knowledge of the matter, sir, nor a 
 babe unborn. That's what I cal' courage. 
 Cornel. Though he comes and goes in a rale 
 friendly manner, there's ne'er a man in the 
 village will use a freedom with Mr. Horry; 
 but it's poor society for him, as I have seen 
 many a day; and he said to me wance, says he, 
 ' Sergeant, you're a wise man among a set of 
 fools,' he says — ^ if it warn't for you the 
 blockheads would have it all their own way ; 
 and as for me,' says the poor young gentle- 
 man, ^ Tve no business here.' I could see 
 that, though I little thought he belounged to 
 my honoured Cornel of the ould Hunderd, and 
 a credit to his relations and al' his friends." 
 During this speech, Kennedy keeping wary
 
 250 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 eyes about him, was guarding the Colonel oflf 
 with the utmost skill, and contriving that he 
 should neither get sufficiently in advance or 
 behind to have a chance of discovering again 
 the burden he carried. However, the ser- 
 geant betrayed himself by a momentary im- 
 pulse of vanity : he looked round in Colonel 
 Sutherland's face to read the success of his last 
 compliment, and in that moment of incau- 
 tion the Colonel slid a step in advance, and, 
 thrusting his stick to Kennedy's other side, 
 caught by the feet a hare. The sergeant 
 made the best of it, finding himself caught. 
 He fixed his eyes on the Colonel's face 
 after the first start of discovery with a comical 
 half-defiance, half- deprecation, which, how- 
 ever, the light was too dim to show. 
 
 "You old sinner! — you romancing old 
 humbug ! — what do you call that thing there, 
 eh ? That's what takes you behind the hedge 
 in the gloaming, with your wisdom and your 
 experience ! What do you call that thing 
 there ? "
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 251 
 
 " Call it, Cornel ? — sure and it's a bit of a 
 leveret, sir," said the sergeant, twisting it up 
 by the legs with pretended carelessness. ** I 
 picked the poor baste up, that was laid, with 
 its leg broke, upon the grass." 
 
 " And so that's how you take your walks 
 and show your love for the dumb creatures, 
 you old leasing-maker ! " cried the Colonel. 
 " Throw it down this moment, sir — carry it 
 back to where you got it, or I'll make an 
 information against you the moment we get to 
 Tillington— I will, by George ! " 
 
 " Oh, ay, Cornel, at your pleasure," cried 
 the sergeant ; " Vm not the man to with- 
 stand my commanding officer when he takes 
 to swearing. I'll put it down, lookye, sir, 
 where we stand; or I'll take it back be- 
 yant the hedge, and the first labouring chap 
 as comes by, he'll get the baste, and link 
 it hoam in his clumsy hand, Cornel, and 
 be spied upon and given up, and a snare 
 proved to him, and clapped in jail. He'll 
 goo in innocent, Cornel, and he'll come
 
 252 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 out wroth and ruined, and all because my 
 own officer seed an ould sodger pick up a 
 bit of meat that was useless to any mor- 
 tal beyant a hedge, and informed on me. 
 And it shall never be said that William 
 Kennedy transgressed discipline. There it 
 is, sir — Vm blythe to be quat of it ; pitch 
 it from ye furder than I can see." 
 
 The Colonel poised the hare on his stick 
 for a moment, shaking his head, then laughed 
 aloud, and tossed it at Kennedy^s feet. 
 
 '^There^s reason in what you say, you 
 poaching old sinner; keep your spoil," he 
 said, ^^but march on, sergeant, and keep 
 out of my sight till we can take different 
 roads. I don't keep company with stolen 
 game. There, there, that's enough. IVe 
 heard your best excuses already. Good 
 night, my man; and I advise you, for the 
 sake of the old Hundred, to have no- 
 thing to do after this either with hares or 
 snares."
 
 253 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 Colonel Sutherland did not find much 
 leisure that night. He had scarcely re- 
 turned from his walk, a little indignant 
 and vexed at the conduct of Kennedy, 
 but less than ever inclined to believe 
 him, when young Musgrave made his 
 appearance. The Colonel was seated by 
 the fire with his spectacles on, and the 
 latest newspaper to be had in these regions 
 laid on the table beside him — but he had 
 not begun to read, having thoughts enough 
 to keep him occupied. The room, with its 
 dark walls and low roof and the indis- 
 tinct prints hung round it, was left in com- 
 parative darkness by the little light of the
 
 254 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 two candles on the table. The Colonel him- 
 self had his back to the light, and, with 
 his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, 
 rubbed his hands slowly together, and pon- 
 dered in his heart. He had almost for- 
 gotten the young stranger in the closer 
 and nearer interests which moved himself; 
 and what with his thoughts and his deaf- 
 ness, and his position with his back to the 
 door, did not perceive the entrance of Koger, 
 who stood undecided and shy when the door 
 had closed upon him, half inclined in sudden 
 discouragement to turn back again, and feel- 
 ing for almost the first time, with a sudden 
 painful start of consciousness, that he had 
 no claim upon the friendship of this old 
 man, whose kind interest in him this morn- 
 ing had cheered his forlorn young heart, 
 but whom, after all, he had seen for the 
 first time this day. A mind which is ele- 
 vated by any one of the great primitive 
 emotions, ceases for the moment to feel 
 those secondary impressions of surprise and
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 255 
 
 singularity with which in ordinary times 
 we regard any departure from the ordinary 
 laws of life. Had he been happy, Roger 
 would have wondered, perhaps would have 
 smiled, at the interest which this stranger 
 expressed in him ; but it had not even as- 
 tonished his pre-occupied mind until now : 
 now, as he stood behind the Colonel in 
 the dim apartment, and saw him sitting 
 thoughtful by the fire, unconscious of the 
 presence of any visitor, the young man's 
 impulse was to steal softly out again, and 
 make no claim upon a sympathy which he 
 had no right to. Yet his heart yearned for 
 the kind look, the paternal voice which had 
 roused him this morning out of the quick 
 despair of youth. He approached slowly to- 
 wards the table : when he reached it the 
 Colonel turned round with an exclamation 
 of surprised but cordial welcome, and pointed 
 him to the chair opposite his own, which 
 had been placed in readiness for his young 
 guest. This little token that he was ex-
 
 256 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 pected cheered the young man involuntarily ; 
 it was another of those trivial things which, 
 as Colonel Sutherland said, make up so much 
 of the happiness of life. 
 
 When he saw Eoger opposite to him, 
 with his eager, ingenuous face, and a world 
 of undisguised youthful anxieties and dis- 
 quietude shining in his candid eyes, the 
 old man fell into a momentary pause of 
 silence and embarrassment. It seemed im- 
 possible to impute any want of truthfulness 
 to those honest looks, or even to cast upon 
 them the momentary stain of a suspicion. 
 And the same young eyes were quick to 
 perceive even this pause, and remarked im- 
 mediately that the Colonel was embar- 
 rassed, and did not know how to begin 
 what he had to say. Grief in its imme- 
 diate presence does not bring patience — the 
 pride of the young man took alarm instantly 
 — he half rose, with hasty words barring 
 any apology, and a declaration of proud 
 humility, that he had no right to trouble
 
 ' THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 257 
 
 Colonel Sutherland, or to intrude upon his 
 privacy, rising to his lips. Before he had 
 spoken, the Colonel perceived what he meant, 
 and stopped him. ** Wait a little — hear what 
 I am going to say — sit down," said the old 
 soldier, laying his hand upon Musgrave's 
 arm ; " I cannot have you quarrel with me 
 so soon — sit down, and let us talk it out." 
 
 " Nay, sir, there can be no occasion," 
 cried Musgrave, in his disappointment and 
 offence, his voice faltering a little ; " I have 
 but to thank you for your kindness this 
 morning, and beg your pardon for intruding 
 on you now." 
 
 " That cannot be," said Colonel Suther- 
 land, with a momentary smile, *^ because 
 you come by my own appointment ; and, 
 besides, I am very glad to see you, and 
 you are a very foolish youth to be so im- 
 patient. Sit down quietly — have patience a 
 little, and listen to me." 
 
 Roger obeyed, with some haste and re- 
 luctance. He was almost overcome by 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 wounded pride and feeling, and yet he 
 had nothing whatever to ground his mor- 
 tification upon, hut the ColoneFs pause of 
 embarrassment and confused preliminary tone. 
 
 " You thought I hesitated, and did not 
 speak frankly enough," said the Colonel. 
 *^ Perhaps it is true, for I had something 
 on my mind. But now I mean to speak 
 very frankly. My young friend, I believe I 
 can be of but little service to you, but I 
 can give you my best advice and such en- 
 couragement as an old man owes to a 
 young one ; while, on the other hand, you 
 must be frank with me. After you left me 
 this morning, I was told you had still parents 
 alive. Is that true ? " 
 
 "Did you think I had deceived you?" 
 cried Musgrave, quickly. 
 
 Mortification and shame and sudden re- 
 sentment flushed his face. " But you don't 
 know me, to be sure I " he exclaimed, with 
 a passionate tone of pain ; " and yet, though 
 I don't know you, I care for your opinion.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 259 
 
 I have not come to ask anything from you, 
 Colonel Sutherland — I have already made up 
 my mind what to do ; but, at best, you must 
 know that I have not deceived you. I have 
 a mother, and yet I have not a mother — that 
 is the only entire bond of nature remaining 
 to me. She made a second marriage, and 
 gave me up to my godfather so long ago, that 
 I scarcely remember the time — her husband 
 made my only visit to her so disagreeable, 
 that I have never repeated it, and I believe 
 never shall. She has a family of whom I 
 know nothing, and has forgotten and forsaken 
 me. I appeal to you, then, whether I was 
 not right in saying that I had no friends ? " 
 
 *^I felt sure it would turn out something 
 of the kind," said the Colonel, heartily. 
 '' What, my boy, are you affronted with me ? 
 Come, that is foolish — sit down and forgive 
 me. Perhaps you think a stranger like my- 
 self has no right to ask such explanations ; 
 but I am old, and you are young — that is, 
 after all, the most primitive principle of au- 
 
 s2
 
 260 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 thority. I assure you, though you may not 
 be quite pleased with me at this moment, I 
 am a much safer counsellor than the sergeant 
 — the old rogue I Draw your chair to the 
 table, take a glass of wine, and let me hear 
 what you are going to be about. I heard of 
 an old exploit of yours from my niece, Susan 
 Scarsdale, to-day." 
 
 " From whom ? " asked Musgrave, with a 
 little surprise. 
 
 ^* From my niece — you don^t know her, I 
 daresay," said the Colonel, whose object was 
 to put his visitor at ease ; " but some one 
 told her your name, she says. An adventure 
 of yours with a gipsy — do you recollect it — 
 on some of the roads near Lanwoth Moor ? " 
 
 " Oh ! — the young lady from " Mus- 
 grave paused only in time to prevent himself 
 saying ** the haunted house," which was a 
 name very commonly appropriated to March- 
 main. The young man blushed a little, partly 
 from the mistake, partly from a very distinct 
 recollection of the flattering applause with
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 261 
 
 which Susan clapped her hands at his achieve- 
 ment. He might not have noticed her at all 
 but for that sign of approbation ; but it is 
 pleasant to be approved, especially in a rash 
 and unorthodox proceeding; and it is true 
 that Eoger had taken several occasions to pass 
 Marchmain after that occurrence, with a linger- 
 ing inclination to improve his acquaintance 
 with that face ; he never had any success 
 in his endeavour, but still, under the eyes of 
 Susan s uncle he blushed in spite of himself. 
 "I recollect it very well," he said. 
 
 The Colonel saw his colour rise, and had not 
 the slightest inclination to pursue the subject. 
 
 ** Yes, it was very natural, whether it was 
 wise or not," said the Colonel, with a smile, 
 words which might refer equally well either 
 to the encounter with the mugger, or the 
 curiosity about Susan, and which his young 
 companion unconsciously applied to the last. 
 " I remember what I should have done my- 
 self at your age ; but you say you have made 
 up your mind. Will you let me ask how?
 
 262 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 for I think you might take more leisure to 
 do that at your age/' 
 
 " The steed would starve in the meantime," 
 said Musgrave, with a little unnecessary vehe- 
 mence. " Yes, I have made up my mind — 
 but only as I had done before seeing you, sir, 
 this morning. You spoke very wisely, very 
 kindly. A man who had money, or friends, 
 or skill, or anything in the world to fall back 
 upon ought to have listened to you. I feel 
 grieved that you should think, after so much 
 kindness on your part, that I have not consi- 
 dered your advice. I did consider it. Colonel, 
 believe me, but I have no alternative — I know 
 nothing that I can be but a soldier. Don't 
 say anything to me, it will only increase my 
 disgust at myself to be fit for nothing else ; 
 and then, sir," said the young man, attempt- 
 ing to smile, " there is no necessity for think- 
 ing of the barracks and the sixpence a-day. 
 I will take this other side of the question : 
 young fellows like me, they say in novels, 
 never did better long ago. Til be a defender
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 263 
 
 of my country, a servant of the Queen ; a gene- 
 ral is no more.'' 
 
 " My poor boy ! " said the Colonel, whom 
 this *' other side of the question " had a pa- 
 thetic effect upon, '* you don't know the life 
 of a common soldier ; and do you mean to 
 tell me that in our days, with all our progress 
 and civilization, a young man with your ad- 
 vantages is fit for nothing but this ? " 
 
 '* I might be a gamekeeper,'^ said the 
 youth, with a slight tremble of his lip, " or I 
 might be an emigrant — the last I should cer- 
 tainly choose if I had anything to set out upon ; 
 but I don't care to run the risk of blacking 
 shoes or portering at the other side of the 
 world, as the newspapers say the penniless 
 emigrants are reduced to often enough. No, 
 Colonel, I should not sit here, opposite you, 
 a poor fellow, who will never have the right 
 to meet you on equal terms again ; but I must 
 'list, I have no alternative — I can only be 
 what Providence and my education have quali- 
 fied me for. If I am nothing else, I can be
 
 264 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 honest, at least. This is the only thing I 
 am good for, and can reach to, therefore I 
 have given up grumbling about it. And if,'* 
 said Roger, with the fire blazing out of his 
 eyes for a moment, one glance of youthful 
 hope through the darkness, "if chance or 
 war should ever put it in a man*s power to 
 rise, then look for me again ! *' 
 
 " My brave fellow ! — my excellent lad I " 
 cried the Colonel, "that is the spirit for 
 a soldier! A regiment of ye would sub- 
 jugate the world ! Give me your hand, and 
 keep your seat, boy ! If you had 'listed 
 already, does that make you less a gentle- 
 man? But is there no help for it, think 
 you? Must you carry this soul to the 
 ranks? By my word, I grudge it sorely! 
 — and that is much for an old soldier to 
 say. Have you no friends — I don't mean 
 relatives — people that have known you in 
 better days, that would help in this pinch? 
 In my young days the very neighbours 
 , would have been moved to interfere, whether
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 265 
 
 you would or not. Yes, I believe you're 
 proud ; the noble spirit comes very seldom 
 without its attending demon. But look here, 
 man — a heart that would be quick to oifer 
 help should not be above receiving it. I 
 am but a poor man myself, or I warrant 
 well you should not escape me, however 
 loth your grandeur might be. Here^s the 
 question ; I speak to you boldly, as your 
 friend, offence or no offence. Had your 
 godfather never a dear friend that would 
 stand by his heir ? Tut ! don't interrupt me — 
 if you are heir to little money, all the more 
 reason you should be heir to the love. Is 
 there never a man in this country that for 
 the kindness he bears your late friend, or 
 for affection to you, would hold you his 
 hand to mount you fair in your saddle, 
 ere you set out on the world? Answer 
 me plainly and truly, young man — is there 
 no such person in country or town, within 
 twenty miles of the place where you have 
 lived all your days ? "
 
 266 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 Musgrave had changed colour several times 
 during this address, and evidently hesitated 
 much to answer. After close questioning, 
 the Colonel at last drew from him that 
 one such friend did exist, but not within 
 twenty miles, in the person of a county 
 baronet, a very dear friend of his late god- 
 father, who had, however, been absent from 
 the district for more than a year, and of 
 whom, during that time, Roger had heard 
 nothing. He could not tell where he was 
 to be found, and it was with extreme re- 
 luctance that he confessed even his name, 
 which was one unknown to Colonel Suther- 
 land. Having gone so far, the young man 
 set himself with all his might to combat 
 the Colonel's idea of asking help from any- 
 body. He would not — could not — accept 
 a service which he had no prospect of 
 ever being able to repay. He was deter- 
 mined not to enter the world weighed down 
 by a burden of obligation. Was it not better 
 to enter life a common soldier, with only
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 267 
 
 himself to depend upon, he asked vehemently, 
 than to reach a higher level by the help of 
 another, and live with the shadow of assist- 
 ance and patronage upon all his life? 
 
 " Would you choose to go through your 
 life without assistance ? " said Colonel Suther- 
 land, calmly, making a note in his pocket- 
 book, and going on with the conversation 
 without looking up — "would you reject 
 kindness and friendship, and the hand of 
 your neighbour ? Have a care, young man — 
 the next step to receiving no help is giving 
 none. Would you live without the cha- 
 rities of life, you foolish boy ? And what's 
 to hinder you entering life with a feeling 
 of obligation? I would like to know a 
 nobler and a kindlier sentiment than honest 
 manful gratitude. Can you tell me a better ? 
 And how do you know you will never be 
 able to repay it? Do you debar yourself 
 from ever helping another, when you ac- 
 cept help yourself? Go away with your 
 nonsense. I trust I am not the man to advise
 
 268 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 any youngster against his honour. What 
 do you say — a man is the best judge for 
 himself? No such thing, boy. Not when 
 the man is twenty. I will tell you what to 
 do in the meantime — ^keep quiet for a week 
 or two, and leave the affair in my hands." 
 
 " But you do not know me. I may be 
 deceiving you — telling you lies — working on 
 your goodnature, for my own advantage,** 
 exclaimed Musgrave, with a voice which, 
 between vexation and gratitude, and the 
 new hopes which, in spite of himself, began to 
 gain ground upon him, was almost inaudible. 
 
 " Eh ? — Vm rather hard of hearing. I did 
 not quite catch what you said," said Colonel 
 Sutherland, bending towards him his deaf ear, 
 with that look of anxious, solicitous kindness and 
 earnest attention which nobody could resist. 
 
 The effect upon poor Roger was almost 
 laughable in its pathos. He turned red — he 
 turned pale — he could hardly keep the tears 
 out of his boyish eyes ; and, with a voice 
 broken with emotion, shouted out his words so
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 269 
 
 loud and harsh, that the Colonel started back 
 in alarm and surprise. 
 
 " You don't know me — I may be deceiving 
 you ! " cried the young man, with a hurried 
 and abrupt conclusion, singularly like a sob ; 
 and so hid his face in his hands, unable to 
 contain himself, disturbed out of all the self- 
 possession which thinly veiled the quick sus- 
 ceptibilities of grief 
 
 The Colonel patted him gently on the arm 
 with his kind hand. 
 
 " That is true," he said, with the simple 
 wisdom of his pure heart, " very true — you 
 might be deceiving me — but you are not."
 
 270 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 It is possible that Colonel Sutherland might 
 have perhaps experienced a little annoyance 
 at himself next day, for having so completely 
 taken up and taken charge of the fortunes of 
 his new protege. That, however, did not 
 give him half so much thought and perplexity 
 as the other question which this morning pre- 
 sented itself to him more immediately, and 
 demanded a settlement — How to meet, and 
 what to decide upon for Horace. This was a 
 very different matter from the simple help 
 which he could offer frankly to the straight- 
 forward Musgrave ; and all his doubts of the 
 previous night returned to him with fresh 
 force, as he considered the subject once more.
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 271 
 
 He had not still an idea upon the matter. His 
 own thoughts as to the choice of occupations 
 for a young man ran in rather a circum- 
 scribed channel. The first thing which oc- 
 curred to him involuntarily was, of course, 
 his own profession ; and India naturally asso- 
 ciated itself to the old Indian officer with all 
 hopes of advancement — but there was some- 
 thing in Mr. Scarsdale's secret, whatever it 
 might be, which made Colonel Sutherland 
 shake his head. " No, that would never do," 
 he said to himself; **he must be on the 
 spot whatever happens." 
 
 After that the Colonel thought of the 
 learned professions of Medicine and the 
 Church, which his acquaintance with Edin- 
 burgh kept foremost in his mind — and shook 
 his head over these also, concluding his ne- 
 phew to be too old to begin an elaborate 
 course of study. Lagging a long way after 
 these, a faint and vague idea of ^* business " 
 loomed through mists upon the Colonel's 
 mind ; he was very well aware of all that it
 
 272 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 is common to say of British commerce and 
 enterprise — the vast concerns of our trade, 
 and the princely wealth of our merchants ; 
 but, notwithstanding, knew as little about these 
 great realities as it is possible for a man 
 brought up in a society innocent of trade, and 
 occupied all his life with the duties of a-n ex- 
 clusive profession, to know. He had not the 
 slightest idea what it would be proper to do 
 to introduce a young man into " business.'' 
 He had no influence to rely upon, nor friend 
 to turn to for enlightenment upon the matter. 
 He began to turn over in his mind the long 
 roll of his allies and acquaintance — to think 
 who he could best apply to ; when suddenly 
 finding himself pass in that review name 
 after name of Scotch lawyers, in all their 
 different grades, from the *^ writer" to the 
 advocate, a brilliant idea burst upon him — 
 the law ! — it was evidently of all others the 
 profession which Horace Scarsdale was best 
 fitted for. How strange that he should not 
 have thought of it before I
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 273 
 
 Somewhat reassured by this idea, the 
 Colonel sat down to breakfast with in- 
 creased comfort. It was again a drizzly, 
 uncomfortable day — by no means the kind 
 of day which one would choose to spend 
 away from the resources and solaces of 
 home, in the dreary little parlour of a 
 country inn, with the Fool of Quality on 
 the table, and defunct winners of the Oaks 
 and Derby upon the walls. The Colo- 
 nel stirred the fire, and returned to his 
 pink rasher of country bacon with a sigh. 
 He thought of his cosy sitting-room, 
 warmly-curtained and carpeted, where all 
 the draughts were carefully extinguished 
 with mats, and list, and sand-bags, and 
 from the windows of which he could see 
 the noble Forth and the Fife coast, always 
 bright, attractive, and full of beauty to his 
 eyes. He thought of his books, compan- 
 ions of his life, and of the Times, which 
 was one of his very few personal indul- 
 gences, and which at that very moment, all 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 fragrant from the press in its post enve- 
 lope, would be lying on his table; and the 
 Colonel, munching his bacon with teeth 
 which were not so perfect as they used to 
 be, shrugged his shoulders as he glanced out 
 of the low parlour-window upon the wet 
 houses opposite, and the dim drizzle of 
 rain. If it must be confessed, he thought 
 of his proposed walk to Marchmain, through 
 five miles of that dreary, damp, and dismal 
 road, with a shiver, and terrible imagina- 
 tions of rheumatism ; yet this room and 
 the Fool of Quality were not much more 
 entertaining. And he could not bear the 
 idea of disappointing Susan, who, the old 
 man was pleased to think, would be watch- 
 ing for and expecting him. Then he pleased 
 himself with the thought of carrying Susan 
 home with him, and making her mistress 
 and housekeeper of the house of his old 
 age. He was glad to escape from his per- 
 plexities about Horace by thinking of Susan. 
 There was no vexation nor doubt in the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 275 
 
 remembrance of the candid, honest, affec- 
 tionate girl, who answered so warmly to his 
 fatherly affections. Would her father give her 
 up, even for a time, to her uncle ? Colonel 
 Sutherland, remembering his interview with 
 Mr. Scarsdale, did not think it was likely; but 
 he was young enough at heart, in spite of 
 probabilities, to take pleasure in the thought. 
 He had just finished breakfast, and the 
 room was beginning to brighten under the 
 influence of a good fire, between which and 
 the Fool of Quality the Colonel felt more 
 drowsy than he thought it creditable to be 
 in the morning, when Horace made his 
 appearance. The young man came in with 
 drops of rain shining all over his rough 
 coat, and with muddy boots, which he had 
 taken no pains to clean before entering, and 
 which offended the Colonel's professional and 
 natural fastidiousness. The rain-drops flew 
 over into his uncle's face as Horace threw 
 off his coat. The Colonel looked on with 
 a mortified displeasure, wondering over him ; 
 
 t2
 
 276 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 — he could not understand how it hap- 
 pened that SO near a relation of his own 
 should have so little natural grace of man- 
 ner or perception of propriety. Accord- 
 ingly, he looked very grave as he shook 
 hands with Horace. He could not enter 
 immediately on the more important subject 
 between them ; he could not help criticizing 
 these lesser matters, and thinking how he 
 could manage to suggest an improvement 
 without wounding his nephew ; for the 
 Colonel, like other people, had his weak- 
 nesses, and in his opinion a disregard of 
 the ordinary proprieties showed a dulness 
 of heart. 
 
 As for Horace, he on his part showed no 
 particular anxiety al)out the question of the 
 day — he was more inclined a great deal 
 to draw his uncle into conversation on ge- 
 neral subjects connected with his past life, 
 his former visits to England, and the in- 
 tercourse he formerly had with his sister 
 and her husband. To this conversation
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 277 
 
 Horace himself contributed a little descrip- 
 tion of their dinner-table on the previous 
 evening, which was indeed a very dismal 
 picture, and could scarcely be exaggerated. 
 The Colonel shook his head over the story 
 with pain and distress, grieved for the facts, 
 and still more grieved to know that they 
 rather gained than lost in bitterness by 
 his nephew's recital. This stimulated him 
 to introduce the real subject-matter of the 
 present conference. 
 
 " It is natural enough, under all the cir- 
 cumstances, and 1 daresay advisable as well,'* 
 said the Colonel, *^ that you should wish to get 
 away as soon as possible. Then as to what 
 you are going to do, Horace, I come to the 
 question under great difficulties. In the first 
 place, when you leave me to choose for you, 
 it almost appears as if I were the person 
 sending you away, and not your own desire ; 
 and I have no object in sending you away, 
 you must be aware.'* 
 
 " What does it matter, uncle, how it ap-
 
 278 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 pears, when we know exactly how it is ? " 
 said Horace, with apparent impatience and 
 real craftiness. 
 
 " That is very true, and the most sensible 
 thing I have heard you say," said the unsus- 
 pecting Colonel. "Well then, Horace, my 
 boy, there's business. I don't know very well 
 how to set about it, but no doubt we could 
 inquire ; and I believe, for a man who desires 
 to get on, there is nothing equal to that." 
 
 " If a man has money to begin with, sir," 
 said Horace. "No, uncle, I detest buying 
 and selling — thai will not do for me." 
 
 " Then you detest what many a better man 
 than either you or I has practised, Horace," 
 said the Colonel, a little affronted. "And 
 there is my own profession. I have some 
 little influence to serve a friend ; but to be a 
 soldier — a real soldier — I don't mean a man 
 of parades and barracks, for at present you 
 are not rich enough for that — requires a 
 strong natural inclination. No — I see your 
 answer — that will not do either ; and indeed
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 279 
 
 I think you're right. Then — L speak to you 
 frankly, Horace — I would not advise you, 
 for instance, to think of the Church." 
 
 ^'Because I am not good enough," said 
 Horace, feeling his pride wounded by the 
 suggestion, yet laughing with a contempt of 
 the goodness which could conform itself to 
 that level; " and also, uncle, because I have no 
 education and no influence — that of course is 
 impossible." 
 
 Colonel Sutherland could not help making 
 an involuntary comparison between Roger 
 Musgrave's humble declaration of want of 
 wit and want of teaching, and this confession, 
 which sounded the same in words. But 
 Horace made his avowal with all the egotistic 
 confidence of a young man who knew nothing 
 of the world; and having never met his 
 equals, in his heart thought education a very 
 trivial circumstance, and believed his talent to 
 be such as should triumph over all disadvan- 
 tages. The Colonel gave a little suppressed 
 sigh in his heart, and said to himself that
 
 280 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 nothing would show the boy his mistake — 
 nothing but life. 
 
 "Well then, Horace/' he cried, with sud- 
 den animation, remembering his own brilliant 
 idea, " what do you think of the Law ? So 
 far as I can see, that is exactly the thing 
 which is best suited to your genius — eh ? 
 My wonder is that it should never have oc- 
 curred to yourself. What do you think of that, 
 my boy ? — the very thing for you, is it not ? " 
 
 " The Law ? '' said Horace — " do you mean 
 to make me an attorney, uncle ? " 
 
 ** I mean that you should make yourself 
 anything that you may prove yourself to have 
 a talent for," said the Colonel. " What, boy ! 
 you must have some idea as to what you're 
 good for — attorney, solicitor, advocate — I am 
 not particular for my part, but let it be some- 
 thing. It's an honourable profession when 
 it's exercised with honour : in my opinion, it's 
 the thing most suitable to your manner of 
 mind. Eh ? — don't you think so now yourself? " 
 
 Horace leaned over the table with his
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 281 
 
 elbows on it, and his chin supported in his 
 palms. It flashed upon him as he gazed 
 into the air, and thought with little goodwill 
 over this project, that the practitioners of the 
 Law were men who knew everybody's secrets ; 
 that the power of the profession lay in its 
 craft, and the skill with which it laid things 
 together ; that to lawyers, of all the different 
 grades, belonged especially the task of find- 
 ing out, and of concealing everything which 
 it was for the interests of the rest of the 
 world to discover or to hide. This idea sent 
 a little animation into his face ; he began to 
 feel that this might really be congenial to the 
 habits of his mind, as his uncle said ; and, at 
 all events, he might thus be in the way of 
 discovering those secrets which affected his 
 own life. 
 
 " The Law, like every other profession, re- 
 quires study and time," said Horace, with, 
 at last, a sincere sigh ; " and I have no chance 
 of being able to wait or to learn, uncle. No ! 
 it is impossible-— my father will do nothing
 
 282 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 for me. If I could be a clerk, or something, 
 and pick up what information I might," he 
 continued, warming to the idea, as it seemed 
 more and more impracticable ; " but, as for 
 study, what can I do ? " 
 
 " My dear boy,'' said the Colonel, warmly, 
 ^^ if you really feel that you can go into this 
 with all your mind, I will not hesitate to 
 speak to your father. I believe he has not 
 been kind to you — but no father in the world 
 will sacrifice the future of his son for the 
 sake of a trifling sum of money, or a little 
 trouble. No, Horace, you do your father in- 
 justice. If you really can go into this — if 
 you feel yourself ready to give your whole 
 might to it, and make thus a deliberate choice 
 of your profession, I feel sure he will not 
 deny you the means. No, my boy — you are 
 wrong ; trust to me ; I will see him myself." 
 
 ** I shall be very glad, uncle, if you will 
 make the experiment," said Horace ; ^^ but I 
 know him better — he will do nothing for me. 
 No ! — he'd rather see me an errand-boy or a
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 283 
 
 street-sweeper, than help me to the profession 
 of a gentleman. I have known it for years ; 
 but still, if you will take the trouble, and 
 undergo the pain of asking him, of course I 
 can only be thankful. Try, uncle — I will not 
 be disappointed if you fail, and you will be 
 satisfied. I can only say try.'' 
 
 " Yes ; but my condition of trying is that 
 you are resolved to go into this, and think it 
 a thing in which you can succeed," said the 
 Colonel, fixing his eyes anxiously on his 
 nephew's face. 
 
 Horace did not look at him in return ; but 
 there was an animation and eagerness unusual 
 to it in his face — he was following out in ima- 
 gination, not a young man's vague, ambitious 
 dreams, but a chain of elaborate researches 
 after the one secret which he could not dis- 
 cover, and which haunted him night and day. 
 " I do ! " he exclaimed, with an emphasis of 
 sincerity and earnestness which delighted the 
 Colonel, who seized him by the hand, and 
 promised, over and over again, to leave no
 
 284 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 exertion untried which could obtain him his 
 wish. Horace responded to this with the 
 best appearance of gratitude and cordiality 
 which he could manage to show, but with, in 
 reality, a great indifference. He had no hope 
 whatever from his nucleus mediation, and was 
 forming other and secret plans in his own 
 mind for his own object, which was not the 
 same as Colonel Sutherland's ; for he did not 
 dream of success in the profession which he 
 was about to choose, or of " scope for his 
 talents," or any of those natural ambitions 
 which occurred to the old soldier — but had en- 
 tirely concentrated his underground and caver- 
 nous thoughts upon this new and unthought of 
 mode, of carrying his personal inquiries out. 
 
 Having settled this matter to his great 
 satisfaction, Colonel Sutherland walked to the 
 window and contemplated the weather : it had 
 ceased to rain, but the chill, damp, pene- 
 trating atmosphere was as ungenial as ever ; 
 the roads were wretched, and he shuddered 
 n voluntarily to think of that bare and miser-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOK. 285 
 
 able moor. However, the Colonel had al- 
 ready been three days at Tillington, and did 
 not admire his quarters sufficiently to remain 
 longer than he could help. Then this inter- 
 view with his brother-in-law, being eminently 
 disagreeable, would be well over. He hesi- 
 tated, looked wistfully at his good fire, and 
 with melancholy eyes at the dark sky without ; 
 but, at last, taking courage, buttoned on his 
 great-coat, threw his cloak round him, took 
 his stick in his hand, and thus defended from 
 cold and violence, took his way once more, 
 Horace by his side, to Marchmain.
 
 286 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The walk was not more agreeable than Colo- 
 nel Sutherland foresaw it would be — the re- 
 turn the old soldier actually failed of courage 
 for. He directed the gig to be sent for him, 
 and so trudged upon his way without the 
 dreadful thought of retracing all his steps in 
 an hour or two. When they reached March- 
 main there was no welcome vision of Susan at 
 the window to solace her uncle's fatigue. 
 When Peggy admitted them it was with an ex- 
 clamation of surprise and half-indignation. 
 " To think of walking such roads, five miles 
 on a day like this ! " she cried, as she bustled 
 into the dining-room after them to refresh the 
 smouldering, half-dead fire. Peggy was by
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 287 
 
 no means rejoiced that day to see Colonel 
 Sutherland. To the shame of her housewifery 
 she remembered that she had nothing in her 
 larder which could be cooked readily for the 
 visitor's luncheon ; and Peggy, like most other 
 women of her years, country-bred, was over- 
 powered by shame at the idea of having " no- 
 thing to offer " to the chance guest. Susan 
 had gone upstairs, up to a garret room, the 
 highest of the house, to fetch Peggy some 
 apples which were stowed there ; and as she 
 was too high up to be able to hear the arrival 
 of her uncle, Horace went to seek her. 
 Peggy gazed after him, pausing in her cares 
 for the fire, with a singular vexation. 
 
 " If that lad would but tell the truth— 
 and all the truth,'' said Peggy ; " but he 
 wunnot. Cornel — it's somegate in his blood. 
 I warrant he never told you a word how 
 Miss Susan begged and prayed him to say 
 you were never to think to come ; that you 
 would catch cold and wet, and do yoursel' 
 an injury, as it was just like her to say, the
 
 288 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 thoughtful thing. Na, says I to myself, as 
 I saw him march away with his shut-up face, 
 the Cornel '11 come or no come as his ain will 
 bids, but Mr. Horace has no mind to stop 
 him ; yet if ye'U believe me, he never said a 
 word, but let Miss Susan believe he would tell 
 her messages every one." 
 
 *^ Never mind," said Colonel Sutherland — 
 who, however, did mind a good deal, as 
 people generally do who use that expression — 
 and who could not help thinking that Susan's 
 messages, had he ever received them, would 
 have turned the scale and kept him under 
 cover that miserable day. "Never mind, 
 P^ggy ; I ought to take it as a compliment 
 that Horace likes my society so much. I 
 wish I could carry my niece home with me, 
 poor child — eh? do you think her father 
 would be likely to consent ? '' 
 
 "Eh, Mr. Edward, run not the risk of 
 asking ! " cried Peggy ; " I'm no the person 
 to speak an evil word of him, no me — but 
 he's unhappy himself, as how do you think
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 289 
 
 he can be other? — and he will not have 
 happiness come near his house. Eh, Cornel, 
 honey, if ye could but beguile him to open 
 his heart ! I knowed him a boy, and I knowed 
 him a young man, and I knowed him in the 
 mistress's time, but, sir, though he had his 
 faults, and I would not deny them, all the 
 days of his life, you would not reckonise him 
 now ; and all along o' that weary ould man ! " 
 
 " Hush, Peggy ! we must not blame those 
 that are gone," said the gentle Colonel ; '^ they 
 are in other hands than ours ; but it has been 
 a melancholy business altogether. Horace, 
 do you know, wishes to leave home and begin 
 the world for himself." 
 
 " And the sooner the better. Cornel ! " cried 
 P^ggy; ^^the lad will be clean ruined, root 
 and branch, if he bides here. I would give 
 all the pennies I've gathered all my life to 
 see him safe out of that door, though he's 
 a strange lad, is Mr. Horace. Hoosht, they're 
 coming — listen, Cornel," said Peggy, stretch- 
 ing up to the Colonel's ear, that she might 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 whisper this last communication — " Don't 
 you be afeard about Miss Susan. Tve that 
 confidence in the Lord, I believe the poor 
 chyild will fall to your hands, Mr. Edward, 
 when the time comes ; but. Lord bless you. 
 Cornel, she's no more like her brother nor 
 the tares is like the corn. Her heart's as 
 sweet as a rose — nothing in this world can 
 kill the good that's in that unfortinate in- 
 fant, but Death itself. Hoosht, here they 
 are coming ! — she's just the delight of an ould 
 woman's eyes — ay, there she is ! " 
 
 The Colonel heard this speech very imper- 
 fectly, understanding just enough of it to 
 know that Susan was commended, and nod- 
 ding his kind head in pleased acquiescence ; 
 but when Peggy ended her oration by crying 
 " There she is ! " Uncle Edward turned round 
 to greet his niece, who came running up to 
 him out of breath. Susan was sorry, shocked, 
 surprised, and delighted — ^but underneath all 
 her flutter the Colonel, whose vision was 
 quick when those whom he loved were con-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 291 
 
 cerned, saw at a glance that her eyes were 
 red, and that even her joy in seeing him was 
 made half-hysterical by some other sentiment 
 lying under it, which she did not wish him to 
 see. This contradiction of feeling, new and 
 unusual to her, made Susan unlike herself. 
 Her manner was hasty and agitated — she 
 laughed as if to keep herself from crying. 
 Colonel Sutherland looked at her with silent 
 distress and sympathy. What new develop- 
 ment of trouble had appeared now ? 
 
 ** Why did you come ? " cried Susan. *' I 
 wanted Horace to carry a note, and he would 
 not ; but he promised to tell you what I said. 
 And your rheumatism, uncle — I am so dis- 
 tressed to think you should have come all this 
 way for me." 
 
 ** But suppose I did not come all this way 
 for you?" said Colonel Sutherland. ** Don't 
 you think my visit is too important to be all 
 for a little girl ? No, my love, I should have 
 come for you whether or not — but to-day, I 
 mean, if possible, to see your father." 
 
 u2
 
 292 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 Peggy had left the room, and Horace had not 
 yet entered it : the two were alone together, 
 
 " To see papa ! " cried Susan, with a look 
 of dismay, clinging suddenly to her uncle's 
 arm, and looking up in his face. ^^ Oh, uncle, 
 not to-day ! " 
 
 " And why not to-day, my dear child ? " 
 said the Colonel, tenderly ; " what has hap- 
 pened to-day ? You have been crying, Susan. 
 Can you tell why that was ? " 
 
 With his kind eyes searching into her face, 
 and his tender arm supporting her, Susan 
 could not keep up her feint of good spirits ; 
 she faltered, cast down her eyes, tried to 
 speak, and then fell unawares into a passion 
 of youthful tears — hot, angry, indignant, re- 
 bellious tears — the first overflow of personal 
 mortification, injury, and wounded feeling — 
 tears too warm and too plentiful to blight or 
 kill. The Colonel soothed her and bent over 
 her with alarm and anxiety— he was almost 
 too much interested to be a good judge of the 
 depth of her suffering, and for the first mo-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 293 
 
 ment thought it much more serious than it was. 
 
 " Papa called me into the study to-day ; he 
 said that you — I mean he said that I was 
 careless of him, and did not do what I ought/' 
 said Susan, who had evidently changed her 
 mind, and substituted these words for some 
 others injurious to her uncle. '' He said I 
 loved you better in three days than I had 
 loved him for all my life. Oh, uncle, can I 
 help it ? — is it my fault ? — for nobody until 
 now ever loved me ! '' 
 
 " Hush, my dear child ! — is that all ? " said 
 Colonel Sutherland. '* Come, come, do not 
 cry — I daresay you were thinking of some- 
 thing else at breakfast, and forgot what you 
 were about — perhaps Letty. He will soon 
 forgive you, my love. Sometimes I have a 
 row with my Ned when he is at home. Don't 
 cry, my dear child." 
 
 " Ah, uncle, but you don't understand it," 
 cried poor Susan, rather disappointed to have 
 her sorrow undervalued ; " he wanted me not 
 — not" — and here with a great burst the
 
 294 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 truth' came out — ^'not to keep your presents 
 — nor to see you — nor to write to you — nor 
 anything : he said he would not permit it ; he 
 said I belonged to him, and so I think he be- 
 lieves. I do, uncle,'' cried Susan, with fire 
 and indignation, " like a table or a chair ! " 
 
 ** Hush, my child ! I wonder why he 
 objects to me, Susan,'' said the Colonel, with 
 a little grieved astonishment. *^ And what 
 did you say ? " 
 
 " I said I would not, uncle — I could not 
 help it!" cried Susan, with another burst of 
 tears. "I never disobeyed him in my life 
 before ; but I was very obstinate and stub- 
 born. I know I was. I said I would not 
 do what he told me. I can't! I will not I 
 I will stay in Marchmain, and never seek 
 to go away. I will do everything else he 
 tells me. I will work like Peggy, if he 
 pleases ; but I will write to you, uncle, and 
 see you whenever I can, and love you always. 
 Oh! uncle, uncle, do not you be angry 
 with me too ! "
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 295 
 
 " I ! " said Uncle Edward, his voice fal- 
 tering, " my poor dear child ! — I ! — if I only 
 could carry you home with me, Susan ! It 
 is hard to think I have given you more, in- 
 stead of less to suffer. Ah, Susan, if I 
 could but take you home with me ! " 
 
 Susan dried her eyes, comforted by the 
 words. " I must not hope for that, uncle," 
 she said, with more composure ; " and indeed 
 I could not leave papa, either. He is very 
 unhappy, I am sure. If I only knew what 
 to do for him ! And I don't want him 
 to think me stubborn and undutiful. He 
 is angry, and disturbed, and strange this 
 morning. I never saw him so before. Do 
 not speak to him to-day." 
 
 *' Would it be better to-morrow?" said 
 Colonel Sutherland. "No, Susan, especially 
 after what you told me. I must not stay 
 here longer than I can help, and I must 
 see your father before I go ; it is about 
 Horace, my love. I have promised to speak 
 of his wishes. I did not know," cried
 
 296 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR, 
 
 Colonel Sutherland, with a little mortifi- 
 cation, '* that I should hurt his cause by 
 pleading it ; but I ought to see him at any- 
 rate. No, I cannot submit to this without 
 any appeal. I^have lived in his house, and 
 eaten his bread, and had never a moment's 
 dispute with him. It is impossible ; there 
 must be some mistake.'' 
 
 And Colonel Sutherland went to the win- 
 dow, and stood looking out, with his eye- 
 brows puckered, and his hands behind him; 
 while Susan, drying her eyes again, went 
 to stir the neglected fire. Everything was 
 cold, meagre, uncomfortable, and the poor 
 girl's restless curiosity, eager to prove her 
 devotion to himself, yet glancing now and 
 then with terror at the door, as if she feared 
 her fathers appearance, and a scene of 
 strife, was not lost upon the Colonel. He 
 stood for some time in silence, considering 
 the whole matter, vexed, and mortified, and 
 indignant, yet feeling more of honest pain 
 for the position of the household, and for
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 297 
 
 the unfortunate recluse himself, than offence 
 in his own person. Then, without saying any- 
 thing to Susan, the old soldier marched silently 
 towards the study-door. It was necessary 
 now, to say what had to be said, at once.
 
 298 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Mr. Scarsdale was alone in the study, 
 where he passed his recluse life. The fire 
 burned low in the grate, the red curtains 
 hung half over the window, the atmosphere 
 was close and stifling. He sat in his usual 
 seat, with the invariable book before him. 
 But though it was hardly possible for him 
 to be more pale, there was something in 
 the colour of his face, in the rigidity of 
 his attitude, which betrayed a smothered 
 passion and excitement exceeding his wont. 
 When Colonel Sutherland knocked at the 
 door, he got up with a kind of convul- 
 sive haste, stepped towards it at one hasty 
 stride, and opened it. He thought it might
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOB. 299 
 
 be Susan, returned to make her submission. 
 When he saw his brother-in-law, Mr. Scars- 
 dale gazed at him with undisguised amaze- 
 ment and a sullen rage. He stood facing 
 the Colonel, holding the door, but without 
 inviting or even permitting him to enter. 
 ** I have something important to say to 
 you," said the old soldier — " permit me 
 to come in. I shall not detain you." 
 Then the recluse stepped back suddenly, 
 opening the door wide, but without uttering 
 a word. Colonel Sutherland went in, and 
 the door was closed upon him ; they stood 
 opposite each other, looking in each other's 
 faces. The Colonel, with a grieved surprise 
 and appeal in his look, the other with 
 his head bent, and nothing but sullen, 
 smothered passion in his face. Two men 
 more unlike never stood together in this 
 world. For the first moment not a word 
 passed between them, but their looks, full 
 of human motion and painful life, made 
 the strangest contrast in the silence, with the
 
 300 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 motionless, dreary quiet of this stifling 
 room. 
 
 After this pause, natural wonder and im- 
 patience seized the Colonel; he could not 
 resist the impulse of trying to right him- 
 self — to right his brother-in-law — to recover 
 if possible a natural position. " Robert ! " 
 he exclaimed, suddenly, with unpremeditated 
 warmth and emotion, "why is this? — what 
 have I done to you? — is there any reason 
 why you cannot receive me as of old ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon,^' said Mr. Scars- 
 dale, with a formal inclination of his head. 
 " My life and all my habits differ very 
 widely from yours. I have long made a 
 rule against admitting strangers into my 
 house. My circumstances are peculiar, as 
 you are aware — perhaps my dispositions are 
 peculiar too." 
 
 " But, for heaven^s sake !" cried the Colo- 
 nel, who found this repulse not so decisive 
 as he had feared — " why shut out m^f " 
 
 Once more the solitary man bowed, with
 
 THE HOUSE OX THE MOOR. 301 
 
 a sarcastic respect. " Again, I beg your par- 
 don ; but it does not follow,'* said Mr. Scars- 
 dale, with a smile, which would have been in- 
 sulting, but that it trembled with unreasonable 
 passion, " that a man^s own favourable opinion 
 of himself is shared by all the world." 
 
 The Colonel looked at him with a hasty, 
 astonished glance, a look of compassion and 
 surprise, which wounded the pride of his 
 companion to the quick. 
 
 " Well, then," cried the master of March- 
 main, '^ I decHne to receive you — your society 
 is disagreeable to me. Is not that enough ?" 
 
 " That is perfectly enough," said Colonel 
 Sutherland ; ^^ now, I have only my commis- 
 sion to discharge, and I am grieved I should 
 have made so unfavourable a beginning. I 
 come to you on behalf of your son." 
 
 *^ Of my son ! — oh ! and of my daughter 
 also, I presume ! You would wish me to 
 bring her * out,' and give parties for her — 
 perhaps you would like her to have a sea- 
 son in London?" said Scarsdale, with his
 
 302 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 trembling lip, and the forced smile of his 
 passion — ^^ is there anything else I can do 
 for you ? — for, as it happens, I choose to take 
 Susan into my own hands." 
 
 " I say nothing of Susan," said the Co- 
 lonel, gravely ; " if you choose to debar 
 the poor child from all the pleasures of 
 her youth, it is not for me to interfere. 
 She is in God's hands, who will guide her 
 better than either you or I. I come to you 
 from your son. Horace is a man grown, 
 very nearly of an independent age, clever, 
 ambitious, and at that time of life when 
 youths would fain see the world and act 
 for themselves ; do you think it right to 
 keep him here without occupation or train- 
 ing, in the most precious years of his life? 
 I come to you with a humble entreaty from 
 the young man, that you will give him 
 your permission and help to set forth upon 
 the world for himself" 
 
 " That is admirable !" said Mr. Scarsdale — 
 " my permission and help ? This is the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 303 
 
 first time I have heard of the faintest de- 
 sire on his part; — nay, I do not believe 
 that he does desire it — you have raade it 
 up among you ; and no doubt you have 
 settled the manner as well as the fact. 
 What profession, pray, does my clever son 
 mean to devote himself to ? " 
 
 ^' He wishes to study law," said the 
 Colonel, laconically. 
 
 *^Law? — ^to read for the bar, I presume?" 
 said the father ; "to have chambers in the 
 Temple, and the pleasures of his youth. It 
 is vastly well, Colonel Sutherland — I admire 
 your project greatly — he has my permission 
 by all means ; as for my help, I do not 
 need to inform you what kind of claim 
 this young man has upon me. Is it likely 
 I should take my straitened means, from 
 my own comfort and my daughter's, to sup- 
 port him in luxury and idleness ? — is it 
 probable, do you think, that I will make 
 a sacrifice for him ? Can you look me 
 honestly in the face and ask it of me?'^
 
 304 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 *' I trust so/' said the Colonel, with a 
 little sadness. " Scarsdale, we are both 
 fathers — we ought to be able to understand 
 each other; is it necessary to weigh the 
 nature of claims, the probabilities of tem- 
 per, when one appeals to a father for the 
 future life of his son ? '^ 
 
 ** My son's future life," said Mr. Scarsdale, 
 vindictively, " is quite independent of me. Had 
 there been any nature left in our mutual posi- 
 tion things might have been different. No ! my 
 son has no need to betake himself to a profes- 
 sion — he is quite above the necessity. Should 
 I accelerate the time when he shall come to 
 his fortune ? Should I beg your prayers — ^for 
 I remember you are pious — ^that he may enter 
 speedily upon his inheritance ? I thank you. 
 I do not profess to be quite so disinterested. 
 No, let him wait ' — let him take his share of 
 the evils of mankind. Must 1 deny myself to 
 smooth his path for him, and give him roses 
 for my thorns ? It would be the conduct of a 
 fool. No, I repeat he has no need for a pro-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 305 
 
 fession — let him wait I I support him — is it 
 not enough ? " 
 
 " Too much ! " cried Colonel Sutherland ; 
 " you must perceive that it would be ten times 
 better for him to support himself, to labour tor 
 himself, instead of embittering his life in this 
 forced idleness here. Why should he be a 
 burden on you at all, at his years ? Though 
 he does not ultimately require a profession, to 
 have one would be his salvation now. You 
 are a hale and healthy man, in spite of all you 
 do to yourself — you have twenty years to live 
 before you attain the limited age of man. Can 
 you think of this unfortunate boy living here 
 as he lives now, in utter ignorance of the for- 
 tune which waits him, till he is forty ? Think 
 of it, I implore you I It has lasted long 
 enough — too long, Scarsdale. Think, if you 
 have human bowels, human mercy in you, of 
 the extraordinary fate to which you destine 
 your only son. Suppose him growing into 
 maturity, into full manhood, to years in which 
 you had the world at your feet and children 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 at your knees ; yet kept in darkness, kept in 
 bitterness, idle, solitary, able to think of no- 
 thing but of the injury that has been done to 
 him ; until, all at once, you are struck down 
 in extreme desolate old age — and wealth, 
 which is no longer anything to him, wealth 
 which will disgust him, falls into his hands. 
 What ! you turn away — you will not have that 
 event even mentioned? What are you think- 
 ing of? Is a miserable heap of money of more 
 importance to you than the welfare of your 
 son?" 
 
 ** Upon my word," said Mr. Scarsdale, turn- 
 ing away with a violent colour on his face, and 
 an exclamation of disgust, "I see no reason 
 in the world why I should study the welfare, 
 as you call it, of my son." 
 
 " You do not — and you can say so? " cried 
 the Colonel, in loud and stern astonishment. 
 
 " I do not, and I can say so, and without 
 raising my voice," said the other, with a sneer. 
 ^' My son, I beg to tell you once again, is pro- 
 vided for. I give him food and clothing — he
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 307 
 
 has nothing else to hope or to expect from 
 me. 
 
 " This is all then that you have to say ? " 
 said Colonel Sutherland ; ** you will not assist 
 him to make his life honourable and useful ? 
 Will you explain to him why you decline doing 
 so ? — will you tell him that his future is so 
 secured, that a profession is unnecessary to 
 him ? Do the boy some justice — let there be 
 a natural explanation between you. You can- 
 not expect him to go on in this way for years. 
 Could you wish it ? I beseech you, either tell 
 him how matters stand, or help him to carry 
 out his most lawful and virtuous wish I Will 
 you do one or the other ? I beseech you, tell 
 me!" 
 
 " I tell you no ! *' said Mr. Scarsdale. " Let 
 the dog wait ! I will neither put myself in 
 his power, nor help him to the best means of 
 spying out my secret. No ! Have I spoken 
 distinctly ? — he shall have neither confidence 
 nor assistance from me ! " 
 
 " Is it possible ? " cried the Colonel, driven 
 
 x2
 
 308 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 to an extremity of mingled wonder, indigna- 
 tion, and pity ; ** for the sake of your own 
 exasperated feelings, can you make up your 
 mind to revenge yourself, by ruining this un- 
 happy lad, your only son, for ever ? " 
 
 *^ I beg your pardon — this unhappy lad is 
 very well off," said his extraordinary father ; 
 " so well off, that I certainly do not find my- 
 self called upon to do any more for him — al- 
 though," said Mr. Scarsdale, with a glance of 
 bitterness upon the kind, anxious face which 
 bent towards him, " I am aware that to help 
 a man who does not require help is understood 
 to be the way of the world." 
 
 The Colonel's weather-beaten face flushed 
 high with angry colour ; he was surprised 
 and grieved and wounded to his heart, but 
 he had still and always this advantage over 
 his adversary, that the unkindest insinuation 
 which Scarsdale could make made his brother- 
 in-law only the more sorry for him, and 
 wrought more grief than passion in his mind. 
 After the first moment he looked wistfully
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 309 
 
 into the face of his former friend, with a com- 
 passionate and troubled amazement, which, 
 little though the Colonel intended it, roused 
 his companion to furj. " How you must be 
 changed ! '^ he said, sadly, " to be able to say 
 such words to me ; " and Colonel Sutherland 
 sighed as he spoke, with the hopeless patience 
 of a man who sees no means of bringing good 
 out of evil. The sigh, the tone, and the look 
 wound up the recluse into the utmost rage ; 
 he made a wild imperative gesture and ex- 
 clamation — for his voice was choked with 
 fury — and opened the door violently. It was 
 thus that Colonel Sutherland's appeal and 
 hopes for Horace concluded ; he left the 
 study without another word.
 
 310 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 " Yes, Susan, I am going away presently, and 
 I fear I shall not see you again either,'^ said 
 Colonel Sutherland, with a cheerfulness which 
 he was far from feeling — "that is, not this 
 time, my love; but there is plenty of time, if it 
 be theLord's will, Susan. You are very young, 
 and I am not very old. We are tough, we old In- 
 dians ; we wear a long time, and we shall meet, 
 my dear child, I don*t doubt, many happy days." 
 Susan looted up to him with inquiring eyes 
 — with eyes, indeed, so full of inquiry that he 
 thought she must have spoken, and put his 
 hand to his ear. " No, uncle, I did not say 
 anything," cried Susan, touched by that ges- 
 ture almost out of her self-possession. The
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 311 
 
 poor girl turned away her head and rubbed 
 her eyes with her trembling fingers, to send 
 back the tears. When might eyes so tender 
 shine in that forlorn solitude again ? It was 
 impossible to look at the old man, with his 
 solicitous kindness, his anxious look of atten- 
 tion, and even the infirmity which threw a 
 tenderness and humility so individual and 
 characteristic upon his whole bearing, in the 
 thought of, perhaps, never seeing him again, 
 without emotion. It was to Susan as if the 
 sunshine was departing. He might go away, 
 she might never see him again, but nothing 
 could obliterate the efifect of that three days 
 visit; nothing in the world could make Susan 
 what she was when this week began. She did 
 not know how it was, but the fact was indis- 
 putable; her undisturbed and unsusceptible 
 content was over for ever. Was it good for 
 Susan? She did not ask the question, but 
 rubbed back the tears, and stood close to her 
 uncle, intent upon hearing the last words 
 which he might have to say, and vowing to
 
 312 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 herself that she would not grieve him by cry- 
 ing — not if she should faint or die the moment 
 he was gone. 
 
 Such resolutions are hard to keep. When 
 the Colonel laid his kind hand upon her head, 
 Susan trembled over her whole frame. Her 
 unshed tears — the youthful guilty anger pro- 
 voked by her father, which still palpitated in 
 her heart — which the poor child could not 
 overcome, yet felt to be wrong ; and the un- 
 usual agitation of this crowd of diverse feel- 
 ings, very nearly overcome her. Her cheeks 
 grew crimson, her lips and her eyelids 
 trembled, yet she controlled herself. And 
 Uncle Edward was still making light of the 
 injury to himself — still accepting his repulse 
 as something natural and spontaneous ; it 
 moved her to an indignation wild, impetuous, 
 and unlike her character ; but there was no 
 blame on the ColoneVs lips. 
 
 " Some time or other you will come to my 
 little house, and see the country where your 
 mother was born," said Uncle Edward ; "we
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 6l6 
 
 shall not know what to make of you when 
 we get you there — you will be queen and 
 princess, and do what you please with us. 
 Yes, I hope after a time your father will con- 
 sent to it, my love. He is rather angry just 
 now, but time will soften that down. And 
 remember, Susan, you must make the best 
 and not the worst of everything. Horace 
 does that last, you know, and ' one wise 
 body's enough in a house,' as we say in Scot- 
 land ; you must be the foolish one, ray little 
 Susan, and always hope ; everything will 
 turn out well, under the blessing of God." 
 
 ^^ I hope so, uncle," said Susan, with an 
 involuntary sob. 
 
 " Perhaps, my dear child, I ought to say 
 you must obey your father, and not write to 
 me," said Uncle Edward — *^ but I am not 
 quite virtuous enough for that ; only always 
 do it honestly, Susan — never conceal it from 
 him — and stop if it should make you un- 
 happy, or you find it out to be wrong in your 
 own conscience. However, I shall write to
 
 314 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 you in any case. My boy Ned will want to 
 come and see you, I fear, before he leaves the 
 country. You must always remember that you 
 are of great importance to us, Susan, though 
 we have not the first claim on you. You are the 
 only woman in the family ; you represent all 
 those who are gone, to me, my little girl. 
 Hush ! do not cry — you must be very strong 
 and courageous, for all our sakes." 
 
 " I am not crying ! '' cried Susan, with a 
 gasp of fervent resolution, though she could 
 scarcely articulate the words. 
 
 " That is right, my darling," said the Co- 
 lonel. " Now, don't let us think any more 
 about it, Susan. We shall hear from each 
 other constantly, and some time or other Fll 
 show you Inveresk, and Edinburgh, and your 
 mother's country ; and in the meantime, you 
 will be cheerful and brave like yourself. Now 
 tell Peggy to bring me some bread and cheese, 
 my love — I am going to be grand to-day ; my 
 carriage is coming for me presently. Where 
 is Horace ? I must see him before I go — call
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 315 
 
 him here, Susan, and order me my bread and 
 cheese." 
 
 Susan was very glad, as her uncle suspected, 
 to run out of the room for a moment, and de- 
 liver herself of the sob with which she was chok- 
 ing. When she was gone. Colonel Sutherland 
 looked sadly round him upon the dreary apart- 
 ment, to which the agitation of this day had 
 given a more than usually neglected and miser- 
 able appearance. He shook his head as he 
 glanced round upon those meagre walls, and out 
 to that bare moor, which was the only refuge 
 for the eye. He thought it a terrible prison for 
 a girl of seventeen, unsweetened by any love or 
 society. He thought that even the departure of 
 Horace, though he was not much of a companion 
 to his sister, would aggravate her solitude ; and 
 involuntarily the old man thought of his own 
 bright apartments at Inveresk, and wondered, 
 with a natural sigh, over the strange problems 
 of Providence. Had Susan been a child of 
 his own, saved to him from among the many 
 dead, what a different lot had been hers ! — but
 
 316 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 here was this flower blossoming in the desert, 
 where no one cared for its presence — and Ms 
 hearth was solitary. He did not repine or 
 complain — ingratitude had no place in his 
 tender Christian soul, but he sighed and won- 
 dered at the bottom of his heart. 
 
 In a few minutes Horace joined him. Horace 
 did not care to form the third of a party which 
 included his uncle and his sister. Their friend- 
 ship annoyed him, he could not tell how ; it 
 was an offence to Horace that they seemed to 
 understand one another so entirely; far superior 
 as he thought himself, he was conscious that 
 neither the one nor the other was intelligible to 
 him. He came, however, with a little excite- 
 ment on hearing that the Colonel had been 
 with his father, expecting little, yet curious, 
 as he always was about everything, done and 
 said, by his perennial and lifelong antagonist. 
 When he entered the room Colonel Sutherland 
 held out his hand to him with an affectionate 
 sympathy, which he accepted with astonish- 
 ment, and not without a passing sneer in his
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 317 
 
 mind at the idea of being consoled, either for 
 such a supposititious disappointment, or in 
 such a manner. It was with a feeling very 
 diflferent from a young man's anxiety to know 
 his fate, or expectation of a decision which 
 should influence his life, that he waited to hear 
 what his Uncle had to say. 
 
 " I am sorry to tell you, Horace, you have 
 judged more correctly than I did," said the 
 Colonel, with hesitation ; ^4 find, to my great 
 disappointment, that your father is not dis- 
 posed to assist you, my dear boy. I don't 
 know what to say about it — it appears that 
 he has taken some erroneous idea into his 
 mind about myself. I'm afraid the advocate 
 hurt the cause, Horace. If some one else 
 spoke to him, perhaps — ; but however that 
 might be, to my great concern and astonish- 
 ment, he has quite refused me ! *' 
 
 " Don't trouble yourself about it, uncle ; I 
 knew how it would be,'' said Horace, his eyes 
 lighting up with the unnatural contention which 
 had pervaded his life. " It was not the ad
 
 318 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 vocate, but the cause which was hopeless. 
 What did he say ? " 
 
 " He said — some things which had much 
 better remained unsaid. He was affronted 
 with me," said Colonel Sutherland ; " but he 
 gives his permissiGn, Horace — not assistance, 
 remember, but still permission — that is always 
 something ; he seems to have no objection that 
 you should follow your own course, and do 
 what you can for yourself.'' 
 
 " That is very kind of him," said Horace, 
 with a smile ; " but I rather think I never 
 should have asked his leave, but for your 
 hopes of help from him, which I never shared. 
 I suppose he was amazed at the idea that I 
 should expect anything from him. I daresay 
 he appealed to you why he should take his 
 own narrow means to support an idle vaga- 
 bond like me. Ah I he did ! — I could have 
 sworn he would ! " 
 
 " Nay, Horace," said the Colonel, who had 
 been struck unawares by the correctness of his 
 nephew's guess ; " what is the use of imagin-
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 319 
 
 ing unkind words, which most likely were nei- 
 ther spoken nor intended ? The fact is sim- 
 ple — your father does not think a profession 
 is essential to you ; he thinks that — that you 
 will most probably have enough without. In 
 short, he does not feel called upon to assist 
 you ; but at the same time, remember, Horace, 
 he puts no obstacle in the way. All is not 
 lost yet, my boy : I must try whether I can 
 do anything. I am not rich, I have little to 
 spare, but I have friends, and there are some 
 people who might be interested in you. Wait 
 a little, Horace — leave it to me, and we will 
 see what can be done. I would not be dis- 
 couraged ; there are more ways than one of 
 doing everything in this world." 
 
 " You may trust to me, uncle, that I cer- 
 tainly will not give up my own intention be- 
 cause my father declines to assist it — every- 
 thing is safe enough so far," said Horace ; 
 " as for anything great, you know, study and 
 that sort of thing, I give that up as impossi- 
 ble — I did so from the first. I will never be
 
 320 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 a great lawyer, uncle ; but I daresay I'll learn 
 enough for my own ends/' 
 
 " Your own ends! — I don't understand you, 
 Horace," cried the Colonel, somewhat alarmed 
 at the expression of his nephew's face, and 
 for perhaps the first time in his life suspecting 
 something of double meaning in the words he 
 heard. 
 
 *^ Have I not to work for my own living ? 
 — to support myself, uncle?" cried Horace, 
 turning round upon him with a bitter emphasis. 
 
 '* Very well, my lad, what then?" said 
 Colonel Sutherland, with dignity — *^is there 
 anything very terrible in that ? The be&t men 
 in the world have had to work for their living. 
 I am sorry for you that you cannot get the free- 
 dom of using your powers, and proper advant- 
 ages for their cultivation ; but I assure you, 
 Horace, I am not sorry for you on the ground 
 that you must support yourself." 
 
 "To be sure not," said Horace, with a little 
 secret mortification ; '^ but it is therefore I say 
 that I will learn law enough for my own ends."
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 321 
 
 Once more the Colonel looked at him 
 doubtfully, pondering the peculiar and unne- 
 cessary emphasis with which the young man 
 pronounced these words. Colonel Sutherland 
 perceived, in spite of his unsuspicious nature, 
 that there was a gleam in the eye, and a 
 sudden animation in the manner of Horace, 
 which referred to something different from 
 the calm means of sustenance, or the know- 
 ledge sufficient to secure it. Something vin- 
 dictive and eager was in his look. The Colonel 
 probably thought it better not to inquire too 
 closely into it, for he turned away from Horace 
 with a sigh. 
 
 Perhaps it was a relief to them all when 
 the gig arrived at last, and Colonel Suther- 
 land bade farewell to Marchmain. The old 
 man was troubled because he trusted his 
 niece, and knew that she would not deceive 
 his expectations ; and he was troubled because 
 he could not trust his nephew, and did not 
 feel at all warranted in undertaking for 
 him. While Horace, for his part, brooded 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 322 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 with renewed anger, though he professed to 
 expect it, over his father's refusal of assist- 
 ance, and was tired of amusing Colonel 
 Sutherland by a show of good humour, all the 
 more when his uncle seemed unlikely to be of 
 much service to him ; and the difficulty with 
 which Susan kept her composure, and the 
 unusual tumult of personal feeling in which 
 the poor child felt herself, made the continued 
 effort almost too much for her. The gig 
 arrived at last. The Colonel said his last 
 good-bye, and drove away from the inhos- 
 pitable door which he had seen for the 
 first time three days ago, leaving Susan, 
 Horace, and Peggy outside, watching his 
 departure, and waving farewells to him ; and 
 leaving, besides that external demonstration, 
 a revolution in the house, and, for good or for 
 evil, the germs, to these two young people, 
 of a new world.
 
 323 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The Colonel drove away, out of sight of 
 Marchmain and its moor, with thoughts many 
 and troubled. This visit, which he had under- 
 taken with so much simplicity of intention, 
 had already thrown a disturbing influence 
 into his life ; he went away, bearing on his 
 own very heart and conscience the burden of 
 an unmanageable boy, and a girl neglected and 
 suffering. An unmanageable boy ! The Colo- 
 nel summed up his non-comprehension of the 
 character of Horace in these uncomplimen- 
 tary words, and it was his first experience of 
 the kind. He had never learned to doubt 
 the honest common-places about youthful 
 openness and candour which good hearts, like 
 
 y2
 
 324 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 his own, receive and repeat so authorita- 
 tively. He could have laid down rules to 
 any one, with a little mild dogmatism, and a 
 world of kindness, for the management of "the 
 young ; *' and would have told you, with affec- 
 tionate complaisance, and not without an idea 
 that judicious training had much to do with 
 it, that his Addiscombe cadet had never given 
 him a moment's anxiety. That was very true 
 of honest Ned, to whom nature had given, 
 not her fairy wealth of genius, but something 
 safer ; her gift of competency, if one may use 
 the expression — a sincere, straightforward, sa- 
 gacious soul — a judgment wise without know- 
 ing it, and true by instinct, to which craft or 
 concealment were things impossible. Colonel 
 Sutherland, " with his experience,'' as he said, 
 did not believe in the youthful mystics, the 
 Manfreds and Werters. He smiled in his 
 kindly superiority and said, " Youth at bottom 
 was very consistent in its inconsistencies, and 
 very manageable if you took pains enough, and 
 knew the right way." The Colonel was a little
 
 ' THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 325 
 
 mortified, accordingly, to be obliged to con- 
 clude that he knew very little of Horace, and 
 that his nephew baffled him. It put him out 
 in his calculations — it spread a certain doubt 
 over the whole fair face of nature, and left an 
 ache in the old man's unsuspicious heart. He 
 could not persuade himself to condemn, and 
 therefore troubled his mind with the idea that 
 he could not possibly understand. 
 
 It was early evening when the little vehicle 
 reached the top of the slope from which the 
 road descended to the village ; and the twink- 
 ling lights in the shallow vale beneath, the 
 hum of sound, the twilight calm through 
 which the Colonel, whose eyes were equal to 
 any practicable distance, though '' small print '* 
 somewhat troubled them, recognized the dif- 
 ferent points of his morning and evening walks 
 — filled the old man with a strange sensation 
 of familiarity and friendship. Already, though 
 he had been here so short a time, he knew the 
 place, remembered the hedge-rows and the 
 trees, could tell where was the best point of
 
 326 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 view, was able to distinguish from a distance 
 the principal houses in the village, and could 
 even recollect where the green primrose leaves 
 lay warmest, and were likely to be first unrolled 
 and spread into the light by the spring sun. 
 Somehow, unawares to himself, the kind old 
 man, with his warm natural sympathy, had 
 established a certain connection with this 
 unknown place. Here was Kennedy, his old 
 companion-in-arms ; here was young Mus- 
 grave, whom the Colonel seemed to have 
 somehow adopted, in spite of himself, as the 
 type of what Horace should have been, and in 
 whom he had interested himself with an inex- 
 plainable rapidity and rashness which appeared 
 very odd when he thought of it, though it was 
 extremely natural. He recollected now that 
 this second 'protege must be looked after and 
 seen this evening. The Colonel had become 
 quite a man of affairs since he came to Tilling- 
 ton. All this time, occupied as he was by his 
 own thoughts, the drive had been a very silent 
 one — so much so, that honest John Gilsland,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 327 
 
 who had driven the gig himself in hopes of an 
 Opportunity of displaying his wisdom to **the 
 Cornel," had been much disappointed of his 
 expectations. John was supposed to play 
 second fiddle in his own house ; the " missis " 
 had not so much respect for his talents and 
 sagacity as became a wife, and the good man 
 proportionately esteemed the chances of letting 
 loose his opinions out of doors; and was espe- 
 cially anxious that " the Cornel " should not 
 leave Tillington without being aware of his 
 host's superiority. The honest fellow had been 
 maundering on for some time about the houses 
 which they passed before some chance words 
 caught the Colonel's attention. He turned 
 round rather sharply with the sudden ** Eh ! " 
 of a mind pre-occupied. John Gilsland started 
 so much, that he startled the mare, who tossed 
 her head and winced, and showed inclinations 
 " to mak' a boult of it," as her master said. 
 This occurred, as it happened, near the spot 
 where the Colonel had discovered Kennedy and 
 his hare on the previous night. He raised him-
 
 328 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 self with a little alarm, and peered into the 
 darkness over the bushes, doubting that some 
 concealed movement of the old poacher must 
 have been the occasion of the mare's start. 
 However, there was nothing to be seen behind 
 the hedge, and John Gilsland recommenced his 
 monologue, to which the Colonel now gave his 
 ear, with a flattering attention which won his 
 landlord's heart. 
 
 "As far as you can see — not that that's 
 so far as might be wushed at this hour o' the 
 nicht,'' said John, "was th' ould Mr. Mus- 
 grave's land. Cornel. Yon er's the house, sir, 
 amidst of a bit of wood — guid tim'er and ould, 
 and a credit to the place. D'ye see the pair bit 
 dribble o' smoke. Cornel ? — th' ould chimneys 
 puffed i' another fashion when the Squire was to 
 the fore. There wasn't six days i' the twelve- 
 month but there was coompany at the Grange, 
 and a sight of fine folks wance or twicest in the 
 year, like in September and the shooting sai- 
 son. But ye cannot both eat your cake and 
 have your cake. Cornel. There's this coom of
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 329 
 
 it, that the siller's a' puffed away; and the 
 young heir, poor lad, he's left destitute ; and 
 the more's the pity, for a more affable gentleman 
 than Mr. Roger never carried a gun. That's 
 him that coom to see yourself, sir, the last 
 nicht — ye would be a friend o' his family, it's 
 like ? — for he's no of this parish born." 
 
 " Was the young man related to the Squire? 
 — his godfather, I know — but they seem to be 
 of the same name," said the Colonel ; '* he is 
 a fine young fellow — he will have many friends, 
 I presume, in the families hereabout." 
 
 " Ye see, Cornel," said John Gilsland, drop- 
 ping the reins upon the mare's neck, and suf- 
 fering her to fall into almost a walking pace, 
 as he saw himself at last appreciated, "it 
 makes an uncommon difference when a man 
 gets shot of his siller. There was a time when 
 Mr. Roger was foremost favourite mony's the 
 place; but wan house ye see, there's a parcel o' 
 young ladies, and what if wan o' them took a 
 fancy to him ? They're tender-hearted, them 
 girls — they're just as like as no to fa' in love
 
 330 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 with a man, for the reason that^s he's misforti- 
 nate. I've seen a young lad myself that lost 
 a' he had, and was prosecooted by the women 
 for ne'er anither reason that I could see. Then 
 anither place you see there's a regiment o' sons, 
 and my leddy wants a' the influence she can 
 wun, fair means or foul, for her owen prod- 
 gedy; and another place, they've little enough 
 themsels, and cannot afford to keep friends 
 with wan that has not a penny — and that's 
 how it stands, Cornel, on the whole. If he 
 had th' ould Squire's estate, he'd ha' loads o' 
 friends." 
 
 ** Poor fellow!" said the Colonel, shrugging 
 his shoulders, half with compassion, half with 
 disgust — he was not very well acquainted with 
 this phase of human nature. Nobody had ever 
 suspected him of being rich, and he remem- 
 bered, with a half smile, quickly followed by a 
 sigh, the gleeful opposition to established au- 
 thority, with which young Edward Sutherland, 
 ensign or lieutenant, returned to the charge, 
 when repulsed by a prudent mamma from the
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 331 
 
 vicinity of her daughters. But he soon re- 
 verted with ready sympathy to the woes of the 
 disinherited. " This Squire must have been 
 a very imprudent man," he said, " or a very 
 heartless one. Had he no regrets to leave 
 the young man penniless ? '* 
 
 " Hoosht, Cornel ! — Mr. Roger, sir, he's 
 wild if a man dare whisper a word. He's broke 
 with his acquaintance that he had, and the 
 common sort o' folks, sir, that were sorry for 
 him, and ready to make friends if he wushed 
 — he's quarrelled with half the county, Cornel, 
 because this wan and the tither said their mind 
 o' th' Squire. He wull not have a reproach of 
 him, not a word. He took even mysel' down 
 as fast, I thought the nose was off my face, 
 for saying, in an innocent way, that th' Squire 
 was very free with his money when he had it, 
 and so was seen on him. I would not say, 
 but it's all the better of him, to stand up for 
 wan as cannot stand up for himself no more. 
 And I ne'er knew a man as was deceived in 
 Mr. Roger, Cornel — he's hasty, but he's true.
 
 332 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 He'll gang in o' the auld wives' cots, and give 
 the children pennies, but never put an affront 
 on a lass, or refused satisfaction to a man, as 
 far as ever I heard, all his born days." 
 
 " I am glad to know it," said the Colonel, 
 with a little shiver, — "but we are surely making 
 very slow progress. What's happened to the 
 mare? She surely forgets that this is the 
 road to her own stable. Eh ? — a beast of her 
 good sense seldom does that." 
 
 " She's fresh, sir, fresh — she minds no 
 more for her own stable nor I do. Cornel. 
 She's good for twenty mile and more, if there 
 was the occasion," said John, caressing the 
 animal with the end of his whip, but prudently 
 increasing her pace. 
 
 " And, by-the-bye, I have a question to ask 
 you — Sir John Armitage? What sort of a 
 place has he? — is it near? — is he rich? — and 
 where do you think he is to be found?" said 
 the Cornel rapidly, as they approached near 
 Tillington. 
 
 Once more the mare, much against her
 
 ThE HOUSE ON THE MOOE. 333 
 
 will, slackened her pace. " Ye see, Sir John 
 Armitage, Cornel," said John, raising his 
 hand in explanatory action, '* he's wan of the 
 great squires o' th' county. He wasn't born 
 tull't, as ye may say. He was an army 
 gentleman, sir, such like as yourself, and 
 th' ould Sir John was as far off as his second 
 cousin, a dissolute man, without neither chick 
 nor child. This wan, he's grey and onmarried 
 likewise — the title will gang, as it came, 
 slantlike, to a nevvy or a cousin. It's the 
 park. Cornel, a grand mansion as is his salt — 
 but a desolate place, and him no more enjoy- 
 ment in't nor me. Sir ? The mare ? Oh ay, 
 she's jogging on." 
 
 ** It's rather cold for this pace, it appears 
 to me," said the Colonel, whose face, so much 
 of it as was visible out of the cloak, was blue 
 with cold. ^^ Hey ? Halt then ! Do you mean 
 to upset us? What's the matter with the 
 beast now ? 
 
 ** Na, Cornel, she's gane fast and she's 
 gane slow, and nouther pleases — it's none of
 
 334 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 her blame, puir brute," said John, with affected 
 humility. " I give her a taste o' the whip, 
 and ye say I'll upset ye. Me! Fm the 
 safest driver in ten mile; and as for my 
 mare — there she is — she kens her gate 
 hoam.*' 
 
 Where accordingly they arrived in a few 
 minutes, and where the Colonel got down 
 frozen, and limped into the little parlour, 
 where the blazing fire comforted his eyes. 
 But having been frozen stiff in the first part 
 of the road, and then jolted almost to pieces 
 in the concluding gallop, it was some time 
 before his numb fingers had vigour enough 
 to unloose his cloak, and his lips to speak. 
 The landlady brought in wine, pushed it aside 
 with a mild feminine imprecation upon the 
 " cauld stuff," and came back presently with 
 a steaming goblet of brandy and water. The 
 Colonel was the most temperate of men, and 
 had not had his dinner; but the siren 
 t' educed him — and the first words he uttered, 
 when the frost in his throat began to melt,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOK. 335 
 
 was an inquiry, which startled Mrs. Gilsland 
 out of her propriety, for an ** Army List/' if 
 such a thing was to be had. 
 
 ** An * Army List!' — eyeh. Cornel, what's 
 that?" said the good woman in dismay. 
 
 " Are there any old officers about Tilling- 
 ton, Mrs. Gilsland? An *Army List' is simply 
 a list of the army," said the urbane Colonel. 
 ** Do you think you can manage to borrow 
 one for half-an-hour from anybody in the 
 village — eh ? Consult with your husband, it 
 is of importance to me." 
 
 " Him, Cornel ? What does he know?" said 
 the landlady. ^' Officers, na — unless it was 
 th' Ould Hundred, begging your pardon, 
 Cornel, for he's nothing but a sergeant; 
 but that's the byname he goes by in my 
 house." 
 
 " The Old Hundred? I'm an Old Hundred 
 man myself," said the Colonel, laughing. 
 " Kennedy, is it? No, he will not do, the old 
 humbug — I suspect he tells the lads a parcel 
 of lies about the regiment, and brings discredit
 
 336 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 on as fine a body of men as there is in the ser- 
 vice. Eh? — is the sergeant a great man 
 among ye here ?" 
 
 "Oh, Cornel!'^ cried Mrs. Gilsland, "Fll 
 go down to you on my bended knees if youll 
 say to my Sam, sir, what you say to me. 
 He's wildibr the sodgerin', is that lad! and 
 th' Ould Hunderd he lays it on till him as 
 if it was Paradise ! — and an only son. Cornel, 
 and a great help in the business, and if 
 he 'lists, and go to the bad, what will I 
 do?" 
 
 "But if he 'lists, he need not go to 
 the bad," said the Colonel. "I'll speak to 
 him if you like; but in the meantime, my 
 'Army List '? Is there nobody in Tillington 
 who has a son an officer? Nobody who 
 
 "Bless my soul, what am I thinking on? 
 To be sure, there's the Eectory!" cried the 
 landlady, rushing out of the room in the 
 fervour of her discovery. And the Cornel 
 heard her immediately commission her son,
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 337 
 
 who seemed to be at a distance, at the top of 
 her voice, to run this moment to the Eectory, 
 and ask if there was such a thing about the 
 house as a list of all the regiments and officers, 
 for a gentleman that was an officer himself, 
 and a Cornel, and that was staying at the 
 " Tillington Arms." " And thou'll take it in 
 thyself, Sam," shouted the good woman, 
 " with thy best manners, and never tarry on 
 the road. The Cornel wants to speak to thee 
 himself Now, mind what I say ! — he's some- 
 thing to tell 'ee lad, will put 'ee out o' conceit 
 with th' Ould Hunderd — run, as if thou 
 hadst wings to thy heels ! " 
 
 The Colonel, sitting by his fire, gradually 
 thawing, laughed to himself, and shrugged 
 his shoulders as he heard this adjuration. 
 Was he to be elected impromptu adviser of all 
 the adventurous youth of Tillington ? He sat 
 in his chair, by the fire, wondering whether 
 the * Army List ' could be had — whether Sir 
 John Armitage would turn out to be Armi- 
 tage of the 59th — and chuckling quietly over 
 
 VOL. I. Z
 
 338 THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 the Sergeant^s nickname, until, in the warmth 
 and the silence, the old soldier nodded over 
 cheerily into a half-hour's sleep. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 R. BORN, PRINTER, GLOUCESTER S 1 KEET, REGENT'S PARK.
 
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