The House on the Moor. Volume 1

“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. Musgrave’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 saison. But ye cannot both eat your cake and have your cake, Cornel. There’s this coom of 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, dropping the reins upon the mare’s neck, and suffering 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 with a man, for the reason that’s he’s misfortinate. 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 prodgedy; 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 remembered, with a half smile, quickly followed by a sigh, the gleeful opposition to established authority, with which young Edward Sutherland, ensign or lieutenant, returned to the charge, when repulsed by a prudent mamma from the vicinity of her daughters. But he soon reverted 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. 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 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 sait – but a desolate place, and him no more enjoyment 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 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! I’m 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 seduced him – and the first words he uttered, when the frost in his throat began to melt, 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 Tillington, 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 on as fine a body of men as there is in the service. Eh? – is the sergeant a great man among ye here?”

“Oh, Cornel!” cried Mrs. Gilsland, “I’ll go down to you on my bended knees if you’ll say to my Sam, sir, what you say to me. He’s wild for 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 Rectory!” cried the landlady, rushing out of the room in the fervour of her discovery. And the Cornel heard her immediately commission her son, who seemed to be at a distance, at the top of her voice, to run this moment to the Rectory, 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 something 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 Armitage of the 59th – and chuckling quietly over 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