Margaret Oliphant - The House on the Moor. Volume 3

IT was still early, when Susan, somewhat flushed by her rapid walk, and somewhat tired to the boot – for, elastic and strong, and accustomed to exercise as she was, six miles of solitary road, with a bundle to carry, not to say the burden of her desolate circumstances, and the natural timidity which, after a while, replaced her flush of indignant vehemence, was rather an exhausting morning promenade for a girl of nineteen – arrived at Tillington. And, in spite of Peggy’s injunctions and her own sense of necessity, it was only with lingering steps, and a painful reluctance, that she at last summoned courage sufficient to present herself at John Gilsland’s open door. Once there, however, matters became easy enough, smoothed by Mrs. Gilsland’s eager and ready welcome, and by an incident of which Susan had not thought.

“Eyeh, miss! but he’s gone no moor nor half an hour since,” cried Mrs. Gilsland. “Bless us awl! to have a young lady like you come as far, and o’er late, when awl’s done! But he was in grit haste, was Mr. Horry. Come into the fire, and rest yoursel’, for the like of them long walks at this hour in the morning, they’re no for leddy-birds like you. You’ll have heard from the Cornel, miss? And how is he? – the dear gentleman! But you’re not agoing to stand there, with that white face. Dear heart, sit down, and I’ll get a cup of tea in a twinkling. She’s clean done with tiredness, and the disappointment. John! if ye had the spirit of a mouse, ye’d goo after Mr. Horry, and bring him back to satisfy miss – there, do ye hear?”

“No, Mrs. Gilsland,” said Susan, eagerly; “but, please, if John will get the gig, and drive me to the railroad, and perhaps we might overtake my brother. I’m – I’m – I’m – going to see my uncle to Scotland; and Horace would – might, perhaps – see me away.”

“But, dear miss, your boxes?” cried Mrs. Gilsland, gazing at the young pedestrian with astonishment, and throwing her wonder into the first tangible thing that occurred to her, as she took the bundle out of Susan’s hand.

“They are to come after me,” said Susan, with a blush of shame; “but we had better make haste, and overtake Horace. He does not know I am going; but I think – thought – he would, perhaps, go with me to the railroad,” added Susan, availing herself of that unexpected assistance, to cover her strange departure alone from Marchmain, yet blushing at the falsehood of the inference. “Oh, will you please to tell John? I have had breakfast. I could not take any tea, thank you, Mrs. Gilsland, but I want so much to overtake my brother.”

This was so reasonable and comprehensible, that the good woman left her guest immediately, to startle her husband into unusual speed, and urge him on to the harnessing of the horse, and preparation of the gig, with such wonderful expedition, that John, who, contrary to his usual habits, had no time whatever to think about it, was perfectly flushed with the exertion, and scarcely knew what he was doing. Susan, grateful to be left unquestioned, sat alone in the meantime in the little parlour, feeling half glad, and half guilty, in the strange relief afforded her by Horace’s recent presence here, and the excuse it served to give for her own appearance. It saved her entirely from the halting and timid explanation of a sudden visit to her uncle, and there being nobody at Marchmain who could be spared to accompany her, with which she had been trying to fortify herself, as she approached Tillington; and the momentary rest and quietness was a relief to her tired and excited frame. Then the very room recalled to poor Susan recollections which warmed and strengthened her heart. Uncle Edward! – the only person in the world, save Peggy, who had ever looked with tender, indulgent eyes of affection upon her youth; and it was to him and his house she was going! She sat there motionless, in the dingy little inn parlour, too much fatigued and strained in mind even to unclasp her hands, but unconsciously recovering her courage, and feeling the light and flicker of a happiness to come about her heart.

This sensation of comfort increased when Susan was fairly seated in John Gilsland’s gig, most carefully wrapped about with shawls and mantles, and began to feel the exhilaration of that rapid passage through the free air and over the open country. The youth in her veins rose like mercury in spite of herself, and she was not sure that she was so very glad in her heart as she ought to have been when John Gilsland assured her of her certainty of overtaking Horace. She was not a very attentive listener to honest John’s talk, profuse and digressive as that was. She made gentle answers, for it was not in Susan’s nature to show even unintentional rudeness to anybody; but with so much to think about, and possessed by the thrill of novel excitement which their first necessity of acting for themselves gives to very young people, she made but a very indifferent listener in reality. Then her heart kept beating over the thought of this approaching interview with her brother, and leaped to her mouth, as people say, when any distant figure became visible on the road. She did not know the road, nor whether her conductor was taking her direct the nearest way to the railway. They were making progress on this earliest stage of her long journey; and it was still morning, and all the long spring day was before her; that was almost enough for Susan in her present state of mind.

She was roused at length, and startled into an instant access of renewed excitement and anxiety by a shout from John Gilsland.

“Holla, Mr. Horry! Holla, lad! hey! hear ye! Maister Horry! here’s me and your sister fleeing after you this six or seven miles. Mr. Horry, I’m saying – holla!”

Horace was before them, at some little distance. He stopped when the shouting reached his ear, and turned to look back. As they came up to him, Susan had full leisure to observe the changes which this year had wrought upon her brother’s appearance, and a little sensation of affectionate pride gladdened her at the sight. But she was anxious, a thousand times more anxious, to make sure that he should speak to her with ordinary kindness, and without exposing rudely the nature of her sudden journey, which he was sure to guess, than she was to think how Uncle Edward would receive her when she went to throw herself penniless upon his charity; and felt herself approaching him close and fast with a degree of trepidation strange to see between two persons so nearly the same age, and so closely allied. He for his part stared at her with utter amazement as the gig approached closer. “Susan! what on earth has brought you here?” he exclaimed, with an astonishment which was by no means free of anger. Susan trembled and faltered in her answer, as if her father himself had asked the question.

“Oh, Horace! to ask you to go to the railway with me,” she said, stooping closer towards him, and pressing the hand which he slowly extended towards her, significantly and closely, to make him understand that she had more to say: “I am going to Uncle Edward – will you come and see me away?”

He looked at her with a strange, half-envious, half-contemptuous smile. “So, he lets you go!” he exclaimed; “he has grown amiable all at once, it would appear.”

“Oh, Horace, hush!” cried Susan, stooping closer, with a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. “I will tell you all whenever we stop. Oh, Horace,” she added, in an inexpressible yearning for sympathy, and sinking her voice to a whisper, “don’t look so unkind and cold; he has sent me away!”

“The mare’s fresh and spankey,” said John Gilsland; “she’s enough to manage without any whispering in her lug. Jump up behind, Mr. Horry, and tawlk as we goo. It’ll be straight to the railroad now?”