“And as for Mr. Roger, I am not the man to meddle with them that are aboon my hand—I gave him my advice, like any other speerited young man,” said the sergeant; “I tould him my mind of the service. I tould him there was glory and fame to be found in the profession of arms. He was very well inclined to lead me on, was Mr. Roger; he asked about this one and he asked me about the t’other one, and I gave the young gentleman what information I could. And then, ye see, al’ at once, out of my knowledge, comes up the Cornel. I cannot purtend to say what business he had here. There was some story about a nevvy of his, Mr. Horry, that ye al’ knowe. I’ve no very great faith in Mr. Horry, for my own account. My belief is—for he never spared pains or trouble for his men, as I can well say—my belief is, if ye ask me, that the Cornel heard there was some promising lads here, and came to take a look at them himself. That’s just my fixed opinion, if ye ask me. So there’s Sam away, and Mr. Roger away, and I’ll lay any man here a hunder pounds we’ll hear tell of the Cornel again.”
“Eyeh, man! d’ye think it’s true?” cried Mrs. Gilsland. “I asked the Cornel to speak to my Sam mysel’. Eyeh, sergeant! it’s an awfu’ misfortune—but it’s a great honour! Do ye think it would be that that brought the Cornel here?”
John Gilsland was more sceptical than his wife; but, at the same time, he was more favourable. “Here’s Mr. Horry gone his gate also,” said John—“I’m strong o’ the mind to take the cart mysel’, and goo round by Marchmain the morn for his trunk as he bids, and see if I can see owght o’ the ould man.”
“Thoo’st aye right ready for a ploy,” said his wife, “a deal better than honest work. Eyeh, but it’s true—Mr. Horry has gane as well—three young men of them out of this wan place! Blees me! its awful like as if the Cornel was at the bottom o’t, after all.”
“Ay, ay—you’ll come into my opinion. I seed him three times mysel’. The Cornel was aye an affable gentleman, and spoke his mind free; I knows what I knows,” said the sergeant—“he had his own occasions here.”
“Come you with me, Sally, and you shall have a cup o’ tea to comfort your heart,” said Mrs. Gilsland. “Eyeh, woman, I’m heartbroken; but I’m glad!—three on them, and his own nevvy! That Mr. Horry is a rael queer lad—he takes no more notice of a body nor if they were the dust beneath his feet; but dreedful clever, there’s no doubt. I’ll make John goo himsel’ to Marchmain as he said—maybe there’s some news. Keep a good heart about the young Squire, Sally. I would not say but them three they’re all together, and the Cornel with them; and they’re rael well off, if he’s there, that’s for certain; such a man!”
CHAPTER IX.
THE next day John Gilsland and his cart took their leisurely way across the moor, carrying with them the note which Horace had addressed to Peggy at Marchmain.
Horace had now been gone two days. The afternoon of the day on which he left home Peggy confided her suspicions on this subject to Susan, who was struck with alarm and terror, quite out of proportion to the event. Where had he gone?—what would he do?—and what, oh! what would papa say? Susan sat by herself in the dining-room, vainly trying to work; and now that there was so little likelihood of hearing his footstep, watching for it with the most breathless eagerness. Evening came, and the dreaded hour of dinner; exactly at six o’clock Mr. Scarsdale took his seat at the head of the table. Horace’s chair was placed as usual, and stood empty by the side. Mr. Scarsdale gave one glance at the empty seat, as he took his own, but said nothing. Susan could not help remembering the only former time when that place was vacant, the day so happy and so miserable, when Uncle Edward first came to Marchmain. As on that occasion, his father took no notice of the absence of Horace; the dinner was eaten in silence, Susan swallowing a sob with every morsel which she ate, and trembling as she had trembled before her father ever since the interview in which he forbade her correspondence with her uncle, and she refused to obey him. That scene had never departed from her mind—her own guilty feeling had never subsided. Bearing on her conscience her first real personal offence against her father, it was impossible for Susan now to have any confidence even in their accustomed stillness. She felt a continual insecurity when he was present—at any moment he might address to her these commands and reproaches again.
But the evening passed as usual, without any interruption; once more Mr. Scarsdale sat motionless at the table, as he had done every evening in Susan’s remembrance, with his book set up on the little reading-desk, and the crystal jug with his claret, reflecting itself in the shining table. And there sat Susan opposite him, somehow afraid to-night to bring out her embroidery-frame, or to employ herself with any of the pretty things which Uncle Edward had bought for her—taking once more, with timidity, and half afraid that he would notice even that, her neglected patchwork, out of her large, old work-bag. Susan had been trimming up for her own use, with great enjoyment of the task, with linings of blue silk, and scraps of ribbon found in one of Peggy’s miscellaneous hoards, an old, round work-basket, which she had found in the upper room where the apples were kept. But she did not venture to put that ornamental article, so simply significant as it was of the rising tide of her young feminine life, upon the table. She bent over her neglected patchwork, smoothing it out and laying the pieces together, but somehow finding it entirely impossible to fix her attention upon them. She could not help watching her father, shaking with terror when, in putting down her scissors, or her cotton, she disturbed the profound stillness; she could not help listening intently for those sounds outside which betokened to her accustomed ear the approach of Horace. She longed, and yet she feared to see her brother come back again; she could not believe he had really gone away; she wondered, till her head ached, where he could be; and could not bring herself to realize anything more cheerful about him than an aimless wandering through that dreary moor, or through the cold cheerless dark streets described in some of her novels, which two things the poor child connected together with an unreasonable ignorance. Then came the dismal tea-making. The night went on—it grew late, but still Mr. Scarsdale kept his seat. Midnight, dark, cold, solitary night, with the fire going out, the candles burned to the sockets, and Peggy, as all was still, supposed to be in bed. Then Mr. Scarsdale closed his book. “It is quite time you should have gone to rest,” he said. “Why do you start?—is there anything astonishing in what I say? Good night!”