SUSAN could not tell how long the interval was till Peggy came softly stealing into the room, in her big night-cap, and with a shawl over her shoulders. Peggy had waited till she heard Mr. Scarsdale sweep upstairs; she could see him out of her kitchen, where she sat in the dark, silent and watchful as her own great cat, with her eyes turned towards the closed door of the dining-room; and as soon as she supposed it safe, she made haste to the succour of his poor daughter. Susan was sitting in despair, where she had sat all the evening, pale, stupefied, and silent—not sufficiently alive to outward circumstances to notice Peggy’s entrance; overpowered by her own personal misfortune scarcely more than she was shocked in her sense of right, and ashamed to be obliged to expose her father’s cruelty and injustice. A new horror on this point had seized her; she was not of that disposition which is pleased to appear in the character of victim or sacrifice; she would have suffered anything sooner than disclose the grim ghost of her own house to the public eye; notwithstanding this was what she must do, in spite of herself. When Horace left his home it was not an unnatural proceeding, nor was his father to be supposed greatly in the wrong; but she, a girl, what would any one think of a man who expelled her from his unfatherly doors? Her heart ached as this new thought fell with afflicting and sudden distinctness upon it, and she had now no more time to weep or bemoan herself. This night only was all the interval of thought or preparation to be permitted her. Already, indeed, in the chill of that deep darkness the day had begun which was to see her cast forth and banished; and already her mind sickened and grew feeble to think that she could not take a step upon the road without revealing to some one how hardly she had been treated; and that her own very solitude, helplessness, and necessity were all so many mute accusations against the father who had no pity on her womanhood or her youth.
Notwithstanding, Susan was recovering command of herself, and felt that she had no time for trifling; and when she felt Peggy’s hand on her shoulder, and heard the whisper of kindness in her ear, she did not “give way,” as Peggy expected. She looked up with her exhausted face, almost worn out, yet at the same time reviving, full of what it was necessary to do.
“I am to go away,” she said, slowly, with a quiver of her lip—“to-morrow—early—that he may never see me again. I am to tell you where to send my things, and to go away, Peggy, to-morrow.”
“Weel, hinny, and it’s well for you!” cried Peggy, herself bursting out into a fit of tears and sobbing. “Oh, Miss Susan, what am I that I should complain and grumble?—but it’s all that heartbreaking face, my darling lamb! What should I lament for? Nothing in this world but selfishness, and because I’m an old fool. The Lord forgive us!—it’s a deal better for you!”
“Oh! hush, Peggy—don’t speak!” said Susan—“and don’t cry—I can’t bear it! There is very, very little time now to think of anything; and you must tell me—there is nobody else in the world to tell me—what I am to do.”
“Nobody else in the world? Oh, hinny-sweet!” cried poor Peggy. “There’s a whole worldfull of love and kindness for you and the likes of you. There’s your uncle—bless him!—that would keep the very wind off your cheek; and many a wan ye never saw nor heard tell o’, will be striving which to be kindest. Say no such words to me—I know a deal better than that. I’m no’ afraid for you,” cried Peggy, with a fresh burst of sobbing—“no’ a morsel, and I’ll no pretend. I’m real even down heartbroken for the master and mysel’!”
Susan could not answer, and did not try; she was but little disposed to lament for her father at the present moment, or to think him capable of feeling her loss. She put her hand on Peggy’s, and pressed it, half in fondness, half with an entreaty to be silent, which the faithful servant did not disregard. Peggy took Susan’s round soft hand between her own hard ones, and held it close, and looked at her with sorrowful, fond eyes. She saw the young life and resolution, the sweet serious sense and judgment, coming back to Susan’s face, and Peggy was heroic enough to forget herself, for the forlorn young creature’s sake.
“Ay, it’s just so,” said Peggy—“I knowed it from her birth. She’ll never make a work if she can help it, but she’ll never break down and fail. Miss Susan, there’s one thing first and foremost you mun do, and you munna say no to me, for I know best. You must go this moment to your bed——”
“To bed! Do you think I could sleep, Peggy?” cried Susan, with involuntary youthful contempt.
“Ay, hinny—ye’ll sleep, and ye’ll wake fresh, and start early. You wouldn’t think it, maybe, but I know better,” said Peggy. “You munna say no to me, the last night. Eyeh, my lamb! you’re young, and your eyes are heavy with the sleep and the tears. I’ll wake ye brave and early, but you mun take first your nat’ral rest.”