“Where are you going, Horace?” she asked, with hesitation – “away from Kenlisle, Peggy said – ”
“I am going to Harliflax,” he said, shortly. “I have got a better appointment there. I have managed to make my own way so far, you can tell my uncle – without being obliged to any one,” he added, with a sneer.
“And will you write sometimes, please, Horace?” said Susan. “There are only two of us in the world; and tell me, where shall I write to you?”
He laughed, as if this was an extremely unimportant matter. “I shall be with Mr. Stenhouse,” he said – “Julius Stenhouse, Esq. I daresay your letters will find me, with his name.”
“Stenhouse, said ye? Eyeh, Mr. Horry, will that be the Stenhouse that was i’ Kenlisle, in ould Pouncet’s office?” asked John Gilsland, suddenly looking round.
“And if it should be, what then?” asked Horace, insolently.
“Oh, little matter to me,” said honest John. “He’s a great scoondrel, that’s awl – and married that bit silly widow, poor thing! – her as didn’t know when she was well off, and had good friends; though the Squire would have done for her, as I have reason to know, like a sister of his own.”
“What widow?” demanded Horace.
“It’s no concern of mine,” said John Gilsland, touching the mare with his whip for a grand final dash up to the railway station. “She wasn’t my widow, I reckon, nor belonging to me. Her first man was a sodger captain, another chance kind o’ person, like his son, one Mr. Roger that was. What the deevil has a woman to do with a new husband, that has house and hyame o’er her head, and a likely son? Serve her right, as I aye said, and will say. They’re away out of this country – but he’s a great scoondrel, as I tell ye, wherever he may be.”
In spite of himself Horace started, and was shocked, as well as astonished, for the moment by this information. While Susan gazed at the railway, glad, and yet trembling to reach it, with thoughts of launching forth by herself, without even those familiar faces near which she knew well, though they smiled little upon her, Horace was busy with this strange bit of news. It was somewhat astounding even to him to think that the man who had betrayed the interests and appropriated the estate of the son, should be the husband of his mother. Running on with this contemplation, and biting his thumb, as was his custom when he addressed himself to the task of arranging something new among his stores, and finding out where it fitted best, his eye suddenly caught in the group before the railway-station the stooping and decrepid figure of his old pitman, carefully dressed in his “Sabbath clothes.” Horace sprang from the gig, though it was still in rapid motion, with an impulse of alarm, and hurried up to his strange acquaintance. The mare drew up immediately after, with a great dash and commotion. John Gilsland helped Susan to descend, and finding some of his own friends immediately, while her brother’s presence freed him from all responsibility concerning her, left the timid girl to herself. She stood alone for a moment, frightened and discouraged; then, seeing nothing better for it, followed Horace, who was in close conversation with the old man. She was not curious, nor even interested, in what they were saying; but she had never stood by herself before, exposed to the wondering gaze of strangers, and she felt secure when she could glide up beside her brother and stand close to him, even though he paid no attention to her, nor noticed she was there.
“Well, and what were you going to Armitage Park for, eh? What business have you there?” said Horace, imperatively, to the old man.
“My lad, that’s no’ the gate to speak to me,” said the pitman, “that am owld enough to be your grandsire. I’m a-gooin’ for awl wan and the same reason as ye cam’ to me, my young gentleman. Sir John he’s at the Park, and we’ve ta’en counsel, the neebors and me – them as seen me sign the paper, at your own bidding – and what we’ve settled is, Sir John’s young Mr. Roger’s friend; and if it was worth a gold sovereign to you, it’s maybe worth a ’nuity or a bit pension to the man himsel’; so I’m a-gooin’ to the Park to see Sir John, and try my loock – and that’s awl.”
“Sir John? Do you think Sir John will see you?” cried Horace, “you impatient old blockhead! Do you think I can’t manage for you? Why don’t you trust to me?”
“I’m an ould man; if it’s to be ony gud to me, there’s little time to lose,” said the pitman, stoutly. “You’re a clever lad, I’m no’ misdoubting, but ye’re nouther the man himsel’ nor his near friend. I hevn’t ony time to lose, and a bird in the hand’s worth twa in the bush – no meaning ony distrust of you, young gentleman. If the young Squire should find his advantage in knowing what I know, he mought weel spare a bit something by the week, ten shilling or so, to an owld man as won’t be a burden upon nobody for lang.”
“Don’t you understand this is the very thing that I intended?” cried Horace, making – as Susan, who had gradually become interested, could perceive – the greatest effort to keep his temper. “To be sure, I’m trying all I can. I meant to let you know as soon as I could tell myself, but you’ll spoil all if you interfere. Go back to Tinwood, like a sensible man; I’ll see you in a day or two. A bird in the bush is better than no bird at all, I can tell you; and do you think Sir John, with a score of servants about him, would see you? Trust to me, and you shall have what you want in two or three days. I give you my word – are you not content?”
The old man grumbled and hesitated, but Horace’s arguments were strong, and at last overcame his opposition. Horace was not content, however, with the reluctant consent to give up his project which he at last extorted. He followed the tottering old figure out of the place, negotiated with a carter who was going that way to give him “a lift” on the road to Tinwood, and stood in the road watching till he was quite out of sight, with a total forgetfulness of Susan and the train by which she had to travel. Susan followed him at a little distance, and stood doubtfully behind waiting for him, not knowing what else to do. He had forgotten her totally in the stronger interest of this more important concern; and when he did turn round, with a vexed and thoughtful face, the start and frown with which he recognized her standing so near him were anything but flattering to his sister.
“What do you mean, following me about and listening to my private affairs?” he cried, roughly. “Eavesdropper! – but I suppose that’s like all women,” he added, with bitterness, and an adoption of his father’s look and sentiment, which drove Susan to desperation for the moment.
“You are very wicked to say so,” she exclaimed; “you! – do you not know why my father sent me away? Oh, Horace, is there no heart in you? – because of that letter; he said I took it – me!”
“And why not you? – you are so very virtuous, I suppose,” said her brother, with a sneer; “you who can listen behind a man when he does not know you’re there. However, this is not a place to cry and make a scene – come along, and get your train. If you are fortunate you can cry there, and make yourself interesting to somebody. Where is your money? I suppose you’ve got some money. I’ll get your ticket for you; but remember, Susan,” he said, turning back again, after he had proceeded a step or two before her on this errand – “remember! you may have heard something I’m concerned in without my knowing it – tell it to my uncle, if you dare!”
Susan made no reply – the menace and the insulting words roused her; she followed him, without the slightest appearance of that inclination to cry with which he taunted her, with a flushed cheek and steady step, and no intention or thought of yielding any obedience to him. Fortunately the train was expected instantly, and there was small leisure for further leave-taking. He shook hands with her slightly as he helped her into the carriage, turned his back at once, and went away. It was so that Susan parted with her two nearest relatives.